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Sent never, nor the realm of Wallace old,
Dry-nurse of critics. Place me on the earth's
Far limit, where, o'er sluggish Muscovy,
The winds blow frore, and mists of ignorance dark
O’erhang the north side of the world : beneath
Some Dey's stern nod, in torrid Barbary
Place me, where books are none : yet, fearless still,
I'll sing of Emily, and, in fit strain,
Record her tuneful voice and thrilling smiles.

W.

To-morrow our First Volume * is to be launched.-I remember, when I was last at Plymouth, I was present at the launch of a ship of war. It was a very fine sight: but our “ Etonian" will be much finer, rigged out in gaudy Morocco, or odorous Russia, or unassuming calf. Success to our weak vessel !

She has an easy voyage to run: the breeze of hope sends her briskly forward, and smiling faces shine upon her, as brightly as the sun on a July morning.

Off she goes !-- Three cheers for “ The Etonian!"

* In the present edition, a new arrangement of the Volumes has been adopted.

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I love variety; no book
From me obtains a second look,
In which I vainly seek to find
This salt, this pepper of the mind :
And aught that savours of precision,
Of sameness, or of repetition,
With more than Editorial hate
I scorn, detest, abominate.
Ergo, whereas the Reader knows
That Number I. began in prose;
I think I'll change my note this time
And-Number VI. begins in rhyme.
My friends, I vote him prosy quite,
Who speaks one word of prose to-night.

(Members testify astonishment. O'Connor opens his mouth wide-Musgrave shuts his close - Lozell nods with assentBurton with drowsiness-Oakley takes out his tablets, and appears to be working hard.)

Montgomery. “ I love to hear a clever rhymer rhyming

In learned measure, eloquent and strong!" GOLIGHTLY. “ I love to hear a faulty timer timing

His horrid cadence, dissonant and wrong!" MONTGOMERY. “Good poetry's the noblest thing on earth!" GOLIGHTLY. “ Bad is a strong provocative to mirth ;

And, when a fool is sentimentalizing,”-
STERLING. “Order! the worthy President is rising."
COURTENAY. My friends! I need not dwell upon

The vast success of Volume I. ;
Suffice it, that its tout ensemble
Has made our worst revilers tremble;
That Censure owns at last she's wrong,
And Scandal almost holds her tongue.
Howbeit, ʼmidst our wreath of bays,
There sprout some

BRAMBLES OF DISPRAISE;

Which, when the precious leaves we snatch,
Inflict a most delightful scratch;
Too soft to make us cry about it
And—we might go to sleep without it.
Here is a • Senex,' cold and grave,
Quité puzzled by the • Knight and Knave ;'
And thinking that it's all a flam'
About our Publisher and Pam.
Then here's a little note from • Jessy,'
Who can't abide that sober Essay!'
A Fourth-form' thinks 't is best by far
To stick to the vernacular;
Our Muse goes limping on a patten,
Whene'er she's running after Latin.
• Amicus' is in monstrous pique
Because he isn'tó up to Greek.””

O'CONNOR.

CHORUS.
O'CONNOR.
SWINBURNE.
OAKLEY.
NESHIT.
CHORUS.
COURTENAY.

“As Gerard said, the other day,

Och! sure it's very clear, oh!
Non intelligibilia

Sed intellectum fero."
“ Order! order! a bull! a bull !"
“I'd knock

you
down, but

my

mouth is full.” • Μηνιν αειδε

“ I differ."

6. Some beer.”
“Silence! hark to the Chairman!” –(Hear!)*
My head feels a sort of a dizziness,

I've written and spoke till it aches ;
So before we proceed to our business,

We'll finish this dish of

BEEF-STEAKS.

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“I love a steak !- proudly it sweeps along;

Whether the kitchen broileth it or frieth, And punsters tell that oftentimes it crieth, Chaucer, oh! Chaucer!'-He was Lord of

song
In Britain ! Wrapp'd in doublet and in rhyme,

He walk'd the dear Metropolis, and tasted
Of meats multigenous, baked, broil'd, and

basted ;
The pride of taverns in that ancient time.
I wish that I could rhyme like him of old,

I wish that I could eat the food he ate ;

But stop, Thalia, for you want a whet; The reader's tired--the steaks are getting

cold !
Stop! for my own, and for the reader's,

sake;
But oh! I'm very partial to a steak !”
Perhaps you

think

you

've made a Sonnet : I'm sorry

BELLAMY.

for you !-out upon it!

* “ Silence! Hark to the signal !-fire."-Byron.

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