"Conservatory," and the gruff "Hold your tongue, sir!" which would have ensued.

But to what is this irritable simplicity of the world of letters, this conceited utopianism, joined and allied in the present era, when it must be confessed that the dotage of nations has crept over the faculties of the land; when there is not a single really great man apparent from one end of the country to the other, on whom to hang a hope; when truth and earnestness cannot by their very essence succeed, being so opposed to that which does reap success, and gain favour in the eyes of the million? To the mere mercenary writer and the sordid gambler, and greedy manufacturer. We say mercenary writer; for though it be true, that a man may become imbued with the principles which he daily and hebdomadally advocates, just as butchers, and undertakers, and lawyers feel a pride in their calling; yet it must be owned that few writers, or even editors, are free and unfettered. It is true, that few are obliged

"To sell their souls or lose their place,"

to the extent which is demanded by a certain paper, whose politics, or policy, or invention, is as changeable, as shifting, and as varied as the times, seasons, and fashions; but still there are not many who are at perfect liberty to say anything, or omit anything, they please. Proprietors are guided frequently by the pocket, by ambition, Rome, interest, bribery, and corruption. The pen of the writer is as the sword once was in the middle ages, too frequently but the paid weapon of the mercenary, and its rounded periods, varied information, learning, reading, wit, humour, and indignation, are expected to be alike devoid of personal conscience and identity of thinking.

Let us, in compliment to the season, soften a little the excusable severity, from the exercise of which we find it difficult to refrain, considering that no less a question than the interests, nay, the very existence of England, is at stake; whilst we conclude this article with wishing a happy Christmas to our readers, our countrymen, and the world, shorn of no kindly sympathy, no religion of the heart, no pure domestic association, past, present, or future; although our Christmas be now divested of some of its old-fashioned customs and fancies in the onward march of matter-of-fact civilization. May the Christmas of 1850, ay, and of 1851, be still an English commemoration of the event which all time shall cebebrate!

DECEMBER, 1850.

A GOSSIP ON FREE-TRADE,

MUNTZ, THE "TIMES," AND THE REV. MR. BENNETT.

IT is a frequent sneering observation of certain Freetrade organs, that a desire of notoriety, an itching for fame, far better left unsatisfied, is the cause of what they are pleased to term the agitating perseverance of many of our most prominent Protectionists. Conscious of their own motives, they will not allow that it is possible for a man to be either honest or in earnest when he opposes their sentiments and disavows their opinions. A worthy journalist, doubtless himself a most "indifferent honest" man, in endeavouring, the other day, to account for the fact that many people thought differently from himself (from him, his thoughts, that is, the sentiments that dribble from his Free-trade pen), observed that the Duke of Richmond is guided by selfishness, Lord

Stanley by party opposition, and Mr. G. F. Young by notoriety.

In answer to this, we should like exceedingly to know what unexceptionable and divine abstract philosophy forms the constellation which leads after it with nose erect in the air, the notable gemini Cobden and Bright? What, pray, instigates the redoubtable George Thompson, whose mockexecution is thus good-humouredly described in the Daily Evening Transcript of Boston, and about whom one cannot help exclaiming, whether his cause be a good one or not, que diable allait-il faire dans cette galère?

"The last culprit was a foreigner, who seemed to be a very troublesome fellow, for even upon the platform, after his hands were tied, he vociferously professed himself the friend of the citizens of Massachusetts, and yet suffered no opportunity to pass, without spitting directly in their faces. He vauntingly challenged all around him to argue about anti-slavery; and yet there was no person there, who was not a lawful and constitutional abolitionist. When the drop fell, his coat tail flew up, and M. P. was discovered on his small clothes behind."

Now, the last person we have to notice as having been attacked in this style is Mr. Muntz. The character of this estimable gentleman stands so deservedly high that the most ignorant and malicious mind would scarcely dare to attribute to him a petty motive. Nothing but the brazen Times, in fact, could or would do so; but the Times does everything. A man must generally be very good and very right before he can excite the Times to a malice so stolid. But Mr. Muntz is doubly hateful to these free-trade harpies. He is not a farmer; he is a trader, and a tolerably prosperous one. The Times cannot, therefore, call him selfish, which it would do were he a farmer. Therefore, it must be an accusation of notoriety-mongering. Mr. Muntz, however, enjoys already a pretty wide reputation as being the possessor

of qualities which it would be a blessing for the Times to possess, in the slightest degree-such as honour, consistency, frankness, and so forth.

We do not think it necessary to defend Mr. Muntz. The fine writer in the Times covers his want of argument with flippancy, and folly, and classicality, and prates of Polyphemus! He pretends to take the humorous idea of Mr. Muntz-namely, that the manufacturing interests eat up a farmer every night for supper-literally, and calculates how many years it will take to do it. This is all very well for Punch; but it is childish in the Times, which absolutely appears to be approaching the dotage of wickedness.

Perhaps, ere long, the Times may condescend to modify its facetiousness and repress its feeling of fun at the distresses of stout farmers. Even if the bluff enunciations of disappointment, anger, and misery should continue to supply food for the caricaturist, we think it possible that the Times may one day abstain. Farmers are fun; yeomanry are fun; they sometimes tumble from their horses at the word of command to fire on a field-day; so will free-trade writers slip down from their hobbies when danger assumes other than a literary appearance. Jolah, Booker, Ball or Bull, Muntz or G. F. Young, are all fun-excellent fun. If the Times wanted to depreciate stock, fundholders would be fun. But when the morning arrives that the National Faith is broken, there will be very little fun left in the kingdom to appreciate the insolent humour of the Times.

For long we have felt a mingled pity and disgust on reading the articles in the Times, upon all agricultural and protectionist subjects. Vulgarity, scurrility, and facetiousness have been for long the only arms which it employs to attack the opinions and abuse the interests of the farmers of

England. On a grave question, common decency might have prescribed common courtesy towards so important and respectable a body of men. But so far from this is the ruffian dealing of the Times, that it descends to the very weapons of Billingsgate, and betaking itself to the lowest refuge of impotent malice, growls forth its vulgar misnomers thence, in the vain attempt to make a serious subject ridiculous. The Times has no argument, save the scoffing of a paid THERSITES, against the distress of England!

The clumsy coquetry of pretended stupidity with which the Times plays with the names of Bull or Ball, Chowler or Jolah, carries no more conviction of real mistake with it, than if we were to call the Times "Liar," or COBDEN a "Cotton buffoon." Did the Times ever pretend to make a mistake about the patronymic of Cobbett? Was it in the habit of styling him Tebbitts, or Brown? We believe not; for Cobbett had a marvellous trick of retaliation, and bestowed sundry sobriquets in his time, which clung with wonderful tenacity to their reluctant bearers. Therefore, it is cowardly and abject in the extreme, to insult with such wanton vulgarity the yeomen and farmers of England. It is a symptom of lazy insolence, a weak and failing intelligence, or a wrongful cause.

Whilst we are on the subject of notoriety-mongering, it may be as well to kill two birds with one stone. What but a Pharisaical itching, a desire to create a sensation by doing something out-of-the-way, and so to attract hearers and admirers, and become a paltry fashion, has led to the defection of many of our clergy? What but this turned St. Barnabas house of worship into a Sunday theatre? What has sent so many over to Rome, but the morbid desire to be talked about and made of importance? It is now growing