Abbotsford, _October_ 1, 1827.
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Such was the little narrative which I thought
proper to put forth in October 1827: nor
have I much to add to it now. About to
appear for the first time in my own name in
this department of letters, it occurred to me
that something in the shape of a periodical
publication might carry with it a certain air of
novelty, and I was willing to break, if I may
so express it, the abruptness of my personal
forthcoming, by investing an imaginary coadjutor
with at least as much distinctness of individual
existence as I had ever previously
thought it worth while to bestow on shadows
of the same convenient tribe. Of course, it
had never been in my contemplation to invite
the assistance of any real person in the sustaining
of my quasi-editorial character and
labours. It had long been my opinion, that
any thing like a literary _picnic_ is likely to
end in suggesting comparisons, justly termed
odious, and therefore to be avoided: and, indeed,
I had also had some occasion to know,
that promises of assistance, in efforts of that
order, are apt to be more magnificent than the
subsequent performance. I therefore planned
a Miscellany, to be dependent, after the old
fashion, on my own resources alone, and
although conscious enough that the moment
which assigned to the Author of Waverley
``a local habitation and a name,'' had seriously
endangered his spell, I felt inclined to adopt
the sentiment of my old hero Montrose, and
to say to myself, that in literature, as in war,
``He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who dares not put it to the touch,
To win or lose it all.
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