[Mr. Courtenay is both surprised and grieved to hear that the unwarrantable curiosity of the public has cast a sacrilegious eye upon his private correspondence; and that his private letter to a brother monarch has been made the subject of animadversions totally unjustifiable. To prevent mistakes, he thinks it necessary to inform the public that his private correspondence is—not to be read.]
[Mr. Courtenay is both surprised and grieved to hear that the unwarrantable curiosity of the public has cast a sacrilegious eye upon his private correspondence; and that his private letter to a brother monarch has been made the subject of animadversions totally unjustifiable. To prevent mistakes, he thinks it necessary to inform the public that his private correspondence is—not to be read.]
My dear Benjamin,
Allowme to congratulate you upon the happy termination of your literary labours. Allow me to congratulate you, not hypocritically, or sarcastically, or triumphantly, but sincerely, and as a friend. We have been long opposed to each other, as writers; and although the sword of attack was sheathed by me almost as soon as it was drawn, on your side its point has been constantly protruded in a very threatening attitude. I mean not to complain of this; I will say nothing but what is civil and conciliatory; it would be unmanly in me to do otherwise, now that my adversary ishors du combat. Well then, you have said your say, and we will, if you please,
Leave this keen encounter of our wits,And fall to something of a slower method.
Leave this keen encounter of our wits,And fall to something of a slower method.
Leave this keen encounter of our wits,And fall to something of a slower method.
I have heard it remarked, my good Benjamin, that your last number is somewhat dear. I must confess, and I believe you must confess, that the matter contained therein is somewhat scanty; but nevertheless, as it is the last time I shall have an opportunity of patronizing you, I have not grudged you my shilling. You have taken leave very decently, or, in the words of the old housewives, “You have made a good end!” I must say I rather envy you. But there is one passage in your last scene which rather surprised me:
“If theEtonianhas behaved in a manner unworthy of its conductors towards theSalt-Bearer, there is no reason that I should retaliate a single word upon them![Pg 202]
My magnanimous rival! Let us go over the grounds of our squabble temperately.
I was originally, as you know, the conductor of a small miscellany in manuscript; I was requested to establish a periodical publication in its place. I declined it, on the ground that the talent of Eton was not adequate to such an undertaking. Soon after theSalt-Bearerwas advertised. I felt a curiosity to know something of its authors, because, had the work been conducted by any person upon whose discretion or authority I could rely, I should have been glad to have supported him to the best of my abilities. I made inquiries, without effect, among such of my schoolfellows as were most distinguished for genius or industry: it was suggested to me that theSalt-Bearerwas not actually set on foot by an Etonian, or at least not by one at that time belonging to the school. I made inquiries upon this point at your bookseller’s, and could get no answer. Was it not natural enough for me to believe that my suspicions were correct? I did believe so, and I made no secret of my belief. Was I obliged by any motive of justice to withhold my ideas respecting one who voluntarily thrust himself in a mask before the public? Who has any scruple in expressing his opinions relative to Junius?—or the Scotch novelist—orJohn Bull?
Well! the work appeared, and if I thought that it was not calculated to advance the credit of Eton, my judgment may have been erroneous; but it was the judgment of many persons, wiser far than either Peregrine Courtenay or Benjamin Bookworm. I expressed that judgment, and my reasons for it, very openly; and again I must ask, by what principle should I have been withheld from doing so? There were one or two cuts at myself in yourdébut, but they were so insignificant that I cannot even censure you for making use of them.
The work proceeded, and some friends, who took more interest in my little manuscript miscellany than it deserved, wished me to publish some extracts from it, in order to do away the stain which the reputation of Eton had suffered from the writings of theSalt-Bearer. It is needless for me to explain why the project of theSelectionwas given up, and that of theEtoniansubstituted in its place. Suffice it[Pg 203]to say that the hearty promises of support which I immediately received convinced me that those of my schoolfellows whose good opinion I wished to enjoy were not displeased at the steps I had taken.
When the first number of theEtonianwas in a state of forwardness, I received from a friend, whom no one can know without esteem, some very witty remarks upon theSalt-Bearer, intended for insertion in the King of Clubs; it had been my intention to refrain from any mention of your publication, but the remarks in question amused me so much that I felt very loth to withhold them from my readers. While I was thus wavering, your fourth number appeared, in which I was alluded to in a most extraordinary manner. I have not room to quote the whole of your attack. I was accused of “rancour,” “malice,” “pride,” “hatred”—and a variety of ill-natured offences.
