into our great griefs and guide our pen as we vindicate ourselves and annihilate the Public. Think of the countless pangs which that public inflicted on you when you devoted your varied talents to its instruction and amusement; think of its contempt for you elegant and pretty "leaders," think of its sneers at your learned essays; its wooden-headedness for your unsuitable jokes; and then, ye kindred spirits, when the recollection has roused you to fury, we conjoin you to inspire and direct us that we may prick the ungrateful monster in a sore place. Let us again look over the chaos of paper around us. Here is a heap evidently written on the first day of our despair; page after page we scan, and meet nothing but pathetic interrogative,—"Did we deserve it?" faint and tumultuous looking is the usually bold writing; cowed and dejected it appears, even in the first words of the touching appeal; but it dies away in a heart rending scrawl before it reaches the end. here again some sheets from our second day—the same sentence still, but varied in style; the writing appears something stronger, and the words have lost the cowardly hang-dog air of the previous day; but still they have a pained look as if they were badly treated; there is a mild reproach in every letter that would touch anything with feelings; but alas! alas! the public has none, But say! here’s pile of the third day’s productions. Hah! stronger writing this—decidedly stronger! here is a bold indictment—"Did we deserve it!" just such a one as a stern old schoolmaster would address to a trembling delinquent. here is another and another, stronger and more indignant still. We feel once more the manly glow of independence. We are ourselves again, Bah! We continue—we defy—we pity the public. It may be silent; Ay, or it may talk, if it will. Oh! that it only had talked, and we had heard it! If it had only given us a chance of catching one individual in the act, we would be satisfied; had we someone to annihilate, it would give us peace. But no matter, we can watch and wait. If the public cannot see the beauty of our style—the erudition of our article or the pithe of our jokes—Is that any argument against their intrinsic merit? Certainly not. We know their worth—we see their excellence—we can appreciate their depth and beauty; Therefore it is the public and not we should be in despair.—they are the losers; and altho' we say it, who perhaps should not say it—their loss is very great indeed. For the future we will not allow our dignified composure to be ruffled by their silence or their noise. They may criticise as they will—we cannot; but we swear by this chaotic mass of papers, and the memory of those three days, that if we hear them—we’ll scrunch them.
A Scotch Echo.
A few of the stars of a once celebrated Opera Company were engaged to sing at a concert in an Edinburgh theatre, the manager of which undertook to procure an efficient native chorus to sing the refrain of a well-known, beautiful song, the last line of each were of which was to be repeated by Echo—the chorus behind the scenes. The evening of the concert arrived; and on the assurance given by the manager, as to the efficiency of his choir, it was agreed to dispense with a rehearsal. The song commenced and was being sung to a spell bound audience. The last words "flies away" went thrilling thro' the house, and now came the part of Echo to repeat them softly, when, judge of the consternation of the professionals, and the ludicrous amazement of the audience, when Echo, very musically, and in perfect tune, replied (not repeated) "flees awa"!!!
