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 in doors, 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 which had been put into my hands by my friend, but took from my own armory 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 dullness, 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 duty to apologize for it long ago!

I said to

Well! No. I., with all its severity, went forth to the world; I grew cool, and I was sorry that I had been so violent. 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!"

66

From that time to the present "The Etonian" has never renewed the contest. The answers, however, which you have

*The greater part of the satire here alluded to has been retrenched in our Second Edition.

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 14th Birthday," inserted in your fourth Number?-You have accused me of Plagiarism, but I did not retaliate. Neither was I severe upon your literary connexion with a certain Mr. H., because I believe that connexion 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 expression, I have shaken hands with you, not re vera, 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 greatgrandfathers.

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 Grildrig 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 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 every thing 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 not your ingenuity which coined that unlucky nulla 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 afteryears 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 Shakspeare 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 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!"—

6

"I have made a few corrections here, Mr. Moonshine! hope you approve!"-" Approve! why, zounds! Courtenay, I wont 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 Etna 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!"

6

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 -but I will stop before I work myself into a fever!

to

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 proofsheets of the senate house or of second editions: ; self, 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.

Your's Editorially,

-assure your

PEREGRINE COURTENAY.