Alas! the infirmities of human nature! I confess it, Mr. Bookworm, I flew into a most devouring passion. I lost my temper, Mr. Bookworm, and I shouted, “To arms!” And, truth to say, a youth like me, who had all his life preserved a good, respectable, quiet, silly sort of character; who had always had a great propensity to sitting indoors, and a great horror of duelling; who had borne no reputation more disgraceful than that of “Sap,” no nickname more opprobrious than that of “Toup”—I say, Mr. Bookworm, such a youth as this might fly off at a tangent, when he was fulminated at by so terrible an assailant. I repeat it—I lost my temper; I hurried to the printing-office; and I not only discharged the light javelin[8]which had been put into my hands by my friend, but took from my own armoury a less keen, but more ponderous weapon, which you may look for in the “Second Meeting of the Club.” I confess it; I was very abusive. But my abuse lighted upon literary, not moral character. I believe I accused you of dulness, stupidity, presumption; I am not sure if I did not call you a blockhead! But if I had said one word of “malice,” “rancour,” or “hatred,” I should have felt it my duly to apologize for it long ago!
Well! No. I., with all its severity, went forth to the[Pg 204]world; I grew cool, and I was sorry that I had been so violent. I said to myself, “If the author of this work receives my attack in silence, and honours me with not one word in reply, he will take a high ground, and obtain a superiority over me which I shall never be able to recover.” This made me very uneasy.
By-and-by your next number appeared! I was happier than you can conceive! Every sarcasm I had uttered was answered by one twice as furious; if Peregrine was angry, Benjamin was mad. I hugged the dear invectives with delight: as you waxed more wrathful I waxed more pleased; and at last, when, as the climax of my happiness, I found that you had been carping at the “Lines to——,” those lines which would have done honour to any living poet; those lines which, had they appeared in your columns, would have made theSalt-Bearerworthy of immortality—then I flung down the book in transport, and exclaimed, “Our enemies are the best friends we have!”
From that time to the present theEtonianhas never renewed the contest. The answers, however, which you have published to the strictures of a correspondent upon Wordsworth and Coleridge have shown that theSalt-Bearerwas somewhat reluctant to lay down the cudgels. There was also an occasional sly hit at Peregrine—especially one on the score of plagiarism, which the author did not think fit to support by any examples. You remember the lines “To a Young Lady on her Fourteenth Birthday,” inserted in your fourth number? You have accused me of plagiarism, but I did not retaliate. Neither was I severe upon your literary connection with a certain Mr. H., because I believe that connection was at least commenced when you were ignorant of the man’s notorious character.
And now, after the furious reply in your fifth number, and the occasional hits in its successors, you come forward and say, “There is no reason that I should retaliate a single word.” The palpable absurdity of this generosity must be so evident both to yourself and your readers that I need say no more upon the subject.
At all events our warfare is now over. I know not what your feelings may be towards me, but I assure you that in mine not a particle of hostility exists: if I may use the[Pg 205]expression, I have shaken hands with you, notre verâ, but by a poetical license. I feel no reluctance in allowing that the prose composition of your latter numbers has exhibited many signs of improvement; and that if the support you have received has been no greater than I believe it to have been, the editor of theSalt-Bearerhas gone through his work respectably.
You and I, Mr. Bookworm, have made much noise in our day, and have excited, among our fellow-Etonians, a greater sensation than two such insignificant beings ever excited before. There has been much talk about us, which has now, I believe, ceased; and there has been much hot blood between us, which has now, I trust, grown cool. For my part, I can look back to our early disputes as if they were the events of a former age; and detect our respective blunders and mistakes as calmly as if I were making the same examination into the conduct of our great-grandfathers.
When I throw a glance over the journey which our Etonian writers have travelled, I fancy that I see three different routes leading towards the same point. In the centre, Messrs. Griffin and Gildrig are riding a couple of clever nags, at a good round trot: on one side, Mr. Bookworm is bestriding what is commonly termed “a safe cob for an infirm gentleman,” which scrambles over his ground in such a manner that the spectators imagine he will come to a dead stop every instant; on the other side is Mr. Courtenay, whip and spur, whip and spur, the whole way—up hill and down hill, bush and briar, furze and fence, it is the same thing. Mr. C., they say, never uses a curb; and the animal occasionally waxes so formidably obstinate that he has infinite difficulty in keeping his seat.
The meaning of all this is, that it would have been well for you to have had a little less discretion, and for me to have had a little more; it would have been well for you to have drunk a little more punch, and for me to have drunk a little less. But what could I do? TheSalt-Bearerappeared, and was voted milk and water! It was necessary for me to prepare a more potent beverage. I will venture to assert, that if theMicrocosmitself had appeared[Pg 206]immediately after theSalt-Bearer, its success would have been precarious. Eton wanted something more pungent! TheEtoniansubstituted the punch-bowl for the tea-pot; and people ran away from Mr. Bookworm’s best Bohea to see Mr. Golightly squeezing the lemons.
