somebody unknown for a couple of hundred
pounds; THE MARQUIS OF LANSDOWNE pretends
to have no knowledge whatever of the
commissions to which the London Correspondent
of the Bleater swore him, but allows a Railway
Contractor to cut him out for half the money.
Similar examples might be multiplied. Shame,
shame, on these men! Is this England?

Sir, look again at Literature. The Bleater's
London Correspondent is not merely acquainted
with all the eminent writers, but is in possession
of the secrets of their souls. He is versed in their
hidden meanings and references, sees their
manuscripts before publication, and knows the
subjects and titles of their books when they are not
begun. How dare those writers turn upon the
eminent man and depart from every intention
they have confided to him? How do they
justify themselves in entirely altering their
manuscripts, changing their titles, and abandoning
their subjects? Will they deny, in the face of
Tattlesnivel, that they do so? If they have
such hardihood, let the file of the Bleater strike
them dumb. By their fruits they shall be known.
Let their works be compared with the anticipatory
letters of the Bleater's London Correspondent,
and their falsehood and deceit will become manifest
as the sun; it will be seen that they do
nothing which they stand pledged to the
Bleater's London Correspondent to do; it will be
seen that they are among the blackest parties
in this black and base conspiracy. This will
become apparent, sir, not only as to their public
proceedings but as to their private affairs. The
outraged Tattlesnivellian who now drags this
infamous combination into the face of day,
charges those literary persons with making
away with their property, imposing on the
Income Tax Commissioners, keeping false books,
and entering into sham contracts. He accuses
them on the unimpeachable faith of the London
Correspondent of the Tattlesnivel Bleater. With
whose evidence they will find it impossible to
reconcile their own account of any transaction of
their lives.

The national character is degenerating under
the influence of the ramifications of this
tremendous conspiracy. Forgery is committed,
constantly. A person of note—any sort of person of
note— dies. The Bleater's London Correspondent
knows what his circumstances are, what his
savings are (if any), who his creditors are, all
about his children and relations, and (in general,
before his body is cold) describes his will. Is
that will ever proved? Never! Some other
will is substituted; the real instrument,
destroyed. And this (as has been before observed),
is England!

Who are the workmen and artificers, enrolled
upon the books of this treacherous league?
From what funds are they paid, and with what
ceremonies are they sworn to secrecy? Are
there none such? Observe what follows. A little
time ago the Bleater's London Correspondent had
this passage: "Boddleboy is pianoforte playing
at St. Januarius's Gallery, with pretty tolerable
success! He clears three hundred pounds per
night. Not bad this!!"The builder of St.
Januarius's Gallery (plunged to the throat in
the conspiracy) met with this piece of news, and
observed, with characteristic coarseness, "that
the Bleater's London Correspondent was a Blind
Ass." Being pressed by a man of spirit to give his
reasons for this extraordinary statement, he
declared that the Gallery, crammed to suffocation,
would not hold two hundred pounds, and that
its expenses were, probably, at least half what
it did hold. The man of spirit (himself a
Tattlesnivellian) had the Gallery measured within
a week from that hour, and it would not hold
two hundred pounds! Now, can the poorest
capacity doubt that it had been altered in the
mean time?

And so the conspiracy extends, through every
grade of society, down to the condemned
criminal in prison, the hangman, and the Ordinary.
Every famous murderer within the last ten years
has desecrated his last moments by falsifying
his confidences imparted specially to the London
Correspondent of the Tattlesnivel Bleater; on
every such occasion, Mr. Calcraft has followed
the degrading example; and the reverend
Ordinary, forgetful of his cloth, and mindful only (it
would seem, alas!) of the conspiracy, has
committed himself to some account or other of the
criminal's demeanour and conversation, which
has been diametrically opposed to the exclusive
information of the London Correspondent of the
Bleater. And this (as has been before observed)
is Merry England!

A man of true genius, however, is not easily
defeated. The Bleater's London Correspondent,
probably beginning to suspect the existence of a
plot against him, has recently fallen on a new
style, which, as being very difficult to countermine,
may necessitate the organisation of a new
conspiracy. One of his masterly letters, lately,
disclosed the adoption of this style—which was
remarked with profound sensation throughout
Tattlesnivel—in the following passage:
"Mentioning literary small talk, I may tell you
that some new and extraordinary rumours are
afloat concerning the conversations I have
previously mentioned, alleged to have taken
place in the first floor front (situated over
the street door), of Mr. X. Ameter (the poet
so well known to your readers), in which,
X. Ameter's great uncle, his second son, his
butcher, and a corpulent gentleman with one
eye universally respected at Kensington, are
said not to have been on the most friendly
footing; I forbear, however, to pursue the
subject further, this week, my informant not being
able to supply me with exact particulars."

But, enough, sir. The inhabitant of Tattlesnivel
who has taken pen in hand to expose this
odious association of unprincipled men against
a shining (local) character, turns from it with
disgust and contempt. Let him in few words
strip the remaining flimsy covering from the
nude object of the conspirators, and his
loathsome task is ended.

Sir, that object, he contends, is evidently two-fold.
First, to exhibit the London Correspondent