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!”