No grazing cattle through their prickly round
          Can reach to wound;
   But as they grow where nothing is to fear,
   Smooth and unarm'd the pointless leaves appear.

Now, the true and simple explanation of this
fact is, that the holly leaves acquire their thorns
only with age, and the topmost branches are
thornless merely because they are in their
infancy.

THE TATTLESNIVEL BLEATER.

THE pen is taken in hand on the present
occasion, by a private individual (not wholly
unaccustomed to literary composition), for the
exposure of a conspiracy of a most frightful nature;
a conspiracy which, like the deadly Upas-tree of
Java, on which the individual produced a poem
in his earlier youth (not wholly devoid of length),
which was so flatteringly received (in circles not
wholly unaccustomed to form critical opinions),
that he was recommended to publish it, and
would certainly have carried out the suggestion,
but for private considerations (not wholly
unconnected with expense.)

The individual who undertakes the exposure
of the gigantic conspiracy now to be laid bare
in all its hideous deformity, is an inhabitant of
the town of Tattlesnivel—a lowly inhabitant, it
may be, but one who, as an Englishman and a
man, will ne'er abase his eye before the gaudy
and the mocking throng.

Tattlesnivel stoops to demand no championship
from her sons. On an occasion in History,
our bluff British monarch, our Eighth
Royal Harry, almost went there. And long
ere the periodical in which this exposure will
appear, had sprung into being, Tattlesnivel had
unfurled that standard which yet waves upon her
battlements. The standard alluded to, is THE
TATTLESNIVEL BLEATER, containing the latest
intelligence, and state of markets, down to
the hour of going to press, and presenting a
favourable local medium for advertisers, on a
graduated scale of charges, considerably diminishing
in proportion to the guaranteed number of
insertions.

It were bootless to expatiate on the host of
talent engaged in formidable phalanx to do fealty
to the Bleater. Suffice it to select, for present
purposes, one of the most gifted and (but for
the wide and deep ramifications of an
un-English conspiracy), most rising, of the men who
are bold Albion's pride. It were needless, after
this preamble, to point the finger more directly
at the LONDON CORRESPONDENT OF THE
TATTLESNIVEL BLEATER.

On the weekly letters of that Correspondent,
on the flexibility of their English, on the boldness
of their grammar, on the originality of their
quotations (never to be found as they are printed,
in any book existing), on the priority of their
information, on their intimate acquaintance with
the secret thoughts and unexecuted intentions
of men, it would ill become the humble
Tattlesnivellian who traces these words, to dwell.
They are graven in the memory; they are on
the Bleater's file. Let them be referred to.

But, from the infamous, the dark, the subtle
conspiracy which spreads its baleful roots
throughout the land, and of which the Bleater's
London Correspondent is the one sole subject,
it IS the purpose of the lowly Tattlesnivellian
who undertakes this revelation, to tear the veil.
Nor will he shrink from his self-imposed labour,
Herculean though it be.

The conspiracy begins in the very Palace of
the Sovereign Lady of our Ocean Isle. Leal
and loyal as it is the proud vaunt of the Bleater's
readers, one and all, to be, the inhabitant who
pens this exposure does not personally impeach,
either her Majesty the queen, or the illustrious
Prince Consort. But, some silken-clad smoothers,
some purple parasites, some fawners in frippery,
some greedy and begartered ones in gorgeous
garments, he does impeach—ay, and wrathfully!
Is it asked on what grounds? They
shall be stated.

The Bleater's London Correspondent, in the
prosecution of his important inquiries, goes
down to Windsor, sends in his card, has a
confidential interview with her Majesty and the
illustrious Prince Consort. For a time, the
restraints of Royalty are thrown aside in the
cheerful conversation of the Bleater's London
Correspondent, in his fund of information, in his flow of
anecdote, in the atmosphere of his genius; Her
Majesty brightens, the illustrious Prince
Consort thaws, the cares of State and the conflicts
of Party are forgotten, lunch is proposed. Over
that unassuming and domestic table, Her Majesty
communicates to the Bleater's London
Correspondent that it is her intention to send his Royal
Highness the Prince of Wales to inspect the top
of the Great Pyramid—thinking it likely to
improve his acquaintance with the views of the
people. Her Majesty further communicates that
she has made up her royal mind (and that the Prince
Consort has made up his illustrious mind) to the
bestowal of the vacant Garter, let us say on Mr.
Roebuck. The younger Royal children having
been introduced at the request of the Bleater's
London Correspondent, and having been by him
closely observed to present the usual external
indications of good health, the happy knot is severed,
with a sigh the Royal bow is once more strung
to its full tension, the Bleater's London
Correspondent returns to London, writes his letter, and
tells the Tattlesnivel Bleater what he knows.
All Tattlesnivel reads it, and knows that he
knows it. But, does his Royal Highness the
Prince of Wales ultimately go to the top of the
Great Pyramid? Does Mr. Roebuck ultimately
get the Garter? No. Are the younger Royal
children even ultimately found to be well ? On the
contrary, they have—and on that very day had—
the measles. Why is this? Because the conspirators
against the Bleater's London Correspondent
have stepped in with their dark machinations.
Because Her Majesty and the Prince Consort
are artfully induced to change their minds, from
north to south, from east to west, immediately
after it is known to the conspirators that they