Chapter III: Peregrine Courtenay to the Public (1)

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.

The Union Club, of rhetorical fame,
Was held at the Red Lion Inn,[9]
And there never was Lion so perfectly tame,
Or who made such a musical din.
’Tis pleasant to snore, at a quarter before,
When the Chairman does nothing in state,
But ’tis heaven, ’tis heaven, to waken at seven,
And pray for a noisy debate!

“What’s the question?”--“Reform.” “What! the old story!”--“Yes, the old story; the common good against the Commons’ House; speechifying _versus_ starvation!” “Oh, but you’re a red-hot Radical?”--“Yes, that’s my key; every man is red-hot who is deep read!” “Reform in Parliament?”--“Yes, the only thing men are agreed upon; for the Outs can’t carry it, and the Ins can’t bear it.” “Infamous! split me!”--“Order, order! Gentlemen will be so good as to take their seats. The question for this evening’s debate is: ‘Would Reform in Parliament have been conducive to the welfare of the country at any period previous to the year 1800?’ To be opened by Mr. Pattison of St. John’s.”

And the honourable opener immediately mounts his hobby, and proceeds at a rapid rate over a level road, panting and blowing like a courier. Off he goes! Mounts at Magna Charta, breakfasts with the Long Parliament, dines with William and Anne, and finds himself comfortably at home in the state of the nation.

[10]“We have heard of a time, Mr. President, when England was the envy and the terror of the whole world; we have heard of a time when commerce flourished, and the quartern loaf was sold for a penny-halfpenny; but these things are now altered; bread has risen, as stocks have fallen; we lose time in debates, and we lose men in battle; and are not all these things owing to Mr. Pitt? Unfortunate man! he had it in his power to make his country happy, and he has left it miserable; all of it encumbered with penury and taxation, and half of it fettered by a damnable religious restriction. Yes, Mr. President, from the fear of rebellion and revolution, the Protestants are wretched and spied upon; and from the dread of the Holy Alliance, the Pope, the Pretender, the Arch-Fiend Napoleon, and the Devil, the Catholics are oppressed and persecuted.”

Here the honourable member is jerked from his hobby by an orthodox hiss from the corner, and he sits down among the comments of the crowd. “What do you think of the opener?”--“Why, I think he’s all

Public debts,
Epithets,
Foul and filthy, good and great,
Glorious wars,
British tars,
Beat and bruise
Parlez-vous,
Frenzy, frown,
Commons, Crown,
Ass and pannier,
Rule Britannia!--
How I love a loud debate!”

Then the Church shakes her rattle, and sends forth to battle
The terror of Papist and sinner,
Who loves to be seen as the modern Mæcenas,
And asks all the poets to dinner.

[11]“Mr. President,--I rise to express my dissent from the honourable opener with regard to the Catholics. With respect to the question of debate, my sentiments are entirely those of the late Charles James Fox. He was a man adorned by every manly virtue that can adorn and dignify a man--_Propria quæ maribus tribuuntur, mascula dicas_. But with regard to the Catholics, when I remember the times of the Bloody Queen Mary, when I call to mind the horrible massacres she perpetrated--the helpless old women that were depopulated--I cannot sufficiently restrain my feelings to hear the Catholics commended without expressing my dissent.”

Then the gentleman Attic, with tales Asiatic
And body that bends with a grace,
The maker of jeers that led us for years,
The prime Staple-Ton of the place.

[12]“Mr. President,--From the look of virtuous indignation with which the honourable gentleman arose from his seat, I expected to have heard something worthy of a Blair or a Benson, a Confucius or a Nebuchadnezzar; but lo! when my hopes were wrought up to the highest pitch, the honourable gentleman has suddenly reseated himself, and I do not even understand the purport of his sudden ebullition. Once upon a time a sudden darkness overspread the town of Ching-Chong-Foo; the sun and the moon and the stars were hidden, all business was suspended, all hearts were astounded. The mathematician Sing-Su said it was an eclipse; the Bishop Chit-Quong said it was the Devil; and the Chancellor Hum-lum said that he doubted: when suddenly there flew down from the skies, extending his wings over all the city, a stupendous cock; he soared majestically down--sullenly--slowly; and when they expected from him the voice of Azrael the Destroyer, or the Mandate of Mahomet the Prophet, he said--nothing, Mr. President, but Cock-a-doodle-doo!”

