arm within his, and whispering as we got by, in a tone of awe and
horror, "That's a radical! he reads Cobbett!"

I endeavoured to get a more particular account of him from my companion,
but he seemed unwilling even to talk about him, answering only in
general terms, that he was "a cursed busy fellow, that had a confounded
trick of talking, and was apt to bother one about the national debt, and
such nonsense;" from which I suspected that Master Simon had been
rendered wary of him by some accidental encounter on the field of
argument: for these radicals are continually roving about in quest of
wordy warfare, and never so happy as when they can tilt a gentleman
logician out of his saddle.

On subsequent inquiry my suspicions have been confirmed. I find the
radical has but recently found his way into the village, where he
threatens to commit fearful devastations with his doctrines. He has
already made two or three complete converts, or new lights; has shaken
the faith of several others; and has grievously puzzled the brains of
many of the oldest villagers, who had never thought about politics, or
scarce anything else, during their whole lives.

He is lean and meagre from the constant restlessness of mind and body;
worrying about with newspapers and pamphlets in his pockets, which he is
ready to pull out on all occasions. He has shocked several of the
staunchest villagers by talking lightly of the squire and his family;
and hinting that it would be better the park should be cut up into
small farms and kitchen gardens, or feed good mutton instead of
worthless deer.

[Illustration: The Village Politician]