THROWN OUT FOR THE CITY.
From the Chairman of the Local Committee to the
Agent in London.
My Dear Sir,
Demanding a Poll.
Member for Cripplegate.
Thanks for the pantomimic loaf, which told very well; but the money would have answered better. They are making a great fuss on the other side about slave-grown sugar: one hit they have made tells against us very powerfully. They have got four of the Lascar beggars who happened to come into the town, and have borrowed some fetters from the manager of the theatre, which they have fixed to the wrists of the Lascars: each has on his breast a placard, asking, "Am I not a brother?" and on his back is a bill bearing the inscription, "No slave-grown sugar!" If you can put us up to any plan for answering this, let me hear from you immediately.
Yours, in haste, Peter Pliant.
From the Agent in London to the Local Chairman in the Country.
My Dear Sir,
I don't know how to answer the placard "Are we not brothers?" unless by a hit at the Poor Law. You had better get as many old vagrants together as you can; and, putting them into workhouse dresses, label their breasts with the words, "Are we not husbands?" Their backs may display placards with the words, "No Poor Law—no separation of man and wife!" This will be a safe card, if played immediately.
Yours, in haste, J. Cramwell.
THE ROYAL ACADEMY