“Why the devil do you laugh?”--“Laugh! why because it’s all

Indian Stories,
Damn the Tories,
None but he can rule the State,
Wise magicians,
Politicians,
Foreign lands,
Kings and wands,
Fiends and fairies,
Dromedaries,
Laugh at Boodle’s,
Cock-a-doodles--
How I love a loud debate!”

Then up gets a youth with a visage of truth,
An omen of good to our islands,
Who promises health and abundance of wealth
To our Oatlands, and Wheatlands, and Ryelands.

[13]“Mr. President,--I had not intended to address you on the present question; but some observations which have been made on the character of George the Third prevent me from remaining silent. If I use any strong expressions, I trust they will be attributed to the violence of my feelings.” (Refers to a paper.) “When I remember, Sir, that in the reign of George the Third the purest blessings of Heaven were shed upon us, and that Mr. Pitt was Prime Minister; that the powers of darkness were scattered before us, and that the combined fleets of France and Spain were defeated--above all, when I reflect that all the nine Muses migrated from Pindus to England, and that Mr. Southey was the Poet Laureate--I cannot help saying that George the Third, who reigned so gloriously, and lived to an advanced period of life, was very wise, very prudent, and very triumphant. In short, Sir, I do not fear to affirm that he was very good.”

And the honourable gentleman halts as systematically as a posthorse knocked up or a timepiece run down. “Very perfect in his lesson!”--“Oh, very! but it’s all

Sigh and simper,
Whine and whimper,
Kings and princes, Church and State;
Cut and dried,
Ill applied,
Nightly taper,
Pen and paper,
Audience dozing,
How composing!
Would ’twere shorter!
Milk and water!--
How I love a loud debate!”

But the favourite comes, with his trumpets and drums,
And his arms and his metaphors crossed;
And the audience--Ο dear!--vociferate “Hear!”
Till they’re half of them deaf as a post.

And the honourable gentleman, after making the grand tour in a hand canter, touching cursorily upon Rome, Constantinople, Amsterdam, Philadelphia, and the Red Sea; with two quotations, two or three hundred similes, and two or three hundred thousand metaphors, proceeds to the tune of

[14]“We, Mr. President, have indeed awful examples to direct us or deter. Have we not seen the arms of the mighty overpowered, and the counsels of the wise confounded? Have not the swords of licentious conquest, and the fasces of perverted law, covered Europe with blood, and tears, and mourning? Have not priests and princes and nobles been driven in beggary and exile to implore the protection of rival thrones and hostile altars? Where is the sacred magnificence of Rome? Where the wealth and independence of Holland? Where the proud titles of the German Cæsars? Where the mighty dynasty of Bourbon? But is there yet one nation which has retained unimpaired its moral and political strength? One nation, whose shores have ever been accessible to a suppliant, and never to an enemy? One nation which, while the banners of her foes have been carried in triumph to half the capitals of the world, has seen them only suspended over her shrines as trophies? One nation, which, while so many cities have been a prey to hostile fires, has never seen her streets lighted up but with the blaze of victorious illumination? History and posterity will reply, ‘That country was England.’ Let them not talk to us of their philosophy and their philanthropy, their reason and their rights! We know too well the oratory of their Smithfield meetings, and the orgies of their midnight clubs! We have seen the weapons which arm, and the spirit which nerves them. We have heard the hyæna howl, till the raving which excited dismay provokes nothing but disgust. Amid the railings of disappointed ambition, and the curses of factious hate; amid the machinations of the foully wicked, and the sophistries of the would-be wise, we will cling to our fathers’ banner--we will rally round our native rock. Mr. President, that banner is the Charta of our rights--that Rock is the British Constitution!”

“Bravo!” “Can’t say I quite caught the line of argument.” “Argument! Fiddlestick! Quite gone out except for opponencies; and then for the language, and the feeling, and the style, and all that sort of thing--oh! nobody can deny that it was all

Oratoric,
Metaphoric,
Similes of wondrous length;
Illustration,
Conflagration,
Ancient Romans,
House of Commons,
Clever Uriel
And Ithuriel,
Good old king,
Everything!--
How I love a loud debate!”

With his sayings and saws, his hems and his haws,
Another comes up to the scratch;
While Deacon and Law unite in a yaw! [_Yawning._
And the President looks at his watch.

And the honourable gentleman, after making a long journey and plunging up to his knees in dirt, bog, and quagmire; after taking up many strong positions and much valuable time, after bruising the Bishops and the table, and twisting his argument and his sleeve in twenty different ways, proceeds to wake the members with a joke.

