Complete Works of Thomas Love Peacock

by Thomas Love Peacock

  Mr. Forester. I can answer for men, Miss Melincourt, that there are some, many I hope, who can appreciate justly that most heavenly of earthly things, an enlightened female mind; whatever may be thought by the pedantry that envies, the foppery that fears, the folly that ridicules, or the wilful blindness that will not see its loveliness. I am afraid your last observation approaches most nearly to the truth, and that it is owing more to their own fastidiousness than to the want of friends and admirers, that intelligent women are so often alone in the world. But were it otherwise, the objection will not apply to Italian poetry, a field of luxuriant beauty, from which women are not interdicted even by the most intolerant prejudice of masculine usurpation.

  Anthelia. They are not interdicted, certainly; but they are seldom encouraged to enter it. Perhaps it is feared, that, having gone thus far, they might be tempted to go farther: that the friend of Tasso might aspire to the acquaintance of Virgil, or even to an introduction to Homer and Sophocles.

  Mr. Forester. And why should she not? Far from desiring to suppress such a noble ambition, how delightful should I think the task of conducting the lovely aspirant through the treasures of Grecian genius! — to wander hand-inhand with such a companion among the valleys and fountains of Ida, and by the banks of the eddying Scamander; through the island of Calypso, and the gardens of Alcinous; to the rocks of the Scythian desert; to the caverned shores of the solitary Lemnos; and to the fatal sands of Troezene; to kindle in such scenes the enthusiasm of such a mind, and to see the eyes of love and beauty beaming with their reflected inspiration! Miserably perverted, indeed, must be the selfishness of him who, having such happiness in his power, would,

  Like the base Indian, throw a pearl away,

  Richer than all his tribe.

  Mr. Fax. My friend’s enthusiasm, Miss Melincourt, usually runs away with him when any allusion is made to ancient Greece.

  Mr. Forester had spoken with ardour and animation; for the scenes of which he spoke rose upon his mind and depicted in the incomparable poetry to which he had alluded; the figurative idea of wandering among them with a young and beautiful female aspirant assumed for a moment a visionary reality; and when he subsequently reflected on it it appeared to him very singular that the female figure in the mental picture had assumed the form and features of Anthelia Melincourt.

  Anthelia, too, saw in the animated countenance of Sylvan Forester traces of more than common feeling, generosity, and intelligence: his imaginary wanderings through the classic scenes of antiquity assumed in her congenial mind the brightest colours of intellectual beauty; and she could not help thinking that if he were what he appeared, such wanderings, with such a guide, would not be the most unenviable of earthly destinies.

  The other guests dropped in by ones and twos. Sir Telegraph was agreeably surprised to see Mr. Forester. ‘By the bye,’ said he, ‘have you heard that a general election is to take place immediately?’

  ‘I have,’ said Mr. Forester, ‘and was thinking of putting you and your barouche in requisition very shortly.’

  ‘As soon as you please,’ said Sir Telegraph.

  The Honourable Mrs. Pinmoney took Sir Telegraph aside, to make inquiry concerning the newcomers.

  The Hon. Mrs. Pinmoney. Who is that very bright-eyed, wild-looking young man?

  Sir Telegraph Paxarett. That is my old acquaintance and fellow-collegian, Sylvan Forester, now of Redrose Abbey, in this county.

  The Hon. Mrs. Pinmoney. Is he respectable?

  Sir Telegraph Paxarett. He has a good estate, if you mean that.

  The Hon. Mrs. Pinmoney. To be sure I mean that. And who is that tall thin saturnine personage?

  Sir Telegraph Paxarett. I know nothing of him but that his name is Fax, and that he is now on a visit to Mr. Forester at Redrose Abbey.

  The Hon. Mrs. Pinmoney. And who is that very tall and remarkably ugly gentleman?

  Sir Telegraph Paxarett. That is Sir Oran Haut-ton, Baronet; to which designation you may shortly add M.P. for the ancient and honourable borough of Onevote.

  The Hon. Mrs. Pinmoney. A Baronet! and M.P.! Well, now I look at him again, I certainly do not think him so very plain: he has a very fashionable air. Haut-ton! French extraction, no doubt. And now I think of it, there is something very French in his physiognomy.

