An Epilogue To Any Book "Hic Finis Chartaeque Viaeque." "Finis At Last--The End, The End, The End! No More Of Paragraphs To Prune Or Mend; No More Blue Pencil, With Its Ruthless Line, To Blot The Phrase 'Particularly Fine'; No More Of 'Slips,' And 'Galleys,' And 'revises,' Of Words 'Transmogrified,' And 'Wild Surmises'; No More Of N'S That Masquerade As U'S, No Nice Perplexities Of P'S And Q'S; No More Mishaps Of Ante And Of Post, That Most Mislead When They Should Help The Most; No More Of 'Friend' As 'Fiend,' And 'Warm' As 'Worm'; No More Negations Where We Would Affirm; No More Of Those Mysterious Freaks Of Fate That Make Us Bless When We Should Execrate; No More Of Those Last Blunders That Remain Where We No More Can Set Them Right Again; No More Apologies For Doubtful Data; No More Fresh Facts That Figure As Errata; No More, In Short, O Type, Of Wayward Lore From Thy Most Un-Pierian Fount--No More!" So Spoke Papyrius. Yet His Hand Meanwhile Went Vaguely Seeking For The Vacant File, Late Stored With Long Array Of Notes, But Now Bare-Wired And Barren As A Leafless Bough;-- And Even As He Spoke, His Mind Began Again To Scheme, To Purpose And To Plan. There Is No End To Labour 'Neath The Sun; There Is No End Of Labouring--But One; And Though We "Twitch (Or Not) Our Mantle Blue," "To-Morrow To Fresh Woods, And Pastures New."