Clear, and temperate, and lively as they were, however, there was no mincing of matters; even to the pointing out to Lord Sidmouth, at last, that he was the real revolutionist,[5] and that all his efforts were “unavailing as to the work of stifling.”
“Nothing will, can, or shall keep my writings from the eyes of my suffering and faithful countrymen!”
But, if this was resolution and not mere swagger, how was it to be done? Any one of his neighbours, maliciously disposed, could have Mr. Cobbett brought before a magistrate, and thrown into jail without warning, for any word with a tendency. What is more, they meant to do so.
There was only one way:—
“A few years ago, being at Barnet Fair, I saw a battle going on, arising out of some sudden quarrel, between a butcher and the servant of a West-country grazier. The butcher, though vastly superior in point of size, finding that he was getting the worst of it, recoiled a step or two, and drew out his knife. Upon the sight of this weapon, the grazier turned about and ran off, till he came up to a Scotchman who was guarding his herd, and out of whose hand the former snatched a good ash-stick, about four feet long. Having thus got what he called a long arm, he returned to the combat, and, in a very short time, he gave the butcher a blow upon the wrist, which brought his knife to the ground. The grazier then fell to work with his stick in such a style as I never before witnessed. The butcher fell down, and rolled and kicked; but he seemed only to change his position in order to insure to every part of his carcase a due share of the penalty of his baseness. After the grazier had, apparently, tired himself, he was coming away, when, happening to cast his eye upon the knife, he ran back and renewed the basting, exclaiming every now and then, as he caught his breath: ‘Dra’ thy knife, wo’t?’ He came away a second time, and a second time returned, and set on upon the caitiff again; and this he repeated several times, exclaiming always when he recommenced the drubbing: ‘Dra’ thy knife, wo’t?’—till, at last, the butcher was so bruised, that he was actually unable to stand or even to get up; and yet, such, amongst Englishmen, is the abhorrence of foul fighting, that not a soul attempted to interfere, and nobody seemed to pity a man thus unmercifully beaten.
“It is my intention to imitate the conduct of this grazier; to resort to a long arm, and to combat Corruption, while I keep myself out of the reach of her knife. Nobody called the grazier a coward, because he did not stay to oppose his fists to a pointed and cutting instrument. My choice, as I said before (leaving all considerations of personal safety out of the question), lies between silence and retreat. If I remain here, all other means will be first used to reduce me to silence; and if all these means fail, then will come the dungeon. Therefore, that I may still be able to write, and to write with freedom too, I shall write, if I live, from America.…”
This resolve appears to have been in Mr. Cobbett’s mind since the middle of February, shortly after the introduction of the Gagging Bills, as they were called. It was now the end of March, and the campaign against the popular press was in victorious advance. People could almost hear the prison doors creaking open. When, lo! the persecutors wake up one morning, and find that the wretch has flown!
Have you ever watched, reader, the gyrations of pussy’s face—the involuntary muscular contortions of her jaws, at sight of a dickey-bird, when that gentle creature is on the wrong (but safe) side of a window-pane? Such was the aspect of Authority, when she found that Mr. Cobbett had slipped through her fingers. And such, the impotent anger of his rivals.[6] The explosion of wrath, which took place upon the discovery that he was out of harm’s way, really appears laughable, to look back upon it from this distance of time. He had eloped from his creditors, had been diddling the Stamp Office, had escaped imprisonment for life: he had deserted his family, deserted the cause, deserted his country: and, as for his pretended patriotism, what did his friends think of the brave Cobbett now? Even the Reformists, themselves, felt a shudder of dismay pass over them; whilst the Examiner class of scribblers fell upon the caitiff with their envious sneers, retailing the lies and imputations invented and cast about by their own enemies! But, perhaps the unkindest cut of all was on the part of the Chronicle, when that great bulwark of whiggism, and mock-Reformist, informed its readers that Cobbett had gone off to America because the circulation of the Register had fallen so low, through the operations of Sidmouth’s acts.
The fact of the matter being that, in spite of all that could be said, Mr. Cobbett’s flight to America in 1817, was one of the cleverest and most spirited acts of his life. The decision of character, the singleness of purpose, and confidence in his own resources, displayed on this occasion, are almost unexampled. Hundreds of writers had expatriated themselves, before now; but where was the man to be found, who had done so with a view to a better fighting-ground? Political refugees were swarming throughout the Union, but they were beginning life anew; and who amongst them but had cast the dust of their native country from off their shoes—who but this one proclaimed, “England is my country, and to England I shall return,”—and lived to return and see his work accomplished?