First, to
exhibit the London Correspondent of the Tattlesnivel Bleater in the
light of a mischievous Blockhead who, by hiring himself out to tell
what he cannot possibly know, is as great a public nuisance as a
Blockhead in a corner can be. Second, to suggest to the men of
Tattlesnivel that it does not improve their town to have so much Dry
Rubbish shot there.
Now, sir, on both these points Tattlesnivel demands in accents of
Thunder, Where is the Attorney General? Why doesn't the Times take
it up? (Is the latter in the conspiracy? It never adopts his
views, or quotes him, and incessantly contradicts him.)
Tattlesnivel, sir, remembering that our forefathers contended with
the Norman at Hastings, and bled at a variety of other places that
will readily occur to you, demands that its birthright shall not be
bartered away for a mess of pottage. Have a care, sir, have a care!
Or Tattlesnivel (its idle Rifles piled in its scouted streets) may
be seen ere long, advancing with its Bleater to the foot of the
Throne, and demanding redress for this conspiracy, from the orbed
and sceptred hands of Majesty itself!
THE YOUNG MAN FROM THE COUNTRY
A song of the hour, now in course of being sung and whistled in
every street, the other day reminded the writer of these words--as
he chanced to pass a fag-end of the song for the twentieth time in a
short London walk--that twenty years ago, a little book on the
United States, entitled American Notes, was published by "a Young
Man from the Country", who had just seen and left it.
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