I, Peregrine Courtenay, as is well known, am a very sober long-faced sort of editor, somewhat of a friend to a quiet pint of ale or a social glass of old port, but a most abominable enemy (I hope Sir Thomas will not be angry) to everything that bears the name of downright jollification. I was therefore not less surprised than my friends at finding myself a member—- nay, the president of a club—so formidably jovial. Many times during the first week of my reign did I turn round in an absent fit and exclaim, “How in the name of sobriety did I come here?” However, finding that there were no spirits in our punch-bowl saving the spirit of good-humour, and no danger of intoxication saving the intoxication of success, I gradually became reconciled to my situation, and can now get drunk, in print, with very tolerable success. With you, however, my dear sir, I am quite sober. I would not have ventured to obtrude myself upon your retirement in a condition of which you could have disapproved. I do assure you, upon the word of an editor, that I have drunk nothing this morning but some “Meanders of Sensibility,” by “Juvenis,” very weak and corky indeed; and some “Tricklings from Tweed,” by “Allen-a-Dale,” the first bottle of which has poisoned half the Club.
I have been remarking upon the birth of you and me. Let me now look back to your decease, and forward (alas!) to my own.
You have taken leave of your readers, I must say, pretty decently. I regret, however, that you have not thought fit to disclose to the world the names of your several correspondents, and the papers for which you are indebted to them. I regret it not, believe me, from any silly curiosity, but merely from a regard for your own character. I wish you had shown (I know you could have shown) that it was not your hand which put “rancour” and “malice” and “hatred” into your fourth number; that it was[Pg 207]not your ingenuity which coined that unlucky nullæ in your fifth. But, however—you have delivered your farewell address, and I am getting ready mine. On the 28th of July—I weep as I think of it—the Club will be dissolved, and theEtonianwill be no more.
In the concealment of your correspondents’ names, I think I shall not imitate you. It is at present my intention to adopt a contrary line of conduct. I am actuated in this by two very opposite motives—by a feeling of modesty and a feeling of pride. Modesty induces me to take care that I may not be commended, as I have been, for writings which are another’s; and that others may not be abused, as they have been, for writings which are mine. Pride, on the other hand, compels me to wish that my name may appear in print, coupled with names which are, and long will be, a part of our most triumphant recollections. When I reflect exultingly on the powerful minds upon which Peregrine Courtenay has leaned for support, I would fain hope that in after years he may continue to share in their praises—to partake of their immortality!
I shall be very sorry, Mr. Bookworm, to give up my editorship; and yet, upon second thoughts, I think I shall be very glad. To say the truth—the plain, honest, unvarnished, unsophisticated truth—editorship is a desperate bore.Eh bien!I did not encounter it voluntarily! As Shakespeare says, “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them!”
What a bore it is to have an idle contributor! “My dear Mr. Montgomery! your pen has been dry a long time, and we can ill do without you.” “I will go to work immediately, Mr. Courtenay; what shall it be?—another essay!” “Excellent!” “But then I’m so idle! or another Somnium?” “Admirable!” “But then I’m so idle! or another poem in theOttava Rima?” “Inimitable!” “But then I’m so in-com-pre-hen-si-bly idle!”
What a bore it is to be criticized by a blockhead! “Mr. Editor, the public opinion of your merits is higher than it should be.” “I beg your pardon, sir, but I think you are singular in your opinion.” “Mr. Editor, your levities are disgusting!” “I beg your pardon, sir, but I think you are mistaken!” “Mr. Editor, your impertinence[Pg 208]is insufferable!” “I beg your pardon, sir, but I think you are——”
What a bore it is to have a troublesome contributor. “Mr. Moonshine, it’s absolutely impossible for me to insert your ode.” “My ode! oh! dock it, and dress it, and alter it; I leave it quite to your judgment; you’ll oblige me—really now!” “I have made a few corrections here, Mr. Moonshine. I hope you approve.” “Approve! why zounds! Courtenay, I won’t swear, but you’ve cut out the sting, the point, the attraction of the whole. Look here, man, what have you done! Bless me! what have you done with Urien’s beard?” “Urien’s beard, sir! Oh! Urien’s beard was too long, a great deal too long, sir; flowed through three stanzas and a half. I have used the razor, shaved him pretty close, indeed!” “Ignorance! May you never have a beard of your own to shave, or a razor to shave with! And, murder! sir, what have you done with Ætna—my ‘ejaculated flames,’ my ‘vomit of sulphur,’ and my ‘artillery of Tellus?’” “Why, really, sir, without a joke, your Ætna was too loud—too loud, a great deal, sir; and you have put too much fire in it—oh! by far too much fire; more fire than Ætna ever vomited since she swallowed her first emetic!” “Fire, Mr. Courtenay! You have left my verses cold as the love of a blockhead, or Sir Thomas Nesbit before his morning’s draught! However, sir, I depend on my picture of Melpomene in my last strophe! Don’t you think it must strike, Mr. Editor?” “Strike, sir! I have struck it out!” “Struck it out! struck out Melpomene! What! the ‘pale blue eye,’ and the ‘gaze of wonderment,’ and the ‘long dishevelled hair,’ and the dagger, and the bowl!” “It went to my heart, sir, to strike out a bowl of any sort, but it was the most insipid bowl I ever tasted!” “Go to the devil, Mr. Courtenay!” “I am going there this minute, Mr. Moonshine; but, upon my honour, the ode can’t go with me!”