  Dinner was announced, and the party adjourned to the dining-room. Mr. Forester offered his hand to Anthelia; and Sir Oran Haut-ton, following the example, presented his to the Honourable Mrs. Pinmoney.

  CHAPTER XVI

  THE SYMPOSIUM

  THE DINNER PASSED off with great harmony. The ladies withdrew. The bottle revolved with celerity, under the presidency of Mr. Hippy, and the vice-presidency of Sir Telegraph Paxarett. The Reverend Mr. Portpipe, who was that day of the party, pronounced an eulogium on the wine, which was echoed by the Reverend Mr. Grovelgrub, Mr. O’Scarum, Lord Anophel Achthar, Mr. Feathemest, and Mr. Derrydown. Mr. Forester and Mr. Fax showed no disposition to destroy the unanimity of opinion on this interesting subject. Sir Oran Haut-ton maintained a grave and dignified silence, but demonstrated by his practice that his taste was orthodox. Mr. O’Scarum sat between Sir Oran and the Reverend Mr. Portpipe, and kept a sharp look-out on both sides of him; but did not, during the whole course of the sitting, detect either of his supporters in the heinous fact of a heeltap.

  Mr. Hippy. Dr. Killquick may say what he pleases

  Of mithridate, cordials, and elixirs;

  But from my youth this was my only physic. —

  Here’s a colour! what lady’s cheek comes near it?

  It sparkles, hangs out diamonds! O my sweet heart!

  Mistress of merry hearts! they are not worth thy favours

  Who number thy moist kisses in these crystals!

  The Rev. Mr. Portpipe. An excellent text! — sound doctrine, plain and practical. When I open the bottle, I shut the book of Numbers. There are two reasons for drinking: one is, when you are thirsty, to cure it; the other, when you are not thirsty, to prevent it. The first is obvious, mechanical, and plebeian; the second is most refined, abstract, prospicient, and canonical. I drink by anticipation of thirst that may be. Prevention is better than cure. Wine is the elixir of life. ‘The soul,’ says St. Augustine, ‘cannot live in drought.’ What is death? Dust and ashes. There is nothing so dry. What is life? Spirit. What is Spirit? Wine.

  Mr O’Scarum. And whisky.

  The Rev. Mr. Portpipe. Whisky is hepatic, phlogistic, and exanthematous. Wine is the hierarchical and archiépiscopal fluid. Bacchus is said to have conquered the East, and to have returned loaded with its spoils. ‘Marry how? tropically.’ The conquests of Bacchus are the victories of imagination, which, sublimated by wine, puts to rout care, fear, and poverty, and revels in the treasures of Utopia.

  Mr. Feathernest. The juice of the grape is the liquid quintessence of concentrated sunbeams. Man is an exotic, in this northern climate, and must be nourished like a hot-house plant, by the perpetual adhibition of artificial heat.

  Lord Anophel Achtkar. You were not always so fond of wine, Feathernest?

  Mr. Feathernest. Oh, my lord! no allusion, I beseech you, to my youthful errors. Demosthenes, being asked what wine he liked best, answered, that which he drank at the expense of others.

  The Rev. Mr. Portpipe. Demosthenes was right. His circumstance, or qualification, is an accompaniment of better relish than a devilled biscuit or an anchovy toast.

  Mr. Feathernest. In former days, my lord, I had no experience that way; therefore I drank water against my will.

  Lord Anophel Achthar. And wrote Odes upon it, to Truth and Liberty.

  Mr. Feathernest. ‘Ah, no more of that, an’ thou lovest me.’ Now that I can get it for a song, I take my pipe of wine a year: and what is the effect? Not cold phlegmatic lamentations over the sufferings of the poor, but high-flown, jovial, reeling dithyrambics ‘to all the crowned heads in Europe.’ I had then a vague notion that all was wrong. Persuasion has since appeared to me in a tangible s
hape, and convinced me that all is right, especially at court. Then I saw darkly through a glass — of water. Now I see clearly through a glass of wine.

  The Rev. Mr. Portpipe (looking through his glass at the light). An infallible telescope!

  Mr. Forester. I am unfortunately one of those, sir, who very much admired your Odes to Truth and Liberty, and read your royal lyrics with very different sensations.

  Mr. Feathernest. I presume, sir, every man has a right to change his opinions.

