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THE

ETON BUREAU.

No. III.

A CHARACTER.

Nemo cognoscere imaginem potest, nisi cognito illo, cujus est imago.
Hen. de Nettes. Epist. Lib. I. 51.

I was much shocked to see in the paper a few days ago the death of Edward Courtland. He was just of age, and had not taken his degree at Oxford. He died in Yorkshire, after a very short illness. No one, I am sure, of his age would be more missed and regretted. I had seen him from time to time since he left Eton two years ago; we corresponded to the last; and knowing him intimately as I did, I am tempted to endeavour to prolong, for a short time, perhaps, the memory of a very remarkable young man. I confess that I loved him warmly, and that I had reason to be very grateful to him; so that perhaps I may overdraw the picture. Be it so ;-I would rather do this, than not give my departed friend his due: however, I will try to be quite fair.

Courtland came to Eton very young-too young for his own good, as he always said. When I first knew him, he was in the Upper Division, and soon afterwards was put into the Sixth Form: all the earlier part of his career

therefore, I only knew from his account of it. He was placed high for his age, all the boys in his remove being older than himself; and as he was a boy of quick parts, forward in some things, but very deficient in others, he had always to contend with a double disadvantage, being supposed to be possessed of greater acquirements than he really had, and being always pitted against rivals, though not of greater capacities, yet of more matured minds. This he used to say in general of his progress through the school; but as to particulars he was very silent. lle seemed to think that he had been misunderstood and harshly treated. He never complained; indeed he used to say that it was always a boy's own fault if he did not get on: but at times he was gloomy and bitter about persons and things in a degree I never before saw in so young a man. It was on some of these occasions that he would let drop a few words of the deepest pathos about himself, and then stop short, and completely change the subject, as if afraid to trust himself to think on it.

When I came to Eton, Courtland took me as his fag. From this our connexion began; it soon ripened (I know not how) into the fastest friendship. I do not think that there was a thought in his heart, which he would have kept back from me. I do not mean that he was always talking about himself, and making personal confidences, for there was nothing more certain than this to draw down his sarcastic irony; but I mean that if anything came naturally in his way, he would not have kept it secret from me, any more than from his nearest relation. Thus, loving him much, and being very intimate with him, I had the best opportunities of observing the developement of his character.

It was curious to see how unpopular he was at this

time both with masters and boys. The masters disliked him, and the boys despised him. The former thought him self-conceited and offensive; the latter believed him weak and insincere. There was much truth in both these views of him; but there was much error also.

He was always far above his fellows in some parts of scholarship, and far below them in others; this inequality used to gall him sorely. He saw those, whom he felt to be far inferior to himself, passing him easily from this cause, in the race for distinction; and instead of setting honestly and vigorously to work, as he should have done, to supply what was wanting, he preferred to make his power felt by assuming a coolness and superciliousness foreign to his nature, by saying strong and often silly things, by talking loud but doing nothing, by indulging in ill-tempered and often ill-founded remarks upon others, (which were sure to be repeated, with improvements and additions, to the subjects of them,) and thus raising for himself a very abundant crop of dislike and enmity. All this was very foolish, and he paid the penalty of his folly. He held a most unpleasant place. With the consciousness of great power he felt that he had no influence; with one of the warmest of hearts he had scarce a friend to bestow his love on; in his case display was his ruin. He knew this, and would often point it out to me, but went on as before. He was like a ship stranded on a sand-bank, a beacon to others, but apparently unable to deliver himself.

Gradually, however, as he rose to the top of the school, though he made many enemies, yet he began to make friends too. His character strengthened, and grew to be better understood. He was still a mass of contradictions, but many began to like him, and a few to love him. It was true he was neither in the eleven nor the eight, though both at

cricket and on the river he could acquit himself respectably it was true that he never played at football, which he maintained was a stray relic of the Dark Ages; nor at hockey, from the strong aversion, which he said he entertained, for being "cut over." It was true that his health, which was always very weak, prevented his excelling in those athletic exercises, which are the surest road to popularity at Eton; and in the Eton Society, of which he was for some time a member, he did nothing but make enemies. Still people began to make allowances. His dark, expressive countenance, and lively manner, made him, when he liked, very pleasant. There was a fascination about him, which few who saw him intimately could resist. He had been a great reader of general literature, and his talk, when he wished to display it, was brilliant and instructive. Still there were childish weaknesses utterly unworthy of the nobler parts of his character. He would say the most absurd things to create a sensation. He was tolerant of looser modes of speech than, with his principles, he should have been. He loved to be with boys younger than himself, utterly incapable of appreciating him, and to lavish upon them a fondness which they could not understand, and which they did not return. He was fond of feeling superior love; of giving, rather than receiving benefit; of being the patron, the protector. He forgot that such love is seldom reciprocal, that love itself runs downwards more easily than upwards, that real love is rarely co-existent with very great disparity. It was a subtle sort of pride, which he did not care to analyse. He neglected, for their sakes, others far more worthy of him, and they of course after a time deserted him. This deeply hurt him, and yet he said he had deliberately expected it. I have an old common

place book of his, which he gave me just before his last illness, in which, between an extract from Sir Thomas Brown, and one from Vattek, there are some bitter lines jotted down very carelessly, and dated but a few months before he died, with reference to his complete mistake at this period of his career.

"O fool! to waste
Life's brightest hours, and liveliest energies
In worse than indolence,-to spend on toys
Not worth possession,-on the love of fair,
But heartless beings, months of time

Which was not mine to squander. It is gone

It cannot be recovered."

Here, as before, he seems to have felt that his conduct was contemptible, (as in truth it was,) but to have shrunk from the effort necessary for a change.

Courtland's Oxford career I only heard of occasionally. There, too, he seems to have thrown himself away. Hopes unfulfilled, desires unsatisfied, dim shadowings forth of much, perfect working out of nothing,-these made up his life there, as at Eton. There was a general vague notion of his power, but it was difficult to say exactly upon what it rested. His coldness there, as at Eton, misled people. I remember standing for a scholarship at Oxford, about a year ago, and meeting him at a large party; for some time he was the life and soul of it, brilliant, witty, and amusing; but something went wrong, and the whole scene was forthwith changed. Bitter sneers, sarcasms, innuendos, were showered forth with the most prodigal hand. I thought I had never seen any one so thoroughly disagreeable. I ventured afterwards to remonstrate with him. At first he laughed at me, but as I persisted, he grew serious, and endeavoured to defend himself. His

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