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,