es is a Prussian. The mere English
consonants are full of Cobbett. Dr. Johnson was our great man of letters
when he said "stinks," not when he said "putrefaction." Take some common
phrase like "raining cats and dogs," and note not only the extravagance
of imagery (though that is very Shakespearean), but a jagged energy in
the very spelling. Say "chats" and "chiens" and it is not the same.
Perhaps the old national genius has survived the urban enslavement most
spiritedly in our comic songs, admired by all men of travel and
continental culture, by Mr. George Moore as by Mr. Belloc. One (to
which I am much attached) had a chorus--

"O wind from the South
Blow mud in the mouth
Of Jane, Jane, Jane."

Note, again, not only the tremendous vision of clinging soils carried
skywards in the tornado, but also the suitability of the mere sounds.
Say "bone" and "bouche" for mud and mouth and it is not the same.
Cobbett was a wind from the South; and if he occasionally seemed to stop
his enemies' mouths with mud, it was the real soil of South England.

And as his seemingly mad language is very literary, so his seemingly mad
meaning is very historical. Modern people do not understand him because
they do not understand the difference between exaggerating a truth and
exaggerating a lie. He did exaggerate, but what he knew, not what he did
not know. He only appears paradoxical because he upheld tradition
against fashion. A paradox is a fantastic thing that is said once: a
fashion is a more fantastic thing that is said a sufficient number of
times. I could give numberless examples in Cobbett's case, but I will
give only one. Anyone who finds himself full in the central path of
Cobbett's fury sometimes has something like a physical shock. No one who
has read "The History of the Reformation" will ever forget the passage
(I forget the precise words) in which he says the mere thought of such a
person as Cranmer makes the brain reel, and, for an instant, doubt the
goodness of God; but that peace and faith flow back into the soul when
we remember that he was burned alive. Now this is extravagant. It takes
the breath away; and it was meant to. But what I wish to point out is
that a much more extravagant view of Cranmer was, in Cobbett's day, the
accepted view of Cranmer; not as a momentary image, but as an immovable
historical monument. Thousands of parsons and penmen dutifully set down
Cranmer among the saints and martyrs; and there are