Sir,--
Most of your readers are no doubt acquainted with the anecdote told of a
certain not over-wise judge who, when in the act of delivering a charge in
some country court-house, was interrupted by the braying of an ass at the
door. "What noise is that?" asked the angry judge. "Only an extraordinary
_echo_ there is in court, my Lord," answered one of the counsel.
As there are a number of such "extraordinary echoes" abroad just now, you
will not, perhaps, be unwilling, Mr. Editor, to receive the following few
lines suggested by them.
Yours, etc. S.
1828
_huc coeamus,[1] ait; nullique libentius unquam responsura sono,
coeamus, retulit echo_.
OVID.
There are echoes, we know, of all sorts,
From the echo that "dies in the dale,"
To the "airy-tongued babbler" that sports
Up the tide of the torrent her "tale."
There are echoes that bore us, like Blues,
With the latest smart _mot_ they have heard;
There are echoes extremely like shrews
Letting nobody have the last word.
In the bogs of old Paddy-land, too.
Certain "talented" echoes[2] there dwell,
Who on being askt, "How do you do?"
Politely reply, "Pretty well,"
But why should I talk any more
Of such old-fashioned echoes as these,
When Britain has new ones in store,
That transcend them by many degrees?
For of all repercussions of sound
Concerning which bards make a pother,
There's none like that happy rebound
When one blockhead echoes an other;--
When Kenyon commences the bray,
And the Borough-Duke follows his track;
And loudly from Dublin's sweet bay
Rathdowne brays, with interest, back!--
And while, of _most_ echoes the sound
On our ear by reflection doth fall,
These Brunswickers[3] pass the bray round,
Without any reflection at all.
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