THE pen is taken in hand on the present occasion, by a private individual
(not wholly unaccustomed to literary composition), for the exposure of a
conspiracy of a most frightful nature; a conspiracy which, like the
deadly Upas-tree of Java, on which the individual produced a poem in his
earlier youth (not wholly devoid of length), which was so flatteringly
received (in circles not wholly unaccustomed to form critical opinions),
that he was recommended to publish it, and would certainly have carried
out the suggestion, but for private considerations (not wholly
unconnected with expense).
The individual who undertakes the exposure of the gigantic conspiracy now
to be laid bare in all its hideous deformity, is an inhabitant of the
town of Tattlesnivel—a lowly inhabitant, it may be, but one who, as an
Englishman and a man, will ne’er abase his eye before the gaudy and the
mocking throng.
Tattlesnivel stoops to demand no championship from her sons. On an
occasion in History, our bluff British monarch, our Eighth Royal Harry,
almost went there. And long ere the periodical in which this exposure
will appear, had sprung into being, Tattlesnivel had unfurled that
standard which yet waves upon her battlements. The standard alluded to,
is THE TATTLESNIVEL BLEATER, containing the latest intelligence, and
state of markets, down to the hour of going to press, and presenting a
favourable local medium for advertisers, on a graduated scale of charges,
considerably diminishing in proportion to the guaranteed number of
insertions.
It were bootless to expatiate on the host of talent engaged in formidable
phalanx to do fealty to the Bleater. Suffice it to select, for present
purposes, one of the most gifted and (but for the wide and deep
ramifications of an un-English conspiracy) most rising, of the men who
are bold Albion’s pride. 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. But, some silken-clad smoothers, some purple parasites,
some fawners in frippery, some greedy and begartered ones in gorgeous
garments, he does impeach—ay, and wrathfully! Is it asked on what
grounds? They shall be stated.
The Bleater’s London Correspondent, in the prosecution of his important
inquiries, goes down to Windsor, sends in his card, has a confidential
interview with her Majesty and the illustrious Prince Consort. For a
time, the restraints of Royalty are thrown aside in the cheerful
conversation of the Bleater’s London Correspondent, in his fund of
information, in his flow of anecdote, in the atmosphere of his genius;
her Majesty brightens, the illustrious Prince Consort thaws, the cares of
State and the conflicts of Party are forgotten, lunch is proposed. Over
that unassuming and domestic table, her Majesty communicates to the
Bleater’s London Correspondent that it is her intention to send his Royal
Highness the Prince of Wales to inspect the top of the Great
Pyramid—thinking it likely to improve his acquaintance with the views of
the people. Her Majesty further communicates that she has made up her
royal mind (and that the Prince Consort has made up his illustrious mind)
to the bestowal of the vacant Garter, let us say on Mr. Roebuck. The
younger Royal children having been introduced at the request of the
Bleater’s London Correspondent, and having been by him closely observed
to present the usual external indications of good health, the happy knot
is severed, with a sigh the Royal bow is once more strung to its full
tension, the Bleater’s London Correspondent returns to London, writes his
letter, and tells the Tattlesnivel Bleater what he knows. All
Tattlesnivel reads it, and knows that he knows it. But, _does_ his Royal
Highness the Prince of Wales ultimately go to the top of the Great
Pyramid? _Does_ Mr. Roebuck ultimately get the Garter? No. Are the
younger Royal children even ultimately found to be well? On the
contrary, they have—and on that very day had—the measles. Why is this?
_Because the conspirators against the Bleater’s London Correspondent have
stepped in with their dark machinations_. Because her Majesty and the
Prince Consort are artfully induced to change their minds, from north to
south, from east to west, immediately after it is known to the
conspirators that they 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, turns 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 shadow
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 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 meantime?
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 twofold. 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!