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.
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