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.
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