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 the _Salt-Bearer_ worthy 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 the _Etonian_ has never renewed the
contest. The answers, however, which you have published to the
strictures of a correspondent upon Wordsworth and Coleridge have shown
that the _Salt-Bearer_ was 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 expression, I have shaken hands with you, not
_re 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 the
_Salt-Bearer_ has 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? The _Salt-Bearer_
appeared, and was voted milk and water! It was necessary for me to
prepare a more potent beverage. I will venture to assert, that if the
_Microcosm_ itself had appeared immediately after the _Salt-Bearer_,
its success would have been precarious. Eton wanted something more
pungent! The _Etonian_ substituted 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 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 the _Etonian_ will 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 the _Ottava
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 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!
_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.
III.
PEREGRINE COURTENAY TO THE PUBLIC.
MY DEAR PUBLIC,
How rejoiced 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
the _Etonian_! 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 “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.
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 the _Salt-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, 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 the _Etonian_; 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, but _Diis
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 our _alumni_
themselves, 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 a _Cantab_.
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.
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 the _Quarterly’s_ hint
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 undertaking, 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,
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 the _Etonian_, 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! “The _Etonian_! oh! the last
number is out, is it? How does it sell? 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.