What a bore it is to be pointed at! What a bore it is to be laughed at! What a bore it is to correct manuscripts! What a bore it is to correct proofs! What a bore it is to scribble all day! What a bore it is to scribble all night! What a bore it is to—— But I will stop before I work myself into a fever![Pg 209]
Helas!My trammels are indeed heavy upon me; but you have got rid of yours. Whether you have retired to your Sabine farm, or to the sacred recesses of Granta; whether you are chopping logic, or chopping cabbages; whether you are invocating Mathesis or the Muse; whether you are dreaming of problems or of proof-sheets—of the Senate House or of second editions;—assure yourself, Mr. Bookworm, that the best wishes of Peregrine Courtenay are with you; and allow him to conclude, as he began, by congratulating you most sincerely.
Yours editorially,Peregrine Courtenay.
My dear Public,
Howrejoiced I feel in being able to rid myself of all weighty affairs for a few minutes, and sit down to a little private conversation with you. I am going, as usual, to be very silly, and very talkative, and I have so much to say that I hardly know where to begin.
Allow me to congratulate you upon the flourishing state of your affairs. There has been a Coronation, and you have had lighting of lamps, and drinking of ale, and breaking of heads, to you heart’s content; and there are two new novels coming from Sir Walter, and the King is going to Ireland, and Mr. Kean is come from America, and—here is No. X. of theEtonian! How happy you must be!
But you will have to pay an extra shilling for it. I hope you will not be angry. The fact is, that the approaching conclusion of our work has put into our contributors such a spirit of goodwill and exertion, that we found it quite impossible to comprise their benefactions within our usual limits, although I myself gave up to them many of my own pages, and burned several first-rate articles, especially one[Pg 210]“On the Digamma,” which would have had a surprising effect. For, to parody the poet,
Those write now, who never wrote before,And those who always wrote, now write the more.
Those write now, who never wrote before,And those who always wrote, now write the more.
Those write now, who never wrote before,And those who always wrote, now write the more.
And you will be satisfied, I think, with the augmentation of bulk and of price, when you consider what you would have lost if such a step had not been adopted. Perhaps you might not have had “The Bride of the Cave;” perhaps you might not have had “The Hall of my Fathers;” perhaps you might not have had—oh, yes! you certainly should have had “Maimoune,” though it had filled our whole number. But you would not have had my “Private Correspondence,” which I should have regretted extremely, although my modesty hints to me that you would not have cared a rush about the matter.
I used to promise, you will remember, that in all and in each of our numbers, twenty pages only should be devoted to our foreign correspondents. This resolution was, I believe, rigidly adhered to during the existence of theSalt-Bearer; but since his exit I have grown more idle and less scrupulous. In our present number you will find a much greater proportion of matter from the Universities. I tell you so fearlessly, because you are, in no small degree, a gainer by the fraud.
When I look back on my life, my dear public, I cannot help thinking what a life of impudence, what a life of hoaxing, what a life of singularity, I have led. If all the brass I have shown in my writings could be transferred to my monument, my memory would be immortal. I have told, in print, more lies than ever Munchausen did; and, in the sphere of my existence, have been guilty of as much deceit as the Fortunate Youth. As for the “Letter to the King,” however, I can’t, for the life of me, see a grain of impertinence in its composition; all I wonder at is that it did not procure a holiday for Eton, nor knighthood for Sir Thomas, nor a thousand a year for myself. Nevertheless, in spite of the mortifying silence with which my communication was received, I am happy to observe that our Etonians continue very loyal. On the night of the Coronation, when the mob said “Queen!” the boys said “King!” and many,[Pg 211]forthwith, risked their own crowns in behalf of his Majesty’s. But whether this proceeded from the love of loyalty, or the love of blows, must remain a question.
Howbeit, I am not naturally addicted to impudence, or hoaxing, or singularity. To convince you of this, I had at one time an intention of drawing up a memoir of my own life, containing an accurate detail of my thoughts and words and actions during the whole period which my memory comprehends. I found it very difficult to settle the title of my book. Should it be the stately “Life of Peregrine Courtenay, Esq., of the College of Eton, foolscap octavo”? or should it be the quaint “Notice of a Gentleman who has left Long Chamber?” or should it be the concise and attractive “Peregriniana”? It was a weighty affair; and I abandoned the design before I could settle the point. For I at last began to believe, my public, that this is all of which you ought to be informed—that I have lived long at Eton, and that have I edited theEtonian; that I am now bidding farewell to the first, and writing the epilogue of the other.
I leave Eton at a peculiarly auspicious time. Her cricket is very good this year (I wish we could have had a meeting with Harrow, butDiis aliter visum est), and her boats are unusually well manned, and there are in her ranks more youths of five-feet-ten than I have seen for a long time. She has also just effected the establishment of a public library, which has been so spiritedly supported by ouralumnithemselves, and by the friends of the school, that it is already rising into importance. And, thanks to the exertions of many who have been our friends, and a few of our correspondents, she maintains a high ground at the Universities. I am bound for Cambridge myself; but this is nothing at all to concern you, inasmuch as I do not mean to edit aCantab.
