When our tale is of a creature so pure and so unhappy as Julia, we
cannot waste our time in describing the characters of the wretches by
whom her death was effected. It is enough for our purpose to say that
Marcius made use of the influence he possessed in such a manner that the
father of Julia trembled for his fortune and his life; he began to
retract the engagements by which he was bound to his nephew, and to
devise plans for the marriage of his daughter with the court favourite.
Cœlius was an orphan. He had been educated under the same roof with
Julia; and his guardians had hitherto been amply repaid for the expense
of his maintenance by the reflection that they were instructing the
husband of their child. Now, however, they began to be vexed by having
him always before their eyes; they saw that the accomplishment of their
scheme was impossible while he remained with their daughter, and they
prepared to remove him. The union of those affectionate hearts was
procrastinated for a long time upon various pretences; at last the young
man was sent, in order to complete his education, upon a tour, with
permission to return in a year and claim his betrothed bride.
The year passed sadly away. He was forbidden to keep up any
correspondence with his cousin until its expiration. At last the happy
June arrived which allowed him to return--which permitted him to meet
the gaze of those bright eyes, in whose sight only he seemed to live. He
flew to Rome on the wings of expectancy!
As he approached the dwelling-place of his hopes, his thoughts, his
happiness, circumstances occurred which filled him with the gloomiest
forebodings. Several of his young acquaintance, when they met him, shook
their heads, and endeavoured to avoid his address. As he passed by the
mansion of his once-contemned rival, he observed a slave clad in unusual
finery; and “What!” he said, “is Marcius to feast the Emperor to-day?”
“Marcius,” said the slave, “will feast a fairer guest--he will bring
home his bride to-night!” Cœlius started as if a viper had crossed his
path; but he recovered himself immediately. “It was but a suspicion!” he
said, “and I will have done with it!” He said no more, but ran on with
desperate impetuosity to the well-known door. He heeded not the
malicious rumours, and the compassionate whispers, which were circulated
around him: with a fluttering heart and faltering step he hurried to the
chamber which had been the scene of their last parting. As he put his
hand upon the door, a thousand visions flocked upon his brain. “Then she
was good, and affectionate, and beautiful, and true; and she looked upon
me so tenderly, and spoke to me so kindly;--and now, will her look be as
tender, and her voice as kind? I will be in suspense no longer!” He
thrust open the door and stood in her presence.
She was sitting at the window, half-shaded from his view by some
beautiful orange-trees. She did not seem to have observed his entrance;
for she did not rise from her seat, nor move her head from the delicate
white hand which was supporting it. “Julia!” he cried, in a voice of the
wildest passion; but she did not stir. “Julia,” he said, coming nearer,
and speaking in a calmer tone; still she was motionless. “Julia,” he
whispered gently, bending his head over the orange-blossoms. Their lips
almost met; she started from him as if from profanation. “Cœlius!” she
exclaimed, “this must not be! I have broken the holy cake[6] with
another! To-night I shall be the wife of Marcius.”
He lifted his hands to Heaven; a curse rose to his lips. “May the vows
you have falsified--may the hopes you have blighted--may the heart you
have broken---- But no, Julia,” he continued, as he gazed upon her
rayless eye, and her colourless cheek; “you have suffered much--and I
cannot--I cannot reproach you!” He hid his tears with his hands, and
rushed into the street.
She had indeed suffered much! Her face had become pale and emaciated,
her step melancholy and slow: she no longer took her wonted care in
arranging her dress, or setting in order her luxuriant hair; but this
was not the alteration which had shocked her unfortunate lover--it was
the languor which had succeeded to her natural liveliness, the
despondency in her every accent, the absence of soul in her every look!