  Mr. Forester. From disinterested conviction undoubtedly: but when it is obviously from mercenary motives, the apostasy of a public man is a public calamity. It is not his single loss to the cause he supported, that is alone to be lamented: the deep shade of mistrust which his conduct throws on that of all others who embark in the same career tends to destroy all sympathy with the enthusiasm of genius, all admiration for the intrepidity of truth, all belief in the sincerity of zeal for public liberty: if their advocates drop one by one into the vortex of courtly patronage, every new one that arises will be more and more regarded as a hollow-hearted hypocrite, a false and venal angler for pension and place; for there is in these cases no criterion by which the world can distinguish the baying of a noble dog that will defend his trust till death, from the yelping of a political cur, that only infests the heels of power to be silenced with the offals of corruption.

  Lord Anophel Achthar. Cursed severe, Feathernest, ‘pon honour.

  Mr. Fax. The gradual falling off of prudent men from unprofitable virtues is perhaps too common an occurrence to deserve much notice, or justify much reprobation, Mr. Forester. If it were not common, it would not need reprobation. Vices of unfrequent occurrence stand sufficiently self-exposed in the insulation of their own deformity. The vices that call for the scourge of satire are those which pervade the whole frame of society, and which, under some specious pretence of private duty, or the sanction of custom and precedent, are almost permitted to assume the semblance of virtue, or at least to pass unstigmatised in the crowd of congenial transgressions.

  Mr. Feathernest. — You may say what you please, sir. I am accustomed to this language, and am quite callous to it, I assure you. I am in good odour at court, sir; and you know, Non cuivis homini contingit adiré Corinthum. While t was out, sir, I made a great noise till I was let in. There was a pack of us, sir, to keep up your canine metaphor: two or three others got in at the same time: we knew very well that those who were shut out would raise a hue and cry after us: it was perfectly natural: we should have done the same in their place: mere envy and malice, nothing more. Let them bark on: when they are either wanted or troublesome, they will be let in, in their turn. If there be any man who prefers a crust and water to venison and sack, I am not of his mind. It is pretty and politic to make a virtue of necessity: but when there is an end of the necessity I am very willing that there should be an end of the virtue. If you could live on roots, said Diogenes to Aristippus, you would have nothing to do with kings. — If you could live on kings, replied Aristippus, you would have nothing to do with roots. — Every man for himself, sir, and God for us all.

  Mr. Derrydown. The truth of things on this subject is contained in the following stave:

  This world is a well-furnish’d table,

  Where guests are promiscuously set:

  We all fare as well as we’re able,

  And scramble for what we can get.

  Sir Telegraph Paxarett. Buz the bottle.

  Mr. O’Scarum. Over, by Jupiter!

  Sir Telegraph Paxarett. No.

  Mr. (O’Scarum. Yes.

  The Rev. Mr. Portpipe. No. The baronet has a most mathematical eye. Buzzed to a drop!

  Mr. Forester. Fortunately, sir, for the hopes of mankind, every man does not bring his honour and conscience to market, though I admit the majority do: there are some who dare be honest in the worst of times.

  Mr. Feathernest. Perhaps, sir, you are one of those who can afford to have a conscience, and are therefore under no necessity of bringing it to market. If so, you should ‘give God thanks, and make no boast of it.’ It is a great luxury certainly, and well worth keeping, caeteris paribus. But it is neither meat, clothes, nor fire. It becomes a good coat well; but it will never make one. Poets are verbal musicians, and, like other musicians, they have a right to sing and play, where they can be best paid for their music.

  Mr. Forester. There could be no objection to that, if they would be content to announce themselves as dealers and chapmen: but the poetical character is too frequently a combination of the most arrogant and exclusive assumption of freedom and independence in theory, with the most abject and unqualified venality, servility, and sycophancy in practice.

