5. _What causes_ frogs to come in drops of rain, or those drops of
rain to turn to frogs, the moment they are on the earth?
6. _What causes_ musquitoes to come in rain water caught in a
glass, covered over immediately with oil paper, tied down and so
kept till full of these winged torments?
7. _What causes_ flounders, real little _flat fish_, brown on one
side, white on the other, mouth side-ways, with tail, fins, and
all, _leaping alive_, in the _inside_ of a rotten sheep's, and of
every rotten sheep's, _liver_?
There, prigs; answer these questions. Fifty might be given you; but
these are enough. Answer these. I suppose you will not deny the facts?
They are all notoriously true. The _last_, which of itself would be
quite enough for you, will be attested on oath, if you like it, by any
farmer, ploughman, and shepherd, in England. Answer this question 7, or
hold your conceited gabble about the "_impossibility_" of that which I
need not here name.
Men of sense do not attempt to discover that which it is _impossible_ to
discover. They leave things pretty much as they find them; and take
care, at least, not to make changes of any sort, without very evident
necessity. The poor Baron, however, appeared to be quite eaten up with
his "_rational_ Christianity." He talked like a man who has made a
_discovery_ of his _own_. He seemed as pleased as I, when I was a boy,
used to be, when I had just found a rabbit's stop, or a black-bird's
nest full of young ones. I do not recollect what I said upon this
occasion. It is most likely that I said nothing in contradiction to him.
I saw the Baron many times after this, but I never talked with him about
religion.
Before the summer of 1822, I had not seen him for a year or two,
perhaps. But, in July of that year, on a very hot day, I was going down
Rathbone Place, and, happening to cast my eye on the Baron's house, I
knocked at the door to ask how he was. His man servant came to the door,
and told me that his master was at dinner. "Well," said I, "never mind;
give my best respects to him." But the servant (who had always been with
him since I knew him) begged me to come in, for that he was sure his
master would be glad to see me. I thought, as it was likely that I might
never see him again, I would go in. The servant announced me, and the
Baron said, "Beg him to walk in." In I went, and there I found the Baron
at dinner; but _not quite alone_; nor without _spiritual_ as well as
carnal and vegetable nourishment before him: for, there, on the opposite
side of his _vis-a-vis_ dining table, sat that nice, neat, straight,
prim piece of mortality, commonly called the Reverend Robert Fellowes,
who was the Chaplain to the unfortunate Queen until Mr. Alderman Wood's
son came to supply his place, and who was now, I could clearly see, in a
fair way enough. I had dined, and so I let them dine on. The Baron was
become quite a child, or worse, as to mind, though he ate as heartily as
I ever saw him, and he was always a great eater. When his servant said,
"Here is Mr. Cobbett, Sir;" he said, "How do you do, Sir? I have read
much of your writings, Sir; but _never had the pleasure to see your
person before_." After a time I made him recollect me; but he, directly
after, being about to relate something about America, turned towards me,
and said, "_Were you ever in America_, Sir?" But I must mention one
proof of the state of his mind. Mr. Fellowes asked me about the news
from Ireland, where the people were then in a state of starvation
(1822), and I answering that, it was likely that many of them would
actually be starved to death, the Baron, quitting his green goose and
green pease, turned to me and said, "_Starved_, Sir! Why don't they go
to _the parish_?" "Why," said I, "you know, Sir, that there are no
poor-rates in Ireland." Upon this he exclaimed, "What! no poor-rates in
Ireland! Why not? I did not know that; I can't think how that can be."
And then he rambled on in a childish sort of way.
At the end of about half an hour, or, it might be more, I shook hands
with the poor old Baron for the last time, well convinced that I should
never see him again, and not less convinced, that I had seen his _heir_.
He died in about a year or so afterwards, left to his own family about
20,000_l._, and to his ghostly guide, the Holy Robert Fellowes, all the
rest of his immense fortune, which, as I have been told, amounts to more
than a quarter of a million of money.
Now, the public will recollect that, while Mr. Fellowes was at the
Queen's, he was, in the public papers, charged with being an
_Unitarian_, at the same time that he officiated _as her chaplain_. It
is also well known, that he never publicly contradicted this. It is,
besides, the general belief at Reigate. However, this we know well, that
he is a parson, of one sort or the other, and that he is not a Catholic
priest. That is enough for me. I see this poor, foolish old man leaving
a monstrous mass of money to this little Protestant parson, whom he had
not even known more, I believe, than about three or four years. When the
will was made I cannot say. I know nothing at all about that. I am
supposing that all was perfectly fair; that the Baron had his senses
when he made his will; that he clearly meant to do that which he did.
But, then, I must insist, that, if he had left the money to a _Catholic
priest_, to be by him expended on the endowment of a convent, wherein to
say masses and to feed and teach the poor, it would have been a more
sensible and public-spirited part in the Baron, much more beneficial to
the town and environs of Reigate, and beyond all measure more honourable
to his own memory.
_Chilworth, Friday Evening, 21st Oct._
It has been very fine to-day. Yesterday morning there was _snow_ on
Reigate Hill, enough to look white from where we were in the valley. We
set off about half-past one o'clock, and came all down the valley,
through Buckland, Betchworth, Dorking, Sheer and Aldbury, to this place.
Very few prettier rides in England, and the weather beautifully fine.
There are more meeting-houses than churches in the vale, and I have
heard of no less than five people, in this vale, who have gone crazy on
account of religion.
To-morrow we intend to move on towards the West; to take a look, just a
look, at the Hampshire Parsons again. The turnips seem fine; but they
cannot be large. All other things are very fine indeed. Everything seems
to prognosticate a hard winter. All the country people say that it will
be so.