have put themselves in communication with the
Bleater's London Correspondent. It is now
indignantly demanded, by whom are they so tampered
with? It is now indignantly demanded, who
took the responsibility of concealing the
indisposition of those Royal children from their
Royal and Illustrious parents, and of bringing
them down from their beds, disguised, expressly
to confound the London Correspondent of the
Tattlesnivel Bleater? Who are those persons,
it is again asked? Let not rank and favour
protect them. Let the traitors be exhibited in
the face of day!

Lord John Russell is in this conspiracy. Tell
us not that his Lordship is a man of too much
spirit and honour. Denunciation is hurled against
him. The proof? The proof is here.

The Time is panting for an answer to the question,
Will Lord John Russell consent to take office
under Lord Palmerston? Good. The London
Correspondent of the Tattlesnivel Bleater is in
the act of writing his weekly letter, finds himself
rather at a loss to settle this question finally,
leaves off, puts his hat on, goes down to the
lobby of the House of Commons, sends in for
Lord John Russell, and has him out. He draws
his arm through his Lordship's, takes him aside,
and says, "John, will you ever accept office
under Palmerston?" His Lordship replies, "I
will not." The Bleater's London Correspondent
retorts, with the caution such a man is bound to
use, "John, think again; say nothing to me rashly;
is there any temper here?" His Lordship replies,
calmly, "None whatever." After giving him time
for reflection, the Bleater's London Correspondent
says, "Once more, John, let me put a question
to you. Will you ever accept office under
Palmerston?" His Lordship answers (note the
exact expressions), "Nothing shall induce me,
ever to accept a seat in a Cabinet of which
Palmerston is the Chief." They part, the London
Correspondent of the Tattlesnivel Bleater finishes
his letter, and—always being withheld by motives
of delicacy, from plainly divulging his means of
getting accurate information on every subject,
at first hand—puts in it, this passage: "Lord
John Russell is spoken of, by blunderers, for
Foreign Affairs; but I have the best reasons for
assuring your readers, that" (giving prominence
to the exact expressions, it will be observed)
"'NOTHING WILL EVER INDUCE HIM, TO ACCEPT
A SEAT IN A CABINET OF WHICH PALMERSTON IS
THE CHIEF.' On this you may implicitly rely."
What happens? On the very day of the
publication of that number of the Bleater—the
malignity of the conspirators being even
manifested in the selection of the day—Lord John
Russell takes the Foreign Office! Comment
were superfluous.

The people of Tattlesnivel will be told, have
been told, that Lord John Russell is a man of
his word. He may be, on some occasions; but,
when overshadowed by this dark and enormous
growth of conspiracy, Tattlesnivel knows him
to be otherwise. "I happen to be certain,
deriving my information from a source which
cannot be doubted to be authentic," wrote the
London Correspondent of the Bleater, within the
last year, "that Lord John Russell bitterly regrets
having made that explicit speech of last Monday."
These are not roundabout phrases; these are plain
words. What does Lord John Russell (apparently
by accident), within eight-and-forty hours after
their diffusion over the civilised globe? Rises in
his place in Parliament, and unblushingly declares
that if the occasion could arise five hundred
times, for his making that very speech, he would
make it five hundred times! Is there no
conspiracy here? And is this combination against
one who would be always right if he were not
proved always wrong, to be endured in a
country that boasts of its freedom and its fairness?

But, the Tattlesnivellian who now raises his
voice against intolerable oppression, may be
told that, after all, this is a political
conspiracy. He may be told, forsooth, that MR.
DISRAELI'S being in it, that LORD DERBY'S being
in it, that MR. BRIGHT'S being in it, that every
Home, Foreign, and Colonial Secretary's being
in it, that every ministry's and every opposition's
being in it, are but proofs that men will do
in politics what they would do in nothing else.
Is this the plea? If so, the rejoinder is, that
the mighty conspiracy includes the whole circle
of Artists of all kinds, and comprehends all
degrees of men, down to the worst criminal and
the hangman who ends his career. For, all these
are intimately known to the London
Correspondent of the Tattlesnivel Bleater, and all
these deceive him.

Sir, put it to the proof. There is the Bleater
on the file—documentary evidence. Weeks,
months, before the Exhibition of the Royal
Academy, the Bleater's London Correspondent
knows the subjects of all the leading pictures
knows what the painters first meant to do, knows
what they afterwards substituted for what they
first meant to do, knows what they ought to do
and won't do, knows what they ought not to do
and will do, knows to a letter from whom they
have commissions, knows to a shilling how much
they are to be paid. Now, no sooner is each
studio clear of the remarkable man to whom
each studio-occupant has revealed himself as he
does not reveal himself to his nearest and dearest
bosom friend, than conspiracy and fraud begin.
Alfred the Great becomes the Fairy Queen; Moses
viewing the Promised Land,tums out to be Moses
going to the Fair; Portrait of His Grace the
Archbishop of Canterbury, is transformed, as if by
irreverent enchantment of the dissenting interest,
into A Favourite Terrier, or Cattle Grazing; and
the most extraordinary work of art in the list
described by the Bleater, is coolly sponged out
altogether, and asserted never to have had existence
at all, even in the most shadowy thoughts of its
executant! This is vile enough, but this is not
all. Picture-buyers then come forth from their
secret positions, and creep into their places in
the assassin-multitude of conspirators. MR.
BARING, after expressly telling the Bleater's
London Correspondent that he had bought No.
39 for one thousand guineas, gives it up to