than half won. Why not, then call it to our aid? and we shall find our imaginations and our souls strengthened and our gray goose quills, as if by magic, imbued with a power both to amuse and to instruct; and once invoked, let us never again lose such an all, so that, growing daily stronger in its strength, we may be enabled to fight life's battles bravely out.
Whether, then, it be for our mutual instruction and amusement on board the good ship "Hougoumont," or the more varied scenes of life in which, through capricious fate or fickle fortune, our lot may be hereafter cast; whether we toil together beneath the burning sun of Australia, or simply scatter, far through the wide, wide world, or back again at the old homes, still be our motto ever—"Self-Reliance—Away with melancholy,—and Never despair"!
"Did we deserve it"?
After lengthened and profound consideration, we have decided to write this article. We would not be worthy of the onerous position we lived were we to remain silent under the circumstances. It is a painful thing to be compelled to publicly correct the faults of even a single individual; and those who perform such a meritorious act are seldom regarded with very kindly feelings by the corrected one;—but how much more painful must it be to find fault—serious unpardonable fault—with everyone—with the public—with the world—but more particularly with our readers. We hope our friendly admonition will have the desired affect and that the change in their conduct may soon be evident. We have been induced—nay, not induce—but forced, compelled, driven,—to write this article by the unaccountable conduct of our readers—not by what they said—no, no, we could pardon that—but by what they did not say. It was a bitter thing, an unkind thing, and , coming unexpectedly as it did, it cut deeply. yes; we acknowledge it. When the truth dawned on the cultivated winds of our enlightened and well meaning staff, it fairly stunned them. Never can we forget the hopeless look of mingled misery and disgust that was painted on the mind-illuminated faces of our colleagues when the thrilling act became patent—that our literary labors were received by the public with cold and damning indifference! For three days did we sit in our office,—unhappy, unnerved, unshaven—each hand desperately clutching our hair, and staring on each other with the wildest glare of editorial frenzy. Innumerable quills we have chewed and thrown aside during those three days—and what is the results? Our office,—desk, floor, bed (for we sleep amidst out furniture) and in a word the whole "bunk,"—is littered with chaotic reams of paper, and on every sheet we pick up, glance at, and cast away again, we can see nothing but this one solitary sentence, written again and again,—"Did we deserve it"? "Oh! shades of departed editors come to our aid! Oh ye spirits of maligned members of the fourth estate, leave not to perish; but enter