[15]“Mr. President,--I am out of all patience when I hear the poor abused because they wish to reform the Constitution. Why, when you have taken from them all they have got, and all they hope to get, what can they do? Why, they complain, to be sure; and as soon as they complain, like the poor fellow who was tried for stealing a pair of leather breeches, and found guilty of manslaughter, the unfortunate rabble--though why they are called rabble the Attorney-General only knows, I’m sure I don’t--but, as I said before, the unfortunate rabble are prosecuted upon _ex officio_ informations, or persecuted by a Bridge Street gang, which I look upon as a combination of fiends against our Constitution--that is, what we’ve got left of it, which to be sure is but little, whatever the honourable gentlemen opposite may think, who seem to be very much amused at the idea--but as I said before, the unfortunate rabble, like the poor fellow who was tried for stealing a pair of leather breeches and found guilty of manslaughter, is tried for high treason and found guilty of being ragged, and so is hung, fined, imprisoned, or sent to Botany Bay, or Australasia as the Vice-Chancellor calls it, according to the will and pleasure of His Majesty’s Attorney and Solicitor-General. But the honourable gentleman would let the poor starve, while the rich take coffee and snuff, talk religion, and buy into the stocks; provided my Lord this and my Lord that may keep their mistresses and their boroughs, all the scum, all the _canaille_ may be cut down by the dozen. The honourable gentleman cares no more for the poor than the country gentleman did--a good, honest, well-meaning man--who lost so many turnips that he wanted to make turnip-stealing a capital offence. The country gentleman and the honourable gentleman argue on the same ground--they are on the same bench--there they are!”

“Bravo!” “Bravo!” “Pray, Sir, how long has that young gentleman been on his legs?”--“Really I can’t tell, 1 was so much amused at his

Admirable,
Bang the table,
‘Sir, although its getting late,’
Opposition,
Repetition,
Endless speeches,
Leather breeches,
Taxes, hops,
Turnip-tops,
Leather ’em, lather ’em,
Omnium-gatherum--
How I love a loud debate!”

Mr. Punnett, whose vows are put up for the House
As if he was born to the trade,
Would chafe if we close with the ayes and the noes,
And break up before we have--prayed!

And accordingly, after the honourable gentleman has abused, _ad libitum_, all persons not freeholders who wish to have votes, and told us, “as for such people, now we have got ’em down, keep ’em down;” he is succeeded by the laureate jester of the society. The honourable gentleman plunges into a sea of puns, passes a few modest strictures on the freedom of the press, likens Frederick the Great to a thief, and Mr. Bartholomew to the devil; and at last betakes himself, like all poets, to abusing his friends.

[16]“Not being disposed, Mr. President, to pun it in a decidedly personal manner through any more of the honourable gentleman’s speech, I proceed to say a few words in reply to my honourable friend who preceded him. But I conceive, Mr. President, when I see how much the table of the House has suffered from the fist of the honourable gentleman, I may be somewhat afraid of the knock-down arguments of my honourable friend. Let him not commit violence on our persons or our property; let him not frighten the freshman or annihilate the Soph. He is already the Ord of this House, let him not make himself the Lord of it; we give him an inch, let him not take an ‘L.’ But I conceive, Sir, that my honourable friend will attend to no suggestion of mine. He is a Republican, a Radical, a Revolutionist, a Fury, a Firebrand; but, however hot may be the doctrines he now advocates, I would whisper in his ear: ‘You were once something far more reasonable; yes, though you may now be a rioter or a regicide, yet, as the poet says, You were a Whig, and thereby hangs a tale!’ I have detained the House too long, and will make haste to conclude. I have been censured for mixing too much of the ludicrous with the debates of the House. It has been said of me that the thread of my argument is drawn from the tassel of my cap, that the point of my jokes is drawn from the belles of Barnwell. Mr. President, I plead guilty to the charges, and the House must be well aware that the insignia of my profession were never anything but the cap and bells!”

Quite divine
Peregrine,
Never shall we see his mate;
Fun and flams,
Epigrams,
Leering, lying,
Versifying,
Nodding, noting,
Quibbling, quoting,
‘Thief!’ and ‘Bore!’
‘Lie!’ no more--
How I love a loud debate!”

Then up gets the glory of us and our story,
Who does all by logic and rule,
Who can tell the true diff’rence ’twixt twopence and threepence,
And prove Adam Smith quite a fool.

