th such
quiet regularity that of the large circle of guests not one could find
himself in the way. I need not say a word more in praise of the good wife,
very lately dead, to whom this admirable order was mainly due. She was a
sweet, motherly woman, realizing our notion of one of Scott's most
charming characters, _Ailie Dinmont_, in her simplicity, her kindness, and
her devotion to her husband and her children.

At this time William Cobbett was at the height of his political
reputation; but of politics we heard little, and should, I think, have
heard nothing, but for an occasional red-hot patriot, who would introduce
the subject, which our host would fain put aside, and get rid of as
speedily as possible. There was something of _Dandie Dinmont_ about him,
with his unfailing good-humor and good spirits--his heartiness--his love of
field sports, and his liking for a foray. He was a tall, stout man, fair,
and sun-burnt, with a bright smile, and an air compounded of the soldier
and the farmer, to which his habit of wearing an eternal red waistcoat
contributed not a little. He was, I think, the most athletic and vigorous
person that I have ever known. Nothing could tire him. At home in the
morning he would begin his active day by mowing his own lawn, beating his
gardener, Robinson, the best mower, except himself, in the parish, at that
fatiguing work.

For early rising, indeed, he had an absolute passion, and some of the
poetry that we trace in his writings, whenever he speaks of scenery or of
rural objects, broke out in his method of training his children into his
own matutinal habits. The boy who was first down stairs was called the
lark for the day, and had, among other indulgences, the pretty privilege
of making his mother's nosegay, and that of any lady visitors. Nor was
this the only trace of poetical feeling that he displayed. Whenever he
described a place, were it only to say where such a covey lay, or such a
hare was found sitting, you could see it, so graphic--so vivid--so true was
the picture. He showed the same taste in the purchase of his beautiful
farm at Botley, Fairthorn; even in the pretty name. To be sure, he did not
give the name, but I always thought that it unconsciously influenced his
choice in the purchase. The beauty of the situation certainly did. The
fields lay along the Bursledon River, and might have been shown to a
foreigner as a specimen of the richest and loveliest English scenery. In
the cult