And here I am constrained to remark that Penny Journals are not always vehicles of instruction in any sense of the term. I regret there are not a few Editors in this great Metropolis who have a special aptitude for lowering and degrading Journalism. Take up the DAILY TELEGRAPH—to talk of the “MORAL tone” of this paper is nothing less than ineffable bosh. Its exaggerated, ethical articles, are nauseous in the extreme. Let me only refer to the case of the “ingenuous” EUGENIE PLUMMER, recently convicted of perjury. With Judaic malevolence the _Telegraph_ from the first displayed great anxiety to criminate Mr. Hatch, who is now acquitted by an impartial Jury. The desire to pander to an impure taste, was only equalled by the base attempt to crush an innocent clergyman, _coûte qui coûte_; and even after the conviction of the precocious, marble hearted girl, (who deserved a sound flogging as the only punishment she could feel,) this cheap and nasty Print is at its dirty work again in assuming guilt, and asserting that the unfortunate gentleman “did not behave like an innocent man.” {35} Serjeant SHEE’S is very dirty money, but this TELEGRAPH’S is worse. It lowers a noble vocation, and sinks it to PRESSGANGISM. The critic of the _Daily Telegraph_ has a difficult task, for its nauseous, maudlin effusions, when wishing to be mighty fine, have a bewildering effect. Its “No meaning puzzles more than wit.” The Editor is evidently a nice man, with very nasty ideas. Not the Holywell Street Press, not the most prurient pages of Romance, can equal the skimble skamble stuff of its virtuous indignation articles. The death of Lady Noel Byron, the widow of the great Poet, is a case in point:— “The creature’s at his dirty work again,” The discretion of an Editor is never better employed than in steering clear of the idle gossip and calumnies of the day, and if there ever was a name that should be tenderly uttered, it is that of George Gordon Noel Byron. It is a gross violation of Editorial duty to bespatter, to assail with infamy, the memory of a Poet, only thirty-seven years of age, who accomplished so much, and whose early death eclipsed the gaiety of nations! “Ruins of years—though few, yet full of fate:” Why the CHILDE will live as long as the language endures: “Not in the air shall these my words disperse,” Now who are you, Mr. Editor of the _Telegraph_, and of what faith, to impiously dare to scan the thoughts, and discern the intents of the human heart? That power to scan belongs to GOD only. You are told, on Divine authority, which no Christian disputes, to “JUDGE NOT,” and yet you do not scruple to assert that Byron “was driven from his country, and deserved the doom.” Would the editor of the _Telegraph_, the writer of this censorship, escape, if all had their deserts?