Part 18

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.

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 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),

CENTER My dear Public, Your obliged and devoted servant, PEREGRINE COURTENAY.

ABDICATION OF THE KING OF CLUBS.

We, Peregrine, by Our own choice, and the public favour, King of Clubs, and editor of the _Etonian_, 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 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 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-eighth

day of July, A.D. 1821.

THE UNION CLUB.

A.D. 1823.