[17]“Mr. President,--I had intended to have addressed the meeting at considerable length, but as the ground I meant to occupy has been entirely and successfully anticipated by my honourable friends, I shall not dwell upon the crying and terrible demand there is for Parliamentary Reform, but shall confine my observations to the existing aggression of France upon Spain. For it is not so much the question whether France or Spain shall be victorious; it is not so much the question whether that ‘alter Achilles,’ the Duke d’Angoulême, with his miserable and half-starved myrmidons, or General Mina and his patriots, shall be vanquished; the question is, whether the nefarious and accursed principles of foreign aggression and tyranny, the principles of despotism and usurpation, shall triumph eternally over the principles of freedom; whether worse than Scythian ignorance and barbarism shall crush the progress of science and enlightened understanding; whether that holy knot of confederated despots (who I trust in heaven will ere long meet their well-earned reward of the halter)--whether they are to dictate laws and constitutions to the rest of mankind; whether that hellish power which has crushed the freedom and trampled on the genius of Italy shall crush the freedom and trample on the genius of the rest of the world; whether we, who boast ourselves freeborn Englishmen, shall tamely look on and see the rights of nations and the rights of man assaulted and violated; whether we are to listen with submission and humility to the insolent decrees of the Autocrat of the Russias; whether we are to cringe and subscribe to the proclamation of a semi-barbarian who dares to issue his mandate to the world--a mandate which is nothing but an ignorant tissue of Syrio-Calmuc jargon and cacophony.”

But Lord! Sir, you ask a more difficult task
That aught in the son-shop of Burchill,
If you ask me to dish up, like many a Bishop,
The eminent words of the Church-ill!

[18]“Mr. President,--The honourable opener of this debate called Mr. Pitt an unfortunate man; now I think him a very fortunate man. He went about, like Jeremy Diddler, borrowing sixpence from every one who was fool enough to lend him, and died before he was called on to refund. We have heard the prosperous state of the country referred to. Now, Sir, everybody that can pay for his passage is going to the Cape; for though a man likes his bed, he leaves it when he finds it full of fleas. The distresses of England have also been alluded to. Now, Sir, with regard to Lord George Gordon’s riots, they were like Tom Thumb’s giants--the Minister made the riots first, and then he quelled them.”

“Does any other honourable gentleman wish to address the House? I shall proceed to put the question. It is carried that Parliamentary Reform would not be beneficial, by a majority of 77 to 13. (Hear! hear! hear!) There is a motion on the boards, ‘That an adequate supply of chairs for the reading-room be provided--proposed by Mr. Moore, of Caius.’”

[19]“Mr. President,--It is not often that I rise to address this society; nor should I on the present occasion, but that I see so strong a necessity for interference, that I should deem it a dereliction of my duty were I to remain silent. In those things which regard our intellectual and moral improvement, this society should be more especially attentive to its interests; but I have observed with regret and concern that there is by no means an adequate supply of chairs in our reading-room, and I therefore move that a fit supply be immediately procured.”

[20]“Mr. President,--I have observed with great satisfaction the interest which the honourable gentleman takes in the welfare of this society; but as in an inn, where there are nine beds, and ten travellers to sleep in them, one bed must carry double or one traveller must go without; so, in the present case, if upon any occasion the honourable gentleman should find ten chairs in the reading-room occupied by ten individuals, I should recommend him to make them determine by lot which of them shall hold him on his knees!”

“Well, Sir, what do you think of the Union?”--“Why, Sir, I think it’s all

Bow, wow,
What a row,
Money lost, and laurels earned;
Constitution,
Elocution,
Whig and Tory,
Oratory,
Hauling, bawling,
‘Order’ calling,
Headache, dizziness,
No more business--
Sirs, the meeting is adjourned.”

MY FIRST FOLLY.

“L’imagination grossit souvent les plus petits objets par une
estimation fantastique jusqu’à remplir notre âme.”--PENSÉES DE
PASCAL.

“I have spent all my golden time,
In writing many a loving rime:
I have consumed all my youth
In vowing of my faith and trueth;
Ο willow, willow, willow tree,
Yet can I not beleeved bee.”--OLD BALLAD.

“Do you take trifle?” said Lady Olivia to my poor friend Halloran.

“No, Ma’am, I am reading philosophy,” said Halloran; waking from a fit of abstraction, with about as much consciousness and perception as exists in a petrified oyster, or an alderman dying of a surfeit. Halloran is a fool.

