Mrs. Oldfield triumphed on the stage. Nor did the letter-writer stop
here. In those days courtiers had two faces. There was one King _de
facto_, and another _de jure divino_. There was a Court at St. Germains
as well as at St. James's. There were Jacobites as well as Hanoverians.
There were plots and intrigues--Popish and Protestant--and in the dark
days before Christmas, in old country houses, letters full of all the
rumours thus created were welcomed. But the age made progress.
Newspapers were established in all the leading towns of the country, and
the need of the letter-writer vanished, but only for a while. In his
desire to cater for the public, and to outbid his competitors, the
country newspaper revived the London correspondent, but on an extended
scale. Now scarce a country newspaper exists that does not avail itself
of his services.

But from the general let me descend to the particular. I take up the
"Little Pedlington Gazette," and I find our London Correspondent dates
from --- Club, St. James's-square. Of course, in a free country, a man
may date his letters where he likes; but I'll be bound to say the letter
is written in a cheap coffee-house in Chancery-lane, and all its contents
are culled from that day's papers. From the letter, however, I am led to
suppose that the writer is a member of the House of Commons--that he has
the run of the clubs--that royal personages are not unfamiliar with
him--and that his intimacy with Lord Derby and Mr. Disraeli is only
equalled by his friendship with Palmerston and Russell. Our London
Correspondent has very wonderful eyes, and I am sure his ears must be
longer than those of any other animal extant. I have tried the
Strangers' Gallery in the House of Commons, and the Speaker's, and the
Reporters', and in all I have the utmost difficulty in distinguishing
emotions which an animated debate must excite in the disputants. The
Parliamentary fashion is for a minister, when attacked, to sit with his
hat so pulled down over his eyes that you can scarce see a feature. Lord
John always sits in this way, so does Lord Palmerston. Our London
Correspondent can see what no one else can, and there is not a wince of
the galled jade but what is visible to his eyes. He sees Palmerston
winking to Sir George Grey, and hears what Cornewall Lewis whispers to
Lowe. Lord John does not chuckle quietly to himself, nor Disraeli
whisper a sarcasm, nor Walpole meditate a joke, but