Nicholson, and who resided in the village of T——. James was by trade a weaver—a walking history of the wars, and altogether one of the most remarkable men I ever met with. He had an impressive and ready utterance; few could stand before him in an argument, and of him it might have been truly said—

He possessed also a bold imagination and a masculine understanding, and both had been improved by extensive reading. With such qualifications, it is not a matter of wonder that he was looked up to as the oracle, the head, or king, of the Levellers in T—— (if, indeed, they admitted the idea of a king). For miles around, he was familiarly known by the designation of Jemmy the Leveller; for though there were others of the name of James who held similar sentiments in the village and neighbourhood, he was Jemmy par excellence. But, in order that the reader may have a correct representation of James before him, I shall describe it as I saw him, about five-and-twenty years ago. He then appeared a man approaching to sixty years of age. His shoulders were rather bent, his height about five feet eleven, and he walked with his eyes fixed upon the ground. His arms were generally crossed upon his breast, and he stalked with a long and slow step, like a shepherd toiling up a hill. His forehead was one that Spurzheim would have travelled a hundred miles to finger—it was both broad and lofty; his eyebrows were thick, of a deep brown colour, and met together; his eyes were large, and of a dark greyish hue; his nose appertained to the Roman; his mouth was rather large, and his hair was mixed with grey. His figure was spare and thin. He wore a very low-crowned and a very broad-brimmed hat, a short brown coat, a dark striped waistcoat, with a double breast, corduroy breeches, which buckled at the knees, coarse blue stockings, and strong shoes, or rather brogues, neither of which articles had been new for at least three years; and around his body he wore a coarse half-bleached apron, which was stained with blue, and hung loose before him. Such was James Nicholson as he first appeared to me. For more than forty years he had remained in a state of single blessedness; but whether this arose from his heart having continued insensible to the influence of woman's charms—from his never having met with one whom he thought he could safely take "for better, for worse"—or whether it arose from the maidens being afraid to risk their future happiness, by uniting themselves with such a strange and dangerous character as Jemmy the Jacobin, I cannot tell. It is certain, however, that he became convinced that a bachelor's life was at best a dowie one; and there was another consideration that had considerable weight with him. He had nobody to "fill his pirns," or "give in his webs;" but he had to hire and pay people to do these things, and this made a great drawback on his earnings, particularly when the price of weaving became low. James therefore resolved to do as his father had done before him, and to take unto himself a wife. He cast his eyes abroad, and they rested on a decent spinster, who was beginning to be what is called a "stayed lass"—that is, very near approaching to the years when the phrase, a "stayed lass," is about to be exchanged for that of an old maid. In a word, the object of his choice was but a very few years younger than himself. Her name was Peggy Purves, and it is possible she was inclined to adopt the language of the song, and say—

for when James made his proposal, she smirked and blushed—said she "didna ken what to say till't"—took the corners of her apron in her fingers—hung her head—smiled well pleased, and added, she "would see!" but within three months became the wife of Jemmy the Leveller.

James became the father of two children, a son and daughter; and we may here notice a circumstance attending the baptism of the son. About three weeks after the birth of the child, his mother began to inquire—

"What shall we ca' him, James? Do ye think we should ca' him Alexander, after your faither and mine?"

"Haud yer tongue, woman," replied James, somewhat testily. "Goodness me! where's the use in everlastingly yatter-yattering about what I will ca' him? The bairn shall hae a name—a name that will be like a deed o' virtue and greatness engraven on his memory as often as he hears it."

"Oh, James, James!" returned Peggy, "ye're the strangest and perversest man that ever I met wi' in my born days. I'm sure ye'll ne'er think o' giein ony o' yer heathenish Jacobin names to my bairn!"

"Just content yersel, Peggy," replied he—"just rest contented, if ye please. I'll gie the bairn a name that neither you nor him will ever hae cause to be ashamed o'."

Now, James was a rigid Dissenter, and caused the child to be taken to the meeting-house; and he stood up with it in his arms, in the midst of the congregation, that his infant might publicly receive baptism.

The minister inquired, in a low voice, "What is the child's name?"

His neighbours were anxious to hear the answer; and, in his deep, sonorous tones, he replied aloud—

"George Washington!"

There was a sort of buzz and a movement throughout the congregation, and the minister himself looked surprised.

When her daughter was born, the choice of the name was left to Peggy, and she called her Catherine, in remembrance of her mother.

Shortly after the birth of his children, the French Revolution began to lour in the political horizon, and James Nicholson, the weaver, with a fevered anxiety, watched its progress.

"It is a bursting forth o' the first seed o' the tree o' liberty, which the Americans planted, and George Washington reared," cried James, with enthusiasm; "the seeds o' that tree will spread owre the earth, as if scattered by the winds o' heaven—they will cover it as the waters do the sea—they will take root—they will spring up in every land: beneath the burning sun o' the West Indies, on the frozen deserts o' Siberia, the slave and the exile will rejoice beneath the shadow o' its branches, and their hearts be gladdened by its fruits."

"Ay, man, James, that's noble!" exclaimed some brother Leveller, who retailed the sayings of the weaver at second hand. "Losh! if ye haena a headpiece that wad astonish a privy council!"

But, when the storm burst, and the sea of blood gushed forth like a deluge, when the innocent and the guilty were butchered together, James was staggered, his eyes became heavy, and his countenance fell. At length he consoled his companions, saying—

"Weel, it's a pity—it's a great pity—it is bringing disgrace and guilt upon a glorious cause. But knives shouldna be put into the hands o' bairns till they ken how to use them. If the sun were to rise in a flash o' unclouded glory and dazzling brightness in a moment, succeeding the heavy darkness o' midnight, it wad be nae wonder if, for a time, we groped more blindly than we did in the dark. Or, if a blind man had his sight restored in a moment, and were set into the street, he would strike upon every object he met more readily than he did when he was blind; for he had neither acquired the use o' his eyes nor the idea o' distance. So is it wi' our neighbours in France: an instrument has been put into their hands before they ken how to use it—the sun o' liberty has burst upon them in an instant, without an intermediate dawn. They groaned under the tyranny o' blindness; but they hae acquired the power o' sight without being instructed in its use. But hae patience a little—the storm will gie place to the sunshine, the troubled waters will subside into a calm, and liberty will fling her garment o' knowledge and mercy