The evening came, and the ceremony was near at hand. Julia suffered her
attendants to adorn her, reckless herself of the pains they took and the
decorations they bestowed. They put upon her a long white robe, quite
plain; it would have well set off the bloom of her loveliness, but upon
the paleness of her sorrow it seemed to sit like a shroud. They made
large masses of her hair to flow dishevelled down her neck, and mingled
with it locks of wool, to signify that, in her new station, she was to
imitate the purity of the vestals, whose peculiar emblem it was. The
extremities of her long ringlets were curled and arranged with the steel
of a lance; and among her attendants there were many pretty flutterings
and drawings-back as they handled so terrible a comb. Then they suffered
her to wait in quiet the approach of the bridegroom. He was not long in
his coming. They drew over her head the crown of vervain, and concealed
her deathlike features beneath the flame-coloured veil. They put on,
too, the yellow slippers, which it was the fashion for brides to wear:
they were so contrived as to add considerably to the height, but Julia’s
was so much diminished by sadness and disease, that even with this
assistance she did not seem near her usual stature.
It was night; and she was borne to the house of her husband by the light
of flambeaux. Three young persons, whose parents were still living, were
her conductors. Two supported her, and Julia indeed stood in need of
support; the third walked before her, bearing a torch of pine. A distaff
and spindle, a child’s coral, and other emblems of her future duties,
were carried behind her. Her friends and relations also followed, each
bearing in his arms some present to the new married couple. Cœlius was
among them, but he concealed his face in the folds of his gown, and his
smothered sighs attracted no observation.
At last they came to the threshold of the bridegroom: it was tastefully
adorned with wreaths of flowers; and woollen fillets, smeared with oil,
were hung round to keep out enchantments. The master of the house stood
at the door, and the crowd gathered round it to witness the conclusion
of the ceremony.
They asked her, according to custom, under what title she came? She had
opened her lips to answer, when Cœlius ran forward and threw himself
between Marcius and his beloved. “Oh! no, no!” he cried; “I cannot hear
it!--do not, do not kill me quite!” “Back, back!” she said, shuddering.
“Shall I not obey my father?” The youth heard not--saw not; he was led
away, senseless and unresisting; and the ceremony proceeded. Again she
was asked under what title she came; and she answered, as was prescribed
for her, in a low but distinct tone, “Ubi tu Caius, ego Caia!”[7] They
lifted her from the ground, for it was reckoned an evil omen to touch
the threshold in her entrance. They lifted her from the ground, and she
spoke no word, and made no struggle. But ere they had set down her foot
upon her husband’s floor, she trembled with a convulsive quivering, and
her head fell back upon the youth who supported her left shoulder. Again
they put down their burden, but it was quite motionless! They tore the
veil from her head--her look was fixed and quiet--her eye open and dull!
She was quite dead!
PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE OF PEREGRINE COURTENAY.
I.
PEREGRINE OF CLUBS TO GEORGE OF ENGLAND.
MAY IT PLEASE YOUR MAJESTY,
I am your loyal subject, and an editor. I am induced to address you in
print by three considerations. First, I am like yourself, a King;
although my claim to the title is not quite so legitimate as your
Majesty’s. Secondly, I am an author, and it is much the fashion with
authors of the present day to indite letters to the Crown. Thirdly, I am
enthusiastically fond of novelty in every shape; and I flatter myself I
am going to strike one--a letter to the King, without an ounce of
politics in its composition.
I am not going to offer my congratulations upon “glorious accession,”
“recent successes,” or “the flourishing state of our manufactures;”
neither am I going to present you with memorials relating to “excessive
taxation,” “starving weavers,” or “Ilchester Gaol.” I am myself too
tired of flattery and abuse to offer such insipid dishes to the palate
of a brother monarch. No, Sire! I am about to offer you some
observations upon that part of your Majesty’s dominions which falls more
immediately under the notice of the King of Clubs--the Royal Foundation
of Eton.
May it please your Majesty, I have been long a member of it, and I am
sure that (_exceptis excipiendis_) you have not in any part of your
sovereignty five hundred better disposed subjects than are to be met
with in its “antique towers.” I shall not therefore be repulsed with
harshness if I lay before you a few of the grievances, or the fancied
grievances, under which we labour.
