passion? Why not laugh at me and my trash? Why name me at all? Why break
silence after so long a period? They are continually vowing that they
will never notice my trash again; but their hatred, like the love of the
swain, returns the next hour with more ardour than ever, and scatters
their vows to the winds. The most furious amongst them is a _Sinecure
Placeman,_ who writes in the _Times_ newspaper, and upon whom the
droppings of my pen seem to have the same effect as the crumbling of
blue-stone or lump-sugar on the proud flesh of a galled jade. He winces
and dances, and kicks and flings about at a fine rate. Amidst his
ravings he swears that he will cause me to be hanged; and if he should
not succeed, he would, I am sure, if he had any decency, finish his
career by tucking up himself, and that too in his ribbon of the order of
St. Lewis.

"The truth is, that these men and their assistants and encouragers see
their certain doom in _the enlightening of the people_. They see clearly
enough, that conviction must follow facts and arguments like mine
rendered familiar. They see that I am uniting the _mind_ with the
_muscle_ of the country; and, above all things, they see, and they
tremble at, my incessant, and I hope, successful efforts, to convince
the labourers and the journeymen, that they are men who have _rights_,
and that the way to obtain those rights is to pursue a _peaceable_ and
orderly conduct. They hate every one who dwells upon the _miseries_ of
the country; for, _to them_, it is confusion to acknowledge that misery
exists. The _Courier_ asserted, only the other day, that there was no
suffering in or near London, and abused the people for complaining!
Such men would kill you or me or any man who talks of the people's
sufferings. They call the complaints of hunger _sedition_. These writers
are like the wretch, who, unable to force his poor worn-out and starved
horse to drag his load along any further, took out his knife and cut his