From the office of the Morning Post (for we may as well exhaust our Newspaper Reminiscences at once) by change of property in the paper, we were transferred, mortifying exchange! to the office of the Albion Newspaper, late Rackstrow’s Museum, in Fleet-street.  What a transition—­from a handsome apartment, from rose-wood desks, and silver-inkstands, to an office—­no office, but a den rather, but just redeemed from the occupation of dead monsters, of which it seemed redolent—­from the centre of loyalty and fashion, to a focus of vulgarity and sedition!  Here in murky closet, inadequate from its square contents to the receipt of the two bodies of Editor, and humble paragraph-maker, together at one time, sat in the discharge of his new Editorial functions (the “Bigod” of Elia) the redoubted John Fenwick.

F., without a guinea in his pocket, and having left not many in the pockets of his friends whom he might command, had purchased (on tick doubtless) the whole and sole Editorship, Proprietorship, with all the rights and titles (such as they were worth) of the Albion, from one Lovell; of whom we know nothing, save that he had stood in the pillory for a libel on the Prince of Wales.  With this hopeless concern—­for it had been sinking ever since its commencement, and could now reckon upon not more than a hundred subscribers—­F. resolutely determined upon pulling down the Government in the first instance, and making both our fortunes by way of corollary.  For seven weeks and mote did this infatuated Democrat go about borrowing seven shilling pieces, and lesser coin, to meet the daily demands of the Stamp Office, which allowed no credit to publications of that side in politics.  An outcast from politer bread, we attached our small talents to the forlorn fortunes of our friend.  Our occupation now was to write treason.

Recollections of feelings—­which were all that now remained from our first boyish heats kindled by the French Revolution, when if we were misled, we erred in the company of some, who are accounted very good men now—­rather than any tendency at this time to Republican doctrines—­assisted us in assuming a style of writing, while the paper lasted, consonant in no very under-tone to the right earnest fanaticism of F. Our cue was now to insinuate, rather than recommend, possible abdications.  Blocks, axes, Whitehall tribunals, were covered with flowers of so cunning a periphrasis—­as Mr. Bayes says, never naming the thing directly—­that the keen eye of an Attorney General was insufficient to detect the lurking snake among them.  There were times, indeed, when we sighed for our more gentleman-like occupation under Stuart.  But with change of masters it is ever change of service.  Already one paragraph, and another, as we learned afterwards from a gentleman at the Treasury, had begun to be marked at that office, with a view of its being submitted at least to the attention of the proper Law Officers—­when an unlucky, or rather lucky epigram from our pen,