I think it was in the year 1814 that I first saw your Majesty at
Frogmore. The Emperor of Russia was there, and the King of Prussia, and
Blucher, and Platoff, and sundry other worthies, whom were I to attempt
to enumerate the line would reach out “to the crack of doom.” One single
individual of that illustrious body could have drawn all London to the
Monument, if he had promised to exhibit himself in the gallery; and we,
favoured alumni, had the privilege of staring by wholesale. I never
shall forget the reception of those illustrious potentates. All voices
were loud in hurras, all hats were waving in the air; and there was such
a squeezing, and pushing, and shouting, and shaking of hands, and
treading on toes, that I have often wondered how I escaped in safety
from the perils into which my enthusiasm threw me.
Never shall I forget the soul-enlivening moment when your Majesty,
stepping into the midst of our obstreperous group, proclaimed aloud, “A
whole holiday for the Emperor of Russia.” (Cheering.) “A whole holiday
for the King of Prussia,” (Renewed cheering.) “Now, my boys,” you said,
with a good-humoured laugh that set Whiggism and awe at defiance, “I
must add my mite”--and there was long, loud, reiterated, unanimous,
heartfelt cheering. In that look of yours there were years of intimacy.
The distinction which rank had placed between us seemed at once
overturned; you raised us up to your own level, or rather you deigned to
come down for a moment to ours. One could almost have imagined that you
had been yourself an Etonian, that you had shared in our amusements,
that you had tasted of our feelings!
It was a proud evening for Eton, but a troublesome one for those who
made it so. The warmth of an English welcome is enough to overpower any
one but an Englishman. Platoff swore he was more pestered by the
Etonians than he had ever been by the French; and the kind old Blucher
had his hand so cordially wrung that he was unable to lift his bottle
for a week afterwards. To your Majesty the recollection of that evening
must have been one of unmingled gratification. You had enjoyed that
truly royal pleasure, which springs from the act of bestowing pleasure
upon others; you had been applauded by Etonians, as the patron of
Etonians ought to be; you purchased more than three hundred whole hearts
at the price of only three whole holidays.
It would be needless, as it would be endless, to enumerate all the
instances of Royal favour which since that time have been extended
towards our Foundation; I have not room to give an extended narration of
the cricketing at Frogmore, nor to describe your Majesty’s visit to our
Triennial Montem. One subject, however, there is, the omission of which
would be both irksome to myself and ungrateful to your Majesty. I mean
the gracious liberality which gave to the school your lamented father
had so constantly esteemed the permission to attend at his obsequies,
and follow their patron to his grave. That unsolicited attention, and
the delicate manner in which the notice of it was conveyed to us, live
still in our hearts. They proved to us that you were aware of the loss
we had sustained; they proved to us that by your munificence that loss
would be alleviated or repaired.
Having thus performed what I conceived to be my duty, by expressing the
sense we entertain of your Majesty’s bounty, let me call your attention
to the situation in which we are now placed.
Eton is a soil which has been used to the sun of Royal patronage, and,
if that invigorating heat is withheld, what can be expected but that the
earth should be unproductive, and that its plants should fade? This is a
most comfortable doctrine, inasmuch as it enables us to set down to your
Majesty’s account all the degeneracy which modern Eton is said to
exhibit. The remedy is as obvious as the evil. Pay us a visit! Are our
cricketers weak in the arm? Your patronage shall add vigour to their
sinews! Are our poets weak in the head? Your encouragement shall give
new life to their hippocrene! Are our alumni diminishing in numbers?
Beneath your influence recruits shall tumble in like locusts! Are they
diminishing in stature? They shall grow like mustard beneath a Royal
smile.
This, however, is all theory and speculation. There are many who will
attribute our degeneracy to other causes, and many who will deny that
there is any degeneracy in the case at all. I am now going to mention a
specific grievance, the existence of which no one can deny, and to
which your Majesty alone can apply a remedy. During the life of your
father we enjoyed three annual holidays, under the denomination of
“King’s visits;” and the enjoyment of them had become so much a thing of
course, that few were aware upon how short a tenure we held our
blessings. They are gone! We have no “King’s visits,” because your
Majesty has never visited Eton.
