These square pieces of paper are the Agoras of modern life. The same
skilful division of labour which brings the fowl ready trussed to our doors
from the market, brings also an abstract of the
Votum, timor, ira, voluptas,
Gaudia, discursus,
which agitate the great metropolis, and even opinions, ready prepared, to
the breakfast tables of our remotest farms, ere the controversial warmth
has had time to cool. In the centre of this square, where you observe the
larger character, a public orator, "vias et verba locans," takes his daily
stand. One makes his speech in the morning, and another reserves his for
the evening; a third class, either disposed to take less trouble, or,
finding it convenient to construct their speeches from fragments of the
daily orations, harangue once in two or three days; while a fourth waylay
the people in their road to visit the temples on our hebdomadal festivals.
But cast your eyes to another part of these our artificial forums, and
observe the number of small divisions which fill up the space. There are
stalls of merchandize. The ancient venders must have been noisy, and a
frequent cause of annoyance to political speakers; but here the hawkers of
wet and dry goods, the hawkers of medicine, the hawkers of personal
services, the hawkers of husbands and wives, (for among us these articles
are often cried up for sale,) and lastly, the hawkers of religions, moral,
and political wisdom, all cry out at once, without tumult or confusion, yet
so as to be heard in these days through the remotest corners of these
islands.... If a peculiarly bloody murder has been tried, or if some
domestic intrigue has produced a complicated love story, however offensive
in its details, you will find our reading crowd stationary in that quarter,
to enjoy the tragic stimulants of terror and pity. We have also a modest
corner of the square appropriated to the use of our posts; but like
Polydorus's ghost, they generally utter doleful soliloquies, which no one
will stop to hear.
_London Review._
* * * * *