indulgent public. And now for the Critics. What shall I say to them: or, rather, what will they say to me? "Aye, there's the rub." Humbly, then, and with most deferential respect. O, most learned Thebans, I crave your mercy. Take not, I beseech ye, "a kitchen poker to kill a mouse." Treat me, I conjure ye, with the contempt I merit. Don't deign to notice me at all—it will serve me right; and I, oh glorious escape, shall creep out easy. But if, in terrorum, it is essential that I should be immolated on the shrine of your well-engendered ire, then let me ask, as a special favour, that you "lay on heavy and dispatch me quick,"
"You bear a mighty scourge, I pray you spare it.
But should ye not, why I must grin and bear it."
Then bethink ye, dread beings, how far nobler it would be, passing by all such pigmies as myself, if you were to set lance in rest against some worthier mark; or, in common parlance, just to hit one of your own size. Do this, and O, gentle Sirs, deign to leave alone one who has the honour to subscribe himself,
Your own and the Public's
Very respectful, obedient, and humble servant,
Edward Farmer.
Derby. August, 1863.
