We never witnessed such cruel slaughter. It was a regular battle of great men and noble characters. Everybody, no matter how high or low in the world, was fair game for this Universal Smasher. His mouth was a Perkins' steam-gun, firing a hundred small shot every minute. Papers and periodicals were brought down by the same process of sharp-shooting. The _Times_ ought decidedly to be smashed. It only wanted three good men to do it;—he'd put his name down for one. The _Spectator_ was a block of Wenham ice—not even fit for sherry-cobblers. The _Athenæum_ was an immense _but_, that butted at everybody. The _Examiner_ bowstringed the Queen's English, and strangled common-sense. And as for _Punch_, it was a damp squib—that was fizzing, or attempting to fizz, every week; and the sooner it was smashed the better! We felt uneasy in the presence of such a tremendous man. We longed to possess the faculty of the telescope, and slide into our selves one-sixth of our natural length. We felt confident, if we remained much longer exposed to the blows of one who hit so hard, that we should inevitably be smashed into such very small bits that if we were ever put together again we should always be pointed at afterwards as the most curious specimen of mosaic. A runaway engine in a crockery shop could not create a greater feeling of alarm amongst the cups and saucers than that infernal little smashing machine imparted to our fragile nature. We need not say, therefore, how relieved we felt when a venerable bald head in the room rose, and very quietly said, "Gentlemen, we have heard and seen a deal of smashing to-night. Everybody, great and small, has been smashed in his turn. Not a person, living or dead, has the slightest reason to complain; they have all been smashed fairly and equally together. Now, I only want to know, after our friend has smashed everybody—which he must do if he goes on at the present rapid rate— whatever will he do ultimately with himself?" "Oh! leave him alone," we could not help exclaiming; "he'll smash himself!" There was a general laugh, and the Universal Smasher left the room, giving us, as he passed us, such a look that we felt we were doomed. That look clearly said—it pierced us like an arrow with a message tied to it—"To be smashed in our next." We hope all benevolent souls will pray for us! "Who is he?" we asked, as soon as we breathed again. "Don't you know?" said our neighbour, with the greatest astonishment. "He's Brown!" "Who's Brown?" we inquired, in a faltering voice, and a cold shiver. "It's strange you never heard of Brown! He's the editor of the _Penny Whistle_." "Oh, indeed!"