er mountains blue with cloudy pines, blows jubilant
encouragement, and cries,--SPEAK! From the soul's trembling abysses the
still, small voice not vaguely murmurs,--SPEAK! But, alas! the
Constitution and the Honourable Mr. Bagowind, M.C., say,--BE DUMB!

It occurs to me to suggest, as a topic of inquiry in this connexion,
whether, on that momentous occasion when the goats and the sheep shall
be parted, the Constitution and the Honourable Mr. Bagowind, M.C., will
be expected to take their places on the left as our hircine vicars.

_Quia sum miser tunc dicturus?
Quem patronum rogaturus?_

There is a point where toleration sinks into sheer baseness and
poltroonery. The toleration of the worst leads us to look on what is
barely better as good enough, and to worship what is only moderately
good. Woe to that man, or that nation, to whom mediocrity has become an
ideal!

Has our experiment of self-government succeeded, if it barely manage to
_rub and go_? Here, now, is a piece of barbarism which Christ and the
nineteenth century say shall cease, and which Messrs. Smith, Brown, and
others say shall _not_ cease. I would by no means deny the eminent
respectability of these gentlemen, but I confess, that, in such a
wrestling-match, I cannot help having my fears for them.

_Discite justitiam, moniti, et non temnere divos._

H. W.]

No. VI.

THE PIOUS EDITOR'S CREED.

[At the special instance of Mr. Biglow, I preface the following satire
with an extract from a sermon preached during the past summer, from
Ezekiel xxxiv. 2:--"Son of man, prophesy against the shepherds of
Israel." Since the Sabbath on which this discourse was delivered, the
editor of the "Jaalam Independent Blunderbuss" has unaccountably
absented himself from our house of worship.

"I know of no so responsible position as that of the public journalist.
The editor of our day bears the same relation to his time that the clerk
bore to the age before the invention of printing. Indeed, the position
which he holds is that which the clergyman should hold even now. But the
clergyman chooses to walk off to the extreme edge of the world, and to
throw such seed as he has clear over into that darkness which he calls
the Next Life. As if _next_ did not mean _nearest_, and as if any life
were nearer than that immediately present one which boils and eddies all
around him at the caucus, the rati