LIFE OF THE AUTHOR xxi 



friend. Literally, he died of work ; but it was 

 through a piece of his own inveterate kindness 

 and helpfulness that the finishing stroke was 

 incurred. Heated with walking, on a bitter 

 afternoon in a bleak district, he halted to help an 

 old country couple whose little nag had fallen on 

 a deserted road, and the consequent chill was the 

 direct cause of his death. 



Among his friends he was always called 

 " Martin," or, perhaps, '' Martin Cobbett," — never 

 his surname alone. His friends were not few ; 

 for, extra to his own brotherhood, the right good 

 comrades of the Press, his acquaintance was 

 immense. He knew and was liked by the whole 

 great gamut of racegoers. Railway men hailed 

 him as a looked-for face all over England. So 

 did the rowing and boxing spheres : so did 

 innumerable hotels and inns where he put up "on 

 circuit," or called in during his walks ; so did 

 three-quarters of the inhabitants, dogs included, 

 of every place where he lived. As for '' the folk 

 in fur and feather," he knew and loved them all, 

 and was their general favourite. Our own dogs 

 invariably adored him, and he had canine 

 acquaintances all over England who thought it 

 the greatest treat in the world to go for a walk 

 with him. There was a couple of handsome poodles 

 — they did not see him half a dozen times a year 

 — who used to scream with joy whenever he was 



