of his, as of these days, were no longer, however, of the same high-toned class as that of the "bagmen" in times gone by. Tradition tells now only of the splendid turns-out, the dinner-table luxury, the educated commercial polish, the "feast of reason and the flow of soul" enjoyment, of a race defunct; the degenerate crew of Cobden's association, with wages cut down to short common commissions, dined not at home; tea and turn-in, with a sleeping draught of whisky toddy, were the staples of mine host's bill. Such is briefly the report of the rise and progress of Mr Cobden in the world, as we have it from quarters entitled to regard; various exaggerated statements about his hundreds of thousands acquired, are afloat as usual in cases where men spring from nothing; his trading career has been sufficiently prosperous and extraordinary, not to be rendered incredible by ridiculous inventions of friends or foes. About the locale of his birth and residence, of his origin and antecedents, Mr Cobden himself ever maintains a guarded silence, as if, with aristocratical airs growing with his fortunes, he were ashamed, and would cast the slough of family poverty and plebeianship; or perhaps he calculates on leaving the world, Sussex at least, hereafter to dispute the honours of his paternity like another Homer. Mr Cobden is but a type, not of the highest cast either, of the manufacturing operatives of Lancashire. You will find his equal in one at least out of every ten of the adult factory workmen of Lancashire, whose wits are sharpened by everyday conflict and debate in clubs and publics; you will often meet his superior in those self-educated classes. We have not unfrequently read speeches at public meetings by intelligent operatives in Lancashire, which showed a more profound acquaintance with, and greater powers of development of the _rationale_ of political and economical philosophy, in single instances, than can be discovered in the mass of harangues poured forth by Mr Cobden, were the flowers ever so carefully culled and separated from the loads of trashy weed. His forte consists in a coarse but dauntless intrepidity, with which respectability and intellect shrink from encounter. The country squire, educated and intelligent, but retiring and truth-loving, retreats naturally from contest with a bold, abusive, and unscrupulous demagogue; even the party he serves, holds off from contact and communion with him. He never quails, therefore, because never matched, unless before Mr Ferrand, the fearless member for Knaresborough--a man most ill-used, even abandoned by the very party he so signally serves; yet who is never slow, as occasion offers, to chastise the cur which snarls whilst it crouches before him. The eloquence of Mr Cobden is of that vulgarly-exciting sort, well adapted to the level of the audiences, the scum of town populations, to which it is habitually addressed. Without the education of the late Henry Hunt, he has quite as