But I have not yet said who our London Correspondent is. The better class of them I think are Parliamentary reporters. There was a paper published in London kept alive merely by its Paris Correspondent. No other paper had such a correspondent, or abounded in such extraordinary tales and scandal. Yet the correspondent’s plan was very simple. Every new tale and drama which came out in Paris was worked up and sent to London as a reality, that was all. In a less degree our London Correspondent does the same, and in quiet country towns there is great wonder and lifting up of hands, especially if, as was once the case, the wrong letter is sent, and the Tory paper abounds with sneers at Lord Derby and the squirearchy, a _contretemps_ which is avoided if the plan of one London Correspondent be adopted, who supplies thirteen different papers with the same letter at five shillings each—a plan, however, not sanctioned by respectable papers, who pay a good price and get often a good article, and for whose letters, if a little too highly coloured and seasoned, the public taste is more to blame than the newspaper proprietor, or his painstaking London Correspondent. I believe _the_ Mr. Russell, of the _Times_, was the London Correspondent of one of the Irish papers, and such papers as the _Liverpool Albion_, _Cambridge Independent_, and a few others I could name, evidently have for London Correspondents literary men of superior position and respectability. A SUNDAY AT THE OBELISK. The ancient Athenians were a restless, inquisitive people. At the Areopagus it was that Paul preached of an unknown God. Their popular assemblies met on the Pynx. There mob orators decreed the ostracism of Aristides the Just, and the death of Socrates the Good. In the metropolis we have no Pynx where our _demoi_ are wont to assemble, but we have several spots that serve for popular gatherings on the Sunday—our working-man’s holiday. One of these is the Obelisk at the Surrey end of the Blackfriars-road. The district I allude to is what is called a low neighbourhood. If I am to believe a popular poet, it was there that the Ratcatcher’s daughter lived; and I should imagine, from the seedy, poverty-struck appearance of the place, that her papa’s avocation was not so highly remunerative as some other professions, or he would have pitched his tent, _alias_ become a ten-pound householder, in a more fashionable quarter.