Complete Works of Thomas Love Peacock

by Thomas Love Peacock

Mr. Forester. In a state of society so corrupted as that in which we live, the best instructors and companions are ancient books; and these are best studied in those congenial solitudes, where the energies of nature are most pure and uncontrolled, and the aspect of external things recalls in some measure the departed glory of the world.

  Mr. Fax. Holding, as I do, that no branch of knowledge is valuable, but such as in its ultimate results has a plain and practical tendency to the general diffusion of moral and political truth, you must allow me to doubt the efficacy of solitary intercourse with stocks and stones, however rugged and fantastic in their shapes, towards the production of this effect.

  Mr. Forester. It is matter of historical testimony that occasional retirement into the recesses of nature has produced the most salutary effects of the very kind you require, in the instance of some of the most illustrious minds that have adorned the name of man.

  Mr. Fax. That the health and purity of the country, its verdure and its sunshine, have the most beneficial influence on the mental and corporeal faculties, I am very far from being inclined to deny: but this is a different consideration from that of the connection between the scenery of the mountains and the genius of liberty. Look into the records of the world. What have the mountains done for freedom and mankind? When have the mountains, to speak in the cant of the new school of poetry, ‘sent forth a voice of power’ to awe the oppressors of the world? Mountaineers are for the most part a stupid and ignorant race: and where there are stupidity and ignorance, there will be superstition; and where there is superstition, there will be slavery.

  Mr. Forester. To a certain extent I cannot but agree with you. The names of Hampden and Milton are associated with ‘ the level plains and flat pastures of Buckinghamshire; but I cannot now remember what names of true greatness and unshaken devotion to general liberty are associated with these heathy rocks and cloud-capped mountains of Cumberland. We have seen a little horde of poets, who brought hither from the vales of the south the harps which they had consecrated to Truth and Liberty, to acquire new energy in the mountain winds: and now those harps are attuned to the praise of luxurious power, to the strains of courtly sycophancy, and to the hymns of exploded superstition. But let not the innocent mountains bear the burden of their transgressions.

  Mr. Fax. All I mean to say is, that there is nothing in the nature of mountain scenery either to make men free or to keep them so. The only source of freedom is intellectual light. The ignorant are always slaves, though they dwell among the Andes. The wise are always free, though they cultivate a savannah. Who is so stupid and so servile as a Swiss, whom you find, like a piece of living furniture, the human latch of every great man’s door?

  Mr. Forester. Let us look back to former days, to the mountains of the North:

  Wild the Runic faith, And wild the realms where Scandinavian chiefs And Scalds arose, and hence the Scald’s strong verse Partook the savage wildness. And methinks, Amid such scenes as these the poet’s soul Might best attain full growth.

  Mr. Fax. As to the ‘Scald’s strong verse,’ I must say I have never seen any specimens of it that I did not think mere trash. It is little more than a rhapsody of rejoicing in carnage, a ringing of changes on the biting sword and the flowing of blood and the feast of the raven and the vulture, and fulsome flattery of the chieftain, of whom the said Scald was the abject slave, vassal, parasite, and lauréat, interspersed with continual hints that he ought to be well paid for his lying panegyrics.

  Mr. Forester. There is some justice in your observations: nevertheless, I must still contend that those who seek the mountains in a proper frame of feeling will find in them images of energy and liberty, harmonising most aptly with the loftiness of an unprejudiced mind, and nerving the arm of resistance to every variety of oppression and imposture that winds the chains of power round the free-born spirit of man.