  Mr. Feathernest. It is as notorious, sir, as the sun at?noon-day, that theory and practice are never expected to coincide. If a West Indian planter declaims against the Algerines, do you expect him to lose any favourable opportunity of increasing the number of his own slaves? If an invaded country cries out against spoliation, do you suppose, if the tables were turned, it would show its weaker neighbours the forbearance it required? If an Opposition orator clamours for a reform in Parliament, does any one dream that, if he gets into office, he will ever say another word about it? If one of your reverend friends should display his touching eloquence on the subject of temperance, would you therefore have the barbarity to curtail him of one drop of his three bottles? Truth and liberty, sir, are pretty words, very pretty words — a few years ago they were the gods of the day — they superseded in poetry the agency of mythology and magic: they were the only passports into the poetical market: I acted accordingly the part of a prudent man: I took my station, became my own crier, and vociferated Truth and Liberty, till the noise I made brought people about me, to bid for me: and to the highest bidder I knocked myself down, at less than I am worth certainly; but when an article is not likely to keep, it is by no means prudent to postpone the sale.

  What makes all doctrines plain and clear?

  About two hundred pounds a year. —

  And that which was proved true before,

  Prove false again? — Two hundred more.

  Mr. Hippy. A dry discussion! Pass the bottle, and moisten it.

  Mr. O’Scarum. Here’s half of us fast asleep. Let us make a little noise to wake us. A glee now: I’ll be one: who’ll join?

  Sir Telegraph Paxarett. I.

  The Rev. Mr. Portpipe. And I.

  Mr. Hippy. Strike up then. Silence!

  GLEE — THE GHOSTS

  In life three ghostly friars were we,

  And now three friarly ghosts we be.

  Around our shadowy table placed,

  The spectral bowl before us floats:

  With wine that none but ghosts can taste

  We wash our unsubstantial throats.

  Three merry ghosts — three merry ghosts — three merry ghosts are we:

  Let the ocean be Port, and we’ll think it good sport

  To be laid in that Red Sea.

  With songs that jovial spectres chaunt,

  Our old refectory still we haunt.

  The traveller hears our midnight mirth:

  ‘O list!’ he cries, ‘the haunted choir!

  The merriest ghost that walks the earth

  Is sure the ghost of a ghostly friar.’

  Three merry ghosts — three merry ghosts — three merry ghosts are we:

  Let the ocean be Port, and we’ll think it good sport

  To be laid in that Red Sea.

  Mr. Hippy. Bravo! I should like to have my house so haunted. The deuce is in it, if three such ghosts would not keep the blue devils at bay. Come, we’ll lay them in a bumper of claret.

  (Sir Oran Haut-ton took his flute from his pocket, and played over the air of the glee. The company was at first extremely surprised, and then joined in applauding his performance. Sir Oran bowed acknowledgment, and returned his flute to his pocket. )

  Mr. Forester. It is, perhaps, happy for yourself, Mr. Feathernest, th
at you can treat with so much levity a subject that fills me with the deepest grief. Man under the influence of civilisation has fearfully diminished in size and deteriorated in strength. The intellectual are confessedly nourished at the expense of the physical faculties. Air, the great source and fountain of health and life, can scarcely find access to civilised man, muffled as he is in clothes, pent in houses, smoke-dried in cities, half-roasted by artificial fire, and parboiled in the hydrogen of crowded apartments. Diseases multiply upon him in compound proportion. Even if the prosperous among us enjoy some comforts unknown to the natural man, yet what is the poverty of the savage, compared with that of the lowest classes of civilised nations? The specious aspect of luxury and abundance in one is counterbalanced by the abject penury and circumscription of hundreds. Commercial prosperity is a golden surface, but all beneath it is rags and wretchedness. It is not in the splendid bustle of our principal streets — in the villas and mansions that sprinkle our valleys — for those who enjoy these things (even if they did enjoy them — even if they had health and happiness — and the rich have seldom either) bear but a small proportion to the whole population: — but it is in the mud hovel of the labourer — in the cellar of the artisan — in our crowded prisons — our swarming hospitals — our overcharged workhouses — in those narrow districts of our overgrown cities which the affluent never see — where thousands and thousands of families are compressed within limits not sufficient for the pleasure-ground of a simple squire, — that we must study the true mechanism of political society. When the philosopher turns away in despair from this dreadful accumulation of moral and physical evil, where is he to look for consolation, if not in the progress of science, in the enlargement of mind, in the diffusion of philosophical truth? But if truth is a chimaera — if virtue is a name — if science is not the handmaid of moral improvement, but the obsequious minister of recondite luxury, the specious appendage of vanity and power — then indeed, that man has fallen never to rise againis as much the cry of nature as the dream of superstition.