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Updated: May 22, 2025
WM. COBBETT. Botley, Tuesday, 11th August, 1812. These three letters will give a clear view of the state of politics at Bristol.
And let us hope that, in many cases, the contrite confession which is withheld from men is yielded where it is more fitly due. When I was quite a lad, a servant lived with us of the name of Anne Stacey. She had been in the service of William Cobbett, the political writer, who resided for some years at Botley, a village a few miles distant from Itchen.
Here he stayed till the end of the century, and here he began his newspaper experiments, keeping up in Peter Porcupine's Journal a violent crusade against French Jacobins and American Democrats. This remained Cobbett's creed till his death. The paper was very profitable, and for some time Cobbett was able to lead something like a country gentleman's life at Botley in Hampshire.
The Doctor came at the time appointed, and he copied the resolutions and the petition which I had drawn up, which, with some few alterations and additions, were the same as were agreed upon by Mr. Cobbett and myself at Botley.
The remainder of my subject I must reserve for another Letter, and in the mean while, I am, Gentlemen, your sincere friend, Wm. COBBETT. Botley, July 27, 1812. By the insertion of these letters, which were published at the time, I shall give the reader a pretty clear insight into the whole of my exertions at that period.
After the election was over, I returned by the way of Botley, in Hampshire, on purpose to pay a visit to my friend Cobbett, who had just been liberated from Newgate, after having been imprisoned there for two years, if it might be called imprisonment, though I can scarcely call it imprisonment, when compared to my incarceration in this infamous bastile.
"We might leave a message at the place where he got the dog-cart," he suggested, when he saw their eyes meeting. There was a cheerful alacrity about all three at the proposal. But they never got beyond Botley.
Cobbett, who lived at that time at Botley, expressing a wish, if he approved of them, that he would insert them in his Political Register; he, however, neither inserted them nor gave me any answer, but, as it since appears, he wrote the famous letter to his friend Wright, who was a sort of hanger-on at the Westminster committee, which letter, at the last general election for Westminster, was read upon the hustings by one Cleary, an attorney's clerk, or rather a pettyfogging writer to an attorney in Dublin, who had left his native country for the same cause that had prompted many others of his countrymen to leave it before him.
The poor Major himself was there, looking sadly broken, and much needing the help of his son's arm. 'To think that I was blaming my poor son as a mere reprobate, and praying for his conversion, says he, 'when he was lying here, cut off without a moment for repentance. There was your nephew, suspecting nothing, Squire Brocas, Mr. Eyre, of Botley Grange, Mr. Biden, Mr. Larcom, and Mr.
Also he was angry with Dangle. And all four of them, being souls living very much upon the appearances of things, had a painful, mental middle distance of Botley derisive and suspicious, and a remoter background of London humorous, and Surbiton speculative. Were they really, after all, behaving absurdly? As Mr.
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