A trifle is the one good thing, the sole and surpassing enjoyment. He only is happy who can fix his thoughts, and his hopes, and his feelings, and his affections, upon those fickle and fading pleasures, which are tenderly cherished and easily forgotten, alike acute in their excitement and brief in their regret. Trifles constitute my _summum bonum_. Sages may crush them with the heavy train of argument and syllogism; schoolboys may assail them with the light artillery of essay and of theme; Members of Parliament may loathe, doctors of divinity may contemn--bag wigs and big wigs, blue devils and blue stockings, sophistry and sermons, reasonings and wrinkles, Solon, Thales, Newton’s “Principia,” Mr. Walker’s “Eidouranion,” the King’s Bench, the bench of Bishops--all these are serious antagonists; very serious! But I care not; I defy them; I dote upon trifles; my name is Vyvyan Joyeuse, and my motto is “Vive la Bagatelle!”

There are many persons who, while they have a tolerable taste for the frivolous, yet profess remorse and penitence for their indulgence of it; and continually court and embrace new day-dreams, while they shrink from the retrospect of those which have already faded. Peace be to their everlasting laments and their ever-broken resolutions! Your true trifler, meaning your humble servant, is a being of a very different order. The luxury which I renew in the recollection of the past is equal to that which I feel in the enjoyment of the present, or create in the anticipation of the future. I love to count and recount every treasure I have flung away, every bubble I have broken; I love to dream again the dreams of my boyhood, and to see the visions of departed pleasures flitting, like Ossian’s ghosts, around me, “with stars dim twinkling through their forms.” I look back with delight to a youth which has been idled away, to tastes which have been perverted, to talents which have been misemployed; and while in imagination I wander back through the haunts of my old idlesse, for all the learning of a Greek professor, for all the morality of Sir John Sewell, I would not lose one single point of that which has been ridiculous and grotesque, nor one single tint of that which has been beautiful and beloved.

Moralists and misanthropists, maidens with starched morals and matrons with starched frills, ancient adorers of Bohea and scandal, venerable votaries of whispering and of whist, learned professors of the compassionate sneer and the innocent innuendo, eternal pillars of gravity and good order, of stupidity and decorum--come not near me with your spare and spectacled features, your candid and considerate criticism. In you I have no hope, in me you have no interest. I am to speak of stories you will not believe, of beings you cannot love; of foibles for which you have no compassion, of feelings in which you have no share.

Fortunate and unfortunate couples, belles in silks and beaux in sentimentals, ye who have wept and sighed, ye who have been wept for and sighed for, victims of vapours and coiners of vows, makers and marrers of intrigue, readers and writers of songs--come to me with your attention and your salts, your sympathy and your cambric; your griefs, your raptures, your anxieties, all have been mine; I know your blushing and your paleness, your self-deceiving and your self-tormenting.

so com’è inconstanta e vaga
Timida, ardita vita degli amanti,
Ch’un poco dolce molto amaro appoggia;
Ε so i costumi, e i lor sospiri, e i canti
E’l parlar rotto, e’l subito silenzio,
E’l brevissimo riso, e i lunghi pianti;
E qual è ’l mel temprato con l’assenzio.

All these things are so beautiful in Italian! But I need not have borrowed a syllable from Petrarch, for shapes of shadowy beauty, smiles of cherished loveliness, glances of reviving lustre, are coming in the mist of memory around me! I am writing “an ower true tale!”

I never fell seriously in love till I was seventeen. Long before that period I had learned to talk nonsense and tell lies, and had established the important points that a delicate figure is equivalent to a thousand pounds, a pretty mouth better than the Bank of England, and a pair of bright eyes worth all Mexico. But at seventeen a more intricate branch of study awaited me.

I was lounging away my June at a pretty village in Kent, with little occupation beyond my own meditations, and no company but my horse and dogs. My sisters were both in the South of France; and my uncle, at whose seat I had pitched my camp, was attending to the interests of his constituents and the wishes of his patron in Parliament. I began after the lapse of a week to be immensely bored; I felt a considerable dislike of an agricultural life, and an incipient inclination for laudanum. I took to playing backgammon with the rector. He was more than a match for me, and used to grow most unclerically hot when the dice, as was their duty, befriended the weaker side. At last, at the conclusion of a very long hit, which had kept Mrs. Penn’s tea waiting full an hour, my worthy and wigged friend flung deuce-ace three times in succession, put the board in the fire, overturned Mrs. Penn’s best china, and hurried to his study to compose a sermon on patience.