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  THE FRACAS

  AFTER A LONG ramble among heath and rock, and over moss and moor, they began to fear the probability of being benighted among those desolate wilds, when fortunately they found that their track crossed one of the principal roads, which they followed for a short time, and entered a small town, where they stopped for the night at an inn. They were shown upstairs into an apartment separated from another only by a movable partition, which allowed the two rooms to be occasionally laid into one. They were just sitting down to dinner when they heard the voices of some newly-arrived company in the adjoining apartment, and distinguished the tones of a female voice indicative of alarm and anxiety, and the masculine accents of one who seemed to be alternately comforting the afflicted fair one, and swearing at the obsequious waiter, with reiterated orders, as it appeared, for another chaise immediately. Mr. Fax was not long in divining that the new-comers were two runaway lovers in momentary apprehension of being overtaken; and this conjecture was confirmed, when, after a furious rattle of wheels in the yard, the door of the next apartment was burst open, and a violent scream from the lady was followed by a gruff shout of—’ So ho, miss, here you are. Gretna, eh? Your journey’s marred for this time; and if you get off again, say you have my consent — that’s all.’ Low soft tones of supplication ensued, but in undistinguishable words, and continued to be repeated in the intervals of the following harangue: ‘Love indeed! don’t tell me. Aren’t you my daughter? Answer me that. And haven’t I a right over you till you are twenty-one? You may marry then; but not a rap of the ready; my money’s my own all my life. Haven’t I chosen you a proper husband — a nice rich young fellow not above forty-five? — Sixty, you minx! no such thing. Rolling in riches: member for Threevotes: two places, three pensions, and a sinecure: famous borough interest to make all your children generals and archbishops. And here a miserable vagabond with only five hundred a year in landed property. — Pish! love indeed! — own age — congenial minds — pshaw! all a farce. Money — money — money — that’s the matter: money is the first thing — money is the second thing — money is the third thing — money is the only thing — money is everything and all things.’—’ Vagabond, sir,’ said a third voice: ‘I am a gentleman, and have money sufficient to maintain your daughter in comfort.’—’ Comfort!’ said the gruff voice again; ‘comfort with five hundred a year, ha! ha! ha! eh, Sir Bonus?’—’ Hooh! hooh! hooh! very droll indeed,’ said a fourth voice, in a sound that seemed a mixture of a cough and a laugh. ‘ Very well, sir,’ said the third voice; ‘I shall not part with my treasure quietly, I assure you.’—’ Rebellion! flat rebellion against parental authority,’ exclaimed the second. ‘But I’m too much for you, youngster. Where are all my varlets and rascals?’

  A violent trampling of feet, and various sounds of tumult ensued, as if the old gentleman and his party were tearing the lovers asunder by main force; and at length an agonising scream from the young lady seemed to announce that their purpose was accomplished. Mr. Forester started up with a view of doing all in his power to assist the injured damsel; and Sir Oran Haut-ton, who, as the reader has seen, had very strong feelings of natural justice, and a most chivalrous sympathy with females in distress, rushed with a desperate impulse against the partition, and hurled a great portion of it, with a violent crash, into the adjoining apartment. This unexpected event had the effect of fixing the whole group within for a few moments in motionless surprise in their respective places.

  The fat and portly father, who was no other than our old acquaintance Sir Gregory Greenmould, and the old valetudinarian he had chosen for his daughter, Sir Bonus Mac Scrip, were directing the efforts of their myrmidons to separate the youthful pair. The young lady was clinging to her lover with the tenacity of the tendrils of a vine: the young gentleman’s right arm was at liberty, and he was keeping the assailants at bay with the poker, which he had seized on the first irruption of the foe, and which had left vestiges of its impression, to speak in ancient phraseology, in various green wounds and bloody coxcombs.

  As Sir Oran was not habituated to allow any very long proces
s of syllogistic reasoning to interfere between his conception and execution of the dictates of natural justice, he commenced operations by throwing the assailants one by one downstairs, who, as fast as they could rise from the ground, ran or limped away into sundry holes and coverts. Sir Bonus Mac Scrip retreated through the breach, and concealed himself under the dining-table in Mr. Forester’s apartment. Mr. Forester succeeded in preventing Sir Gregory from being thrown after his myrmidons: but Sir Oran kept the fat baronet a close prisoner in the corner of the room, while the lovers slipped away into the inn-yard, where the chaise they had ordered was in readiness; and the cracking of whips, the trampling of horses, and the rattling of wheels announced the final discomfiture of the schemes of Sir Gregory Greenmould and the hopes of Sir Bonus Mac Scrip.

  CHAPTER XXXIX

  MAINCHANCE VILLA

  THE NEXT DAY they resumed their perquisitions, still without any clue