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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 name,
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.

BLIOTH

Bob

N

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.

THE

ETON MISCELLANY,

No. II.

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INTRODUCTION.

ON returning to my literary labours, I cannot but see that the first duty incumbent on me is that of returning my thanks for past favours; the second, that of endeavouring to merit them for the time to come. I need not borrow from Atkinson's Bears' Grease, or Warren's Blacking, epithets to describe my feelings. When I recollect the indulgence which has pardoned my errors, and the munificence which has patronized my exertions-when I recollect that in Eton alone, within the space of three days, a hundred and eighty copies of my work were actually subscribed for, when nothing but the mere advertisement of my publication had appeared-when I recollect all this, I become painfully sensible how much gratitude my friends deserve, and how little I can give.

And not the least among the gratifications which I have experienced has been that of hearing, and of taking part in, the conjectures as to the individual who personates Bartholomew Bouverie. Often have I laughed in my sleeve, while listening to the timid conjectures of some, the bold assertions of others, and the "authentic accounts" of a third, and still more audacious, class of

D

my fellow-citizens: all, gentle reader, being equally destitute of foundation. Had all been true, I believe more than a moiety of the individuals in the school would have had a claim, perhaps an equal one, to the authorship of The Eton Miscellany.

I shall now proceed to bring before the public some

NEW MEMBERS OF THE CABINET.

Though my superscription is alarmingly political, I can assure my readers that the contagion has extended no further. I love, like some other people, to give to my proceedings an air of importance: and those whom I shall now mention are simply companions whom I have admitted into my Cabinet to aid me in conducting those weighty affairs in which I have been, am, and hope to continue, engaged.

I feel that I cannot make any better apology for this, my second, intrusion on the notice of the public, than by a simple introduction and a short description of one who was mainly instrumental in promoting my first. And I am the more induced to this proceeding, from a consciousness that he will be found by no means an unpleasant acquaintance; and that if his character should be found wanting in strength, vigour, or originality, it will be owing to inability on my part, and not to deficiency on his.

The friend and coadjutor, then, to whom I shall now endeavour to do justice, is a descendant of the old genuine and much-vituperated John Bull family. Nor does he at all weaken the force of the ancient maxim,

ayatür ayatoì: he still retains the characteristics, and the merits of the true and original stock.

I do not think that I should be guilty of any disrespect to Mr. Martin Sterling, were I to place my coadjutor in the same rank with him, in point of steady principle and sound morality and I am sure that Mr. Sterling's sense of right would make him voluntarily yield the palm to him in point of humour and invention. But I should not act a candid part if I omitted to state, that with the sincerity, and the physical force, he retains some of the prejudices of his ancestors, the Bulls: he cannot conceive how the air of London can foster those plants which an University is formed to nourish. Smoke and dust, he says, will defile the groves of Parnassus; and no genuine votary of the Muses will deign to quaff his Heliconian beverage through the very dirty medium of a St. Giles's pump.

Neither is he at all behind his ancestors in his manly and uncompromising hatred of all that appertains to the Pope; the phantasms of former days are still present to his imagination: nor would he disdain to exercise his Stentorian lungs in sounding the war-cry of the cause. I do not suspect him of timidity, in one sense at least ; but I believe he would rather keep company with a hyena than with a Radical.

I mentioned his lungs to him, indeed, nature has given the

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and I think I am not going too far, in saying, that I feel

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