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.