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[Pg 197] 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,[Pg 198] 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[Pg 199] 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[Pg 200] 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. [Pg 201]

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,

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![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 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[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 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[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 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[Pg 205] 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[Pg 206] 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[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 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[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.

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[Pg 210] “On the Digamma,” which would have had a surprising effect. For, to parody the poet,

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,[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 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.[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 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 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

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?[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 the Microcosm, 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 the Etonian.

I began this letter in a light and jesting vein, but I find that I cannot keep it up. My departure from Eton and the Etonian is 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]