ABSTRACT
I cannot call you friends, and I will not call you gentlemen. This plague of the country is now raging with greater fury than ever, and I think proper to address you upon the subject. You are called yeomanry cavalry, though perhaps more than one half of you are loan-mobgers, tax-gatherers, dead-weight people, stock-jobbers, shag-bag attorneys, bailiffs (mostly Scotch), toad-eating shopkeepers, who are ready to perform military duty towards the “lower orders,” in order at once to give evidence of your gentility, and to show your gratitude towards your rich customers for their paying your bills without scruple. A very great part of you come in under one or the other part of this description; but to those of you who are farmers; that is to say who have land in your occupation; and who grow corn, and rear cattle, and who have barns, ricks, and other things, liable to be set fire to; to you only do I address myself upon / this occasion, being well aware that my arguments would produce no impression whatever upon your comrades above-mentioned. First of all, call the roll of your corps over, and see how many of them there are who are not intrested in the taxes and the tithes, either immediately or through their relations, landlords, or somebody else. When you have called the roll, and have separated yourselves from the rest, get into a plain room, pull off your hairy caps, your parti-coloured jackets, and your Wellington-boots; put on your own Christian-like clothes, your high shoes well nailed; and then pick out some with a good strong voice to read to you that which I am now about to write.