I resign my office too at a propitious moment, before time has quelled the enthusiasm with which it was entered upon—before warmth and impetuosity have yielded to weariness and disgust. My spirits are still unabated, my friends are still untired, and you, my public, are still kind! I might have waited to experience the sinking of the first, the anger of the second, and alas! the fickleness of the third. It is well that I stop in time.[Pg 212]
I have two drawers of my bureau filled, almost to bursting, with divers manuscripts; I am afraid to open either of them, lest somebody passionate, or somebody stupid, or somebody wearisome should stare me in the face. Of these compositions, my pages witness against me that I have promised insertion to many, and my conscience witnesses against me that I ought to have given insertion to many more. I don’t know what to do with them. I have some thoughts of sending them to my publisher’s in a lump, or bequeathing them as a legacy to my successors. I believe, however, my better plan may be to put them up to auction. Amongst the numerous authors, great and small, good and bad, who are at the present day wasting their pen, ink, paper, and time, in “doing honour to Eton,” I cannot but think that some of my literary treasures would fetch a pretty good price. There are all the articles, of which we have at various times given notice; some of which I know our readers are dying to see. But these form but a trifling part of the heap; I will subjoin a few specimens of my wares, but catalogues shall, of course, be printed previous to the sale.
Several “Reminiscences”—very useful for writers who wish to recollect what never occurred.
A few “Visions,” “Musings,” “Odes,” &c.—a great bargain to any young person who wants to be interesting, or unintelligible.
“Edmund Ironside, an Old English Tale,” in the style of “The Knight and the Knave,” very valuable—in consequence of theQuarterly’shint about “Ivanhoe.”
“Thoughts on the Coronation,” to be had for a trifle, as the article is a common one, and will not keep.
A great many “Classical Tales,” strongly recommended to those authors who are not learned, and wish to be thought so.
A large bundle of “Notices to Correspondents,” admirably adapted to the use of those who have none.
A portfolio of cursory hints, remarks, puns, introductory observations, windings-up, &c., capable of serving any purpose to which the purchaser likes to put them.
With such a repository, it will be evident that, if the Fates were willing that I should proceed in my under[Pg 213]taking, I should be in no want of support. This, however, is not the decree of the Destinies; I must go, and like him who
Oft fitted the halter, oft traversed the cart,And often took leave, but seemed loth to depart,
Oft fitted the halter, oft traversed the cart,And often took leave, but seemed loth to depart,
Oft fitted the halter, oft traversed the cart,And often took leave, but seemed loth to depart,
I continue to say to you, I am “going, going, going,” while you methinks are waiting with the uplifted hammer, impatient to pronounce me “gone!”
Everybody, who wishes to do anything worthy of record, is anxious to know what will be said of him after his decease. I am thinking what will be said of me, after my literary death.
I fancy to myself a knot of ladies, busy with their Loo and scandal. The tenth, the last number of theEtonian, is brought upon the carpet, and every one flies at Peregrine in the flirting of a fan. “So he’s gone, is he! Well, it’s time he should; he was getting sadly tiresome;”—“and so satirical;”—“and so learned;”—“as for all his Greek, I’m sure it must be very bad, for Lord St. Luke can’t construe me a word of it, and he was three years at Oxford;”—“and that abominable ‘Certain Age!’”—“and that odious ‘Windsor Ball’”—“Oh! positively we can never forgive the ‘Windsor Ball!’ I have not bought a copy since!” Pray be quiet, ladies; I never meant one of you—never, on the word of an editor! Howbeit, if the cap fits—— you know what I would say, though politeness shall leave it unsaid.
Then I picture to my mind a set of sober critics taking my reputation to pieces, as easily as you would crack a walnut. “Peregrine Courtenay?—ay! he was a silly, laughing fellow. He had some spirit; yes—and a tolerable rhyme now and then; but he had no sense, no solidity; he was all froth, all evaporation. He was like the wine we are drinking—he had no body! ‘Where did you get this wine, Mr. Matthew?’” And so I am dismissed.
Then I begin to think of what is much more interesting to me. What will be the talk of my schoolfellows? I fancy that I hear their censures, and their praises not sparingly bestowed. I fancy that I am already taken up with kindness, or laid down with a shrug! “TheEtonian! oh! the last number is out, is it? How does it sell?[Pg 214]Some of it was good, but I wish they had less of their balaam, as they call it! And then all the punch was low—horribly low; and all that slang about the Club!—and that foolish picture on the cover!—and then the puffing and the puns! For my part, I never saw a grain of wit in it—and the sense was in a still less proportion! In short, it was bad, oh! very bad! but, I don’t know how, it certainly did amuse one, too!”
Such are the sounds which haunt my imagination in my leave-taking. And ever and anon, I put my prayer to the Goddess with the brazen trumpet, who proclaims the titles and the exploits of great men: “Fame, Fame, when I am removed from the scene of my exertions, let me not be quite forgotten! let me be talked of with praise, or let me be talked of with censure; but let me, at all events, be talked of! Whether I be remembered with pardon or with condemnation, I care little—so that I be only remembered.”
I wish all manner of success and prosperity to the members of the Club, my affectionate coadjutors. Mr. Sterling, I have no doubt, will make an exemplary Vicar, and Mr. Lozell will do excellent well to say his “Amen.” Mr. Musgrave will be a capital whip, unless he breaks his neck in the training; and Sir Francis Wentworth will probably rise to great honours and emoluments—when the Whigs come in. Golightly will die with a jest in his mouth, and a glass in his hand. Bellamy will live with elegance in his manners, and love in his eye. Oakley will be a spiteful critic; and Swinburne an erudite commentator. As for Gerard, he will go forward on his own path to eminence, destined to shine in a nobler arena than that of a schoolboy’s periodical, and to enjoy more worthy applauses than those of Peregrine Courtenay.
And I, my dear public, shall walk up the hill of life as steadily as I can, and as prosperously as I may. For the present I have wiped my pen, and given a holiday to the devils; but if, at any future period, I should, in my bounty, give to your inspection a political pamphlet, or a treatise on law, a farce or a tragedy, a speech or a sermon, I trust that you will have a respect for the name of Peregrine Courtenay, and be as ready with your pounds, shillings, and pence, as I have always hitherto found you.[Pg 215]
One word more. I have been much solicited to have my own effigies stuck in the front of my work, done in an editorial attitude, with a writing-desk before me, and a pen behind my ear; and I am aware that this is the custom of many gentlemen whom I might be proud to imitate. Mr. Canning figures in front of theMicrocosm, and Dr. Peter Morris presents his goodly physiognomy in the vanguard of “Peter’s Letters.” And I know, what has often before been remarked, that when the public sit down to the perusal of a work, it imports them much to be convinced whether the writer thereof be plump or spare, fair or dark, of an open or a meditative countenance. Would any one feel an interest in the fate of Tom Thumb, who did not see a representation of the hero courting inspection, and claiming, as it were,in propriâ personâ, the applause to which his exploits entitle him? Would any one shudder with horror at the perilous adventures of Munchausen, who could not count the scars with which they are engraven on the Baron’s physiognomy? In opposition to these weighty considerations, I have two motives which forcibly impel me to adopt a contrary line of conduct. In the first place, I am, as is known to all my acquaintance, most outrageously modest. I have been so from my cradle. Before I ever entered upon a public capacity, a few copies of a caricature came down to our Eton bookseller, one of which contained a figure of a starved poet. One of my friends carelessly discovered a resemblance between the said starved poet and your humble servant, the consequence of which was that your humble servant bought up, at no inconsiderable expense, all the copies of the said print, and committed them to the flames. And now, if I were to see my own features prefixed to my own writings; if I were to imagine to myself your curiosity, my public, criticizing expression of countenance as well as expression of thought, and lines of face as well as lines of metre, I could not endure it—I should faint! Yes, I should positively faint.
I have another reason; another very momentous one. I once heard a lady criticizing the “Lines to——.” How beautiful were the criticisms; and how beautiful was the critic! I would have given the riches of Mexico for such a review, and such a reviewer. But to proceed with my story—thus[Pg 216]were the remarks wound up:—“Now do, Mr. Courtenay, tell me who is the author? What an interesting looking man he must be!”
From that moment I have been enwrapt in most delightful day-dreams. I have constantly said to myself, “Peregrine, perhaps at this moment bright eyes are looking on your effusion; and sweet voices are saying, ‘What a pretty young man Mr. Courtenay must be!’” And shall I publish my picture, and give them the lie? Oh, no! I will preserve to them the charity of their conjectures, and to myself the comfort of their opinion.
And now what rests for me but to express my gratitude to all who have assisted me by their advice or their support, and to beg, that if, in discharging my part to the best of my abilities, it has been my misfortune to give offence to any one of them, he will believe that I sinned not intentionally, and forgive me as well as he can.
I have also to return thanks to many gentlemen who have honoured me by marks of individual kindness. It would be painful for me to leave this spot without assuring them, that in all places, and under all circumstances, I shall have a lively recollection of the attention they have shown me, and the interest they have expressed in my success.
But most of all, I have to speak my feelings to him who, at my earnest solicitations, undertook to bear an equal portion of my fatigues and my responsibility—to him who has performed so diligently the labours which he entered upon so reluctantly—to him who has been the constant companion of my hopes and fears, my good and ill fortune—to him who, by the assiduity of his own attention, and the genius of the contributors whose good offices he secured, has ensured the success of theEtonian.
I began this letter in a light and jesting vein, but I find that I cannot keep it up. My departure from Eton and theEtonianis really too serious a business for a jest or a gibe. I have felt my spirits sinking by little and little, until I have become downright melancholy. I shall make haste, therefore, to come to a conclusion. I have done, and I subscribe myself (for the last time),
My dear Public,Your obliged and devoted servant,Peregrine Courtenay.[Pg 217]
We, Peregrine, by Our own choice, and the public favour, King of Clubs, and editor of theEtonian, in the ninth month of Our reign, being this day in possession of Our full and unimpaired faculties both of mind and body, do, by these presents, address Ourselves to all Our loving subjects, whether holding place and profit under Us, or not.
Inasmuch as We are sensible that We must shortly be removed from this state of trial, and translated to another life, leaving behind Us all the trappings of royalty, all the duties of government, all the concerns of this condition of being, it does seem good to Us, before We are withdrawn from the eyes of Our dearly beloved friends and subjects, to abdicate and divest Ourselves of all the ensigns of power and authority which We have hitherto borne; and We do hereby willingly abdicate and divest Ourselves of the same.
And be it, by all whom it may concern, remembered, that the cares and labours of Peregrine, sometime King of Clubs, are henceforth directed to another world; and that if any one shall assume the sceptre and the style of Peregrine, the first King of Clubs, such person is a liar and usurper.
Howbeit, If it shall please Our trusty subjects and counsellors to set upon Our Throne a rightful and legitimate successor, We will that the allegiance of Our people be transferred to him; and that he be accounted supreme over serious and comic, verse and prose; and that the treasury of Our Kingdom, with all that it shall at such time contain, song, and sonnet, and epigram, and epic, and descriptions, and nondescripts, shall be made over forthwith to his charge and keeping.
And for all acts, and writings, made and done during the period of Our reign, to wit, from the twentieth day of October, anno Domini eighteen hundred and twenty, to the twenty-eighth day of July, eighteen hundred and twenty-one, inclusive, we commit them to the memory of men, for[Pg 218]the entertainment of our friends and the instruction of posterity.
Further, If any one shall take upon himself the office of commenting upon any of the deeds and transactions which have taken place under Our administration, whether such comment shall go forth in plain drab or in gaudier saffron and blue, We recommend to such person charity and forbearance, and in their spirit let him say forth his say.
And be it hereby known, that for all that has been said or done against Us, during the above-mentioned period, whether by open hostility or secret dislike, We do this day publish a general and hearty Amnesty: And We will that all such offences be from henceforth committed to oblivion, and that no person shall presume to recall to Our recollection such sins and treasons.
And We also entreat that if, in the course of a long and arduous administration, it has been Our lot to inflict wounds in self-defence, or to wound, unknowingly, those who were unconnected with Us, the forgiveness which We extend to others will be extended by others to Us.
And We do, from this day, release from all bond, duty, and obligation those who have assisted Us by their counsel and support; leaving it to all such persons to transfer their services to any other master, as seemeth to them best.
We decree that Our punchbowl be henceforth consecrated to Our lonely hours and our pleasant recollections; that no one do henceforth apply his lips to its margin; and that all future potentates in this state of Eton do submit to assemble their privy council around a coffee-pot or an urn.
And We most earnestly recommend to those dear friends, whom We must perforce leave behind Us, that in all places and conditions they continue to perform their duties in a worshipful manner, always endeavouring to be a credit to the Prince whom they have so long honoured by their service.
And now, as Our predecessor, Charles of Germany, in the meridian of his glory, laid down the reins of empire, exchanging the court for the cloister, and the crown for the cowl—even so do We, Peregrine of Clubs, lay down the pen and the paper, exchanging celebrity for obscurity, punch[Pg 219]for algebra, the printing-office for Trinity College. And We entreat all those who have Our welfare at heart to remember Us sometimes in their orisons. And so We depart.
Peregrine.
Given in our Club-room, this twenty-eighthday of July,A.D.1821.
The Union Club, of rhetorical fame,Was held at the Red Lion Inn,[9]And there never was Lion so perfectly tame,Or who made such a musical din.’Tis pleasant to snore, at a quarter before,When the Chairman does nothing in state,But ’tis heaven, ’tis heaven, to waken at seven,And pray for a noisy debate!
The Union Club, of rhetorical fame,Was held at the Red Lion Inn,[9]And there never was Lion so perfectly tame,Or who made such a musical din.’Tis pleasant to snore, at a quarter before,When the Chairman does nothing in state,But ’tis heaven, ’tis heaven, to waken at seven,And pray for a noisy debate!
The Union Club, of rhetorical fame,Was held at the Red Lion Inn,[9]And there never was Lion so perfectly tame,Or who made such a musical din.’Tis pleasant to snore, at a quarter before,When the Chairman does nothing in state,But ’tis heaven, ’tis heaven, to waken at seven,And pray for a noisy debate!
“What’sthe question?”—“Reform.” “What! the old story!”—“Yes, the old story; the common good against the Commons’ House; speechifyingversusstarvation!” “Oh, but you’re a red-hot Radical?”—“Yes, that’s my key; every man is red-hot who is deep read!” “Reform in Parliament?”—“Yes, the only thing men are agreed upon; for the Outs can’t carry it, and the Ins can’t bear it.” “Infamous! split me!”—“Order, order! Gentlemen will be so good as to take their seats. The question for this evening’s debate is: ‘Would Reform in Parliament have been conducive to the welfare of the country at any period previous to the year 1800?’ To be opened by Mr. Pattison of St. John’s.”
And the honourable opener immediately mounts his hobby, and proceeds at a rapid rate over a level road, panting and blowing like a courier. Off he goes! Mounts[Pg 220]at Magna Charta, breakfasts with the Long Parliament, dines with William and Anne, and finds himself comfortably at home in the state of the nation.
[10]“We have heard of a time, Mr. President, when England was the envy and the terror of the whole world; we have heard of a time when commerce flourished, and the quartern loaf was sold for a penny-halfpenny; but these things are now altered; bread has risen, as stocks have fallen; we lose time in debates, and we lose men in battle; and are not all these things owing to Mr. Pitt? Unfortunate man! he had it in his power to make his country happy, and he has left it miserable; all of it encumbered with penury and taxation, and half of it fettered by a damnable religious restriction. Yes, Mr. President, from the fear of rebellion and revolution, the Protestants are wretched and spied upon; and from the dread of the Holy Alliance, the Pope, the Pretender, the Arch-Fiend Napoleon, and the Devil, the Catholics are oppressed and persecuted.”
Here the honourable member is jerked from his hobby by an orthodox hiss from the corner, and he sits down among the comments of the crowd. “What do you think of the opener?”—“Why, I think he’s all
Public debts,Epithets,Foul and filthy, good and great,Glorious wars,British tars,Beat and bruiseParlez-vous,Frenzy, frown,Commons, Crown,Ass and pannier,Rule Britannia!—How I love a loud debate!”Then the Church shakes her rattle, and sends forth to battleThe terror of Papist and sinner,Who loves to be seen as the modern Mæcenas,And asks all the poets to dinner.
Public debts,Epithets,Foul and filthy, good and great,Glorious wars,British tars,Beat and bruiseParlez-vous,Frenzy, frown,Commons, Crown,Ass and pannier,Rule Britannia!—How I love a loud debate!”Then the Church shakes her rattle, and sends forth to battleThe terror of Papist and sinner,Who loves to be seen as the modern Mæcenas,And asks all the poets to dinner.
Public debts,Epithets,Foul and filthy, good and great,Glorious wars,British tars,Beat and bruiseParlez-vous,Frenzy, frown,Commons, Crown,Ass and pannier,Rule Britannia!—How I love a loud debate!”
Then the Church shakes her rattle, and sends forth to battleThe terror of Papist and sinner,Who loves to be seen as the modern Mæcenas,And asks all the poets to dinner.
[11]“Mr. President,—I rise to express my dissent from the honourable opener with regard to the Catholics. With[Pg 221]respect to the question of debate, my sentiments are entirely those of the late Charles James Fox. He was a man adorned by every manly virtue that can adorn and dignify a man—Propria quæ maribus tribuuntur, mascula dicas. But with regard to the Catholics, when I remember the times of the Bloody Queen Mary, when I call to mind the horrible massacres she perpetrated—the helpless old women that were depopulated—I cannot sufficiently restrain my feelings to hear the Catholics commended without expressing my dissent.”
Then the gentleman Attic, with tales AsiaticAnd body that bends with a grace,The maker of jeers that led us for years,The prime Staple-Ton of the place.
Then the gentleman Attic, with tales AsiaticAnd body that bends with a grace,The maker of jeers that led us for years,The prime Staple-Ton of the place.
Then the gentleman Attic, with tales AsiaticAnd body that bends with a grace,The maker of jeers that led us for years,The prime Staple-Ton of the place.
[12]“Mr. President,—From the look of virtuous indignation with which the honourable gentleman arose from his seat, I expected to have heard something worthy of a Blair or a Benson, a Confucius or a Nebuchadnezzar; but lo! when my hopes were wrought up to the highest pitch, the honourable gentleman has suddenly reseated himself, and I do not even understand the purport of his sudden ebullition. Once upon a time a sudden darkness overspread the town of Ching-Chong-Foo; the sun and the moon and the stars were hidden, all business was suspended, all hearts were astounded. The mathematician Sing-Su said it was an eclipse; the Bishop Chit-Quong said it was the Devil; and the Chancellor Hum-lum said that he doubted: when suddenly there flew down from the skies, extending his wings over all the city, a stupendous cock; he soared majestically down—sullenly—slowly; and when they expected from him the voice of Azrael the Destroyer, or the Mandate of Mahomet the Prophet, he said—nothing, Mr. President, but Cock-a-doodle-doo!”
“Why the devil do you laugh?”—“Laugh! why because it’s all