Then I took up reading. My uncle had a delightful library, where a reasonable man might have lived and died. But I confess I never could endure a long hour of lonely reading. It is a very pretty thing to take down a volume of Tasso or Racine, and study accent and cadence for the benefit of half a dozen listening belles, all dividing their attention between the work and the work-basket, their feelings and their flounces, their tears and their trimmings, with becoming and laudable perseverance. It is a far prettier thing to read Petrarch or Rousseau with a single companion, in some sheltered spot so full of passion and of beauty that you may sit whole days in its fragrance and dream of Laura and Julie. If these are out of the way, it is endurable to be tied down to the moth-eaten marvels of antiquity, poring to-day that you may pore again to-morrow, and labouring for the nine days’ wonder of some temporary distinction, with an ambition which is almost frenzy, and an emulation which speaks the language of animosity. But to sit down to a novel or a philosopher, with no companion to participate in the enjoyment and no object to reward the toil, this indeed--oh! I never could endure a long hour of lonely reading; and so I deserted Sir Roger’s library, and left his Marmontel and his Aristotle to the slumbers from which I had unthinkingly awakened them.

At last I was roused from a state of most Persian torpor by a note from an old lady, whose hall, for so an indifferent country-house was by courtesy denominated, stood at the distance of a few miles. She was about to give a ball. Such a thing had not been seen for ten years within ten miles of us. From the sensation produced by the intimation you might have deemed the world at an end. Prayers and entreaties were offered up to all the guardians and all the milliners; and the old gentlemen rose in a passion, and the old lace rose in price. Everything was everywhere in a flurry; kitchen, and parlour, and boudoir and garret--Babel all! _Ackermann’s Fashionable Repository_, the _Ladies’ Magazine_, the _New Pocket-book_--all these, and all other publications whose frontispieces presented the “fashions for 1817,” personified in a thin lady with kid gloves and a formidable obliquity of vision, were in earnest and immediate requisition. Needles and pins were flying right and left; dinner was ill-dressed that dancers might be well-dressed; mutton was marred that misses might be married. There was not a schoolboy who did not cut Homer and capers; nor a boarding-school beauty who did not try on a score of dancing shoes, and talk for a fortnight of Angiolini. Every occupation was laid down, every carpet was taken up; every combination of hands-across and down the middle was committed most laudably to memory; and nothing was talked, nothing was meditated, nothing was dreamed, but love and romance, fiddles and flirtation, warm negus and handsome partners, dyed feathers and chalked floors.

In all the pride and condescension of an inmate of Grosvenor Square, I looked upon Lady Motley’s “At Home.” “Yes,” I said, flinging away the card with a tragedy twist of the fingers, “yes: I will be there. For one evening I will encounter the tedium and the taste of a village ball. For one evening I will doom myself to figures that are out of date, and fiddles that are out of tune; dowagers who make embroidery by wholesale, and demoiselles who make conquests by profession: for one evening I will endure the inquiries about Almack’s and St. Paul’s, the tales of the weddings that have been and the weddings that are to be, the round of courtesies in the ball-room and the round of beef at the supper-table: for one evening I will not complain of the everlasting hostess and the everlasting Boulanger, of the double duty and the double bass, of the great heiress and the great plum-pudding:

Come one, come all,
Come dance in Sir Roger’s great hall.”

And thus, by dint of civility, indolence, quotation, and antithesis, I bent up each corporal agent to the terrible feat, and “would have the honour of waiting upon her ladyship,”--in due form.

I went: turned my uncle’s one-horse chaise into the long old avenue about an hour after the time specified, and perceived by the lights flashing from all the windows, and the crash of chairs and carriages returning from the door, that the room was most punctually full, and the performers most pastorally impatient. The first face I encountered on my entrance was that of my old friend Villars; I was delighted to meet him, and expressed my astonishment at finding him in a situation for which his inclination, one would have supposed, was so little adapted.

“By Mercury,” he exclaimed, “I am metamorphosed--fairly metamorphosed, my good Vyvyan; I have been detained here three months by a fall from Sir Peter, and have amused myself most indefatigably by humming tunes and reading newspapers, winding silk and guessing conundrums. I have made myself the admiration, the adoration, the very worship of all the coteries in the place; am reckoned very clever at cross purposes, and very apt at ‘What’s my thought like?’ The squires have discovered I can carve, and the matrons hold me indispensable at loo. Come! I am of little service to-night, but my popularity may be of use to you. You don’t know a soul! I thought so--read it in your face the moment you came in. Never saw such a---- There, Vyvyan, look there! I will introduce you.” And so saying my companion half limped, half danced with me up to Miss Amelia Mesnil, and presented me in due form.