It seems to be pretty well determined that your Majesty, sooner or
later, will visit some place or other. Some recommend a visit to
Hanover, some recommend a visit to Ireland--I recommend a visit to Eton.
It will be less troublesome, less expensive, and less formal, than
either of its rival proposals. It will be soonest begun, and it will be
the soonest over. It would be without a hundred inconveniences which
would wait upon your two other journeys. At Eton, you would not be
bothered by counts and courtiers; you would not be stifled with Phelims
and Patricks; you would not he pestered with German addresses, as at
Hanover; and you would not have to dine with the Mayor and Corporation,
as at Dublin.
The time of your visit I will not presume to point out. If you happen to
come on the fourth of this month, you will find certain illicit
proceedings going on, which I cannot in this place describe. I can tell
you, however, that we shall have a splendid show, and a band that shall
play “God save the King,” _ad infinitum_. If you prefer being present at
our public speeches, as your Majesty’s father occasionally was, you will
hear much embryo oratory and see much sawing of the air.
To be serious--may it please your Majesty, I think you ought to come to
Eton. Let us have due notice of the honour intended us, and you shall be
received in a style worthy both of us and of you. Come, and by your
coming disperse over the face of Etona her wonted smile: paste another
bright leaf into her annals: give a new excitement to her talents, her
studies, and her amusements. You need not come in state: you must not
depart in a hurry: bring to us as many smiles, and as few lords, as you
please: above all, drive away for an hour the formality of dress and
manner which public life enjoins; come to us provided with an English
heart, and dressed in the Windsor uniform.
On Windsor Bridge you shall be met by the Fellows with “God save the
King,” and, as you step into College, you shall be saluted by my friend
the Captain with a Latin address. This shall not detain you longer than
three minutes and a half; and Sir Benjamin Bloomfield shall hold the
watch. You will then be conducted to all the lions of the College,
amongst which you will feel particularly interested in the new library
established last month, and you will probably put a small donation into
the hands of Mr. Hawkins, the Treasurer. After your peregrinations you
will have the option of taking a cold collation with the Provost, or a
hot beefsteak with the King of Clubs. If you prefer the former, my duty
for the day is over; but if, as I prognosticate, your choice falls upon
the latter, the talents of Mr. Rowley shall be forthwith put in
requisition. We will give your Majesty a real English dinner, and a
hearty welcome. I will not present my book unless your Majesty desires
it, and your Majesty shall not be required to knight any of the Club,
unless you would condescend to confirm the title of my worthy friend Sir
Thomas. We will be very merry, may it please your Majesty, and we will
have your Majesty’s favourite punch, if your Majesty will give us the
recipe. Mr. Oakley shall be driven from the Club-room, and we will make
our furious Whig, Sir Francis, sing loyal staves in honour of the
occasion. If this does not bring you to Eton, I don’t know what
will--that’s all.
In the evening your Majesty shall return to--bless my soul, I had
forgotten the holidays. But your own good-nature will prompt you. I have
finished my epistle, and--may it please your Majesty.
(Signed) PEREGRINE.
II.
PEREGRINE COURTENAY TO MR. BENJ. BOOKWORM.
[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,
Allow me 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 is _hors 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.
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 the _Etonian_ has behaved in a manner unworthy of its conductors
towards the _Salt-Bearer_, there is no reason that I should retaliate a
single word upon them!
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 the _Salt-Bearer_ was
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 the _Salt-Bearer_ was 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--or _John 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 your _début_, 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 the _Salt-Bearer_. It is needless
for me to explain why the project of the _Selection_ was given up, and
that of the _Etonian_ substituted in its place. Suffice it 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 the _Etonian_ was in a state of forwardness, I
received from a friend, whom no one can know without esteem, some very
witty remarks upon the _Salt-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 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.