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but to say Good Night to the public with becoming grace, is, in my opinion, an infinitely more difficult task. What can be easier than to plunge at once into the middle, without caring for a formal beginning, with an impetuous “Ruin seize thee, ruthless king;” or with a more modest, though not less abrupt, .

“ 'Twas night.” “ It is in the power of every man,” says Dr. Johnson, “to rush abruptly upon his subject, that has read the ballad of Johnny Armstrong,

Is there ever a man in all Scotland ?"

And with the same view, I shall quote an honest friend of mine, who began one of his tales with the explanatory sentence, “Now his parents was very good sort of folk.” But to end is a very different, and far more difficult task, and it is in this that Bartholomew will chiefly fail, though with the consolation that in the same point many great men have failed before him.

It has always appeared to me, I know not how justly, that in this point the Iliad is deficient, for I have never been able to think that the single line)

"Ως' όιγ' αμφίεπον τάφον Έκτορος Ιπποδάμοιο, is an ending of sufficient grandeur to suit the sublimity of what has gone before. Pope seems to have thought the same : for he has inserted in his translation, or rather imitation, a whole line, of which there is not an idea in the original :

“Such honours Ilion to her hero paid,
And peaceful slept the mighty Hector's shade."

In another instance, who has not been disappointed with the catastrophe in Hamlet, whether read, or acted on the stage; when, after his imagination has been worked up to the highest pitch by the deep interest of the play, he sees the bungling development of the plot, the awkward artifice of the exchange of foils, and lastly, the spectacle of no less than four persons lying dead upon the stage. Here, I think, every one must agree with Johnson, , “that in many of Shakspeare's plays, the latter part is evidently neglected. When he found himself near the end of his work, and in view of his reward, he shortened the labour to snatch the profit. He, therefore, remits his efforts where he should most vigorously exert them, and his catastrophe is improbably produced, or imperfectly represented.”

Now, I do not make these observations, taking to myself any pretensions to criticism, but merely to show, that where Shakspeare has failed, the failure of Bartholomew Bouverie will be nothing very extraordinary. For, possibly, while he hastens to an end of his labours, he may forget, or be unable, to make his bow to the public with all the grace

and decorum they may expect; but to run off without saying a word, like a tavern guest bilking his landlord, is what the Editor of “ The Eton Miscellany” cannot endure.

With this imperfect apology for all his errors, and for all his frivolity, for whatever he has said wrong, and whatever he has said foolishly, '

most potent Public, Bartholomew Bouverie entreats you to be content. By the time of publication of the next Number, he hopes to receive the assistance of those who have hitherto stood aloof, from fear of embarking in a vessel of whose sea-worthiness they had no certain testimonial. But having now established himself admiral of the fleet, Bartholomew Bouverie begs all those who may join his squadron to steer clear of those dangerous rocks, Politics and Personality, and particularly not to venture among the conflicting waves in the gulf of Theology. And it is hereby signified to those who are willing to embark in the enterprise, who, by-theby, must have learnt tactics at Eton College, that the rendezvous appointed is Ingalton Point, Eton

and it is particularly recommended to those who have any doubts as to the success of the expedition, to provide themselves plentifully with the anchors of Hope.

I think it but fair to inform the public, though it is probable enough they have discovered it already without my assistance, that I am no very great poet; were it not for my outlandish friends, Malek

Road;

the Moor, and Glenartney, I fear I should but little attract the votaries of the Muses. However, I have followed the fashion, and have managed, by dint of some labour, to compose the following

EPILOGUE.

Most courteous Public ! all who sell,
And all who purchase, fare ye well!
The task is o'er, the race is run,
I bid you welcome Number One!
Go forth, my book, and leave thy sire,
And brave the storms of Fortune's ire

;
Go, meet the critic's piercing eye,
Go, hear his keen and eager cry ;
With wisdom please the old and sage,
With humour charm a greener age ;
But chief let this thy dwelling-place
Behold thy form, admire thy grace.
Here, when the printer's subtle art
Hath multiplied thine every part,
Hath made from one, with skilful ease,
Above five hundred Bouveries;
Here, when the swelling trump of Fame
Hath sounded forth thy honour'd nane,
Here be thy wit, thy glory sung,
The theme of every boyish tongue ;
Here let the urchin leave his task,
Beneath the summer's sun to bask,
And Homer leave, and Virgil, too,
To glut his greedy eyes on you.
And if the birchen rod repress
His rash and daring eagerness,
He'll heal his wounds and feast his soul
On Sloman's dark Lethean bowl.

Humble my wish, confined its scope,
Yet fear is mingled with my hope :

I know not what of ire or hate
Is written in the book of Fate;
I know not what is doom'd to me,
In hidden Destiny's decree;
What is reserved for Bouv’rie's name,
Of joy or grief, of praise or blame.
Will Fame assign to me a place,
Beside the fathers of my race,
And crown me with triumphant bay,
Like Griffin, Grildrig, Courtenay ?
Or doom my melancholy ghost
To join the dark Tartarean host,
With many a luckless author more
To wander on the Stygian shore,
While housemaids tear my sacred strains
To light their fires, and scrub their stains ?

Meanwhile, my friends, I promise new
And wondrous things in Number Two:
I promise an Express shall come
With news from Pandemonium:
I promise many a sober page,
To soothe the

angry
critic's

rage ;
Good things of all kinds there ye'll see,
“Quæ longum est præscribere."

Come now, Conclusion! in a trice,
With sober, brief, and sound advice;
I bid ye ALL, both young and old,
Go where Bartholomew is sold :
To venders' book-shops hasten--fly,
And order Mr. Bouverie..

*** Communications (post paid) will be received by

Mr. Ingalton, Eton, from Etonians only.

Number II. will appear on the 18th of June.

T. C. Hansard, Paternoster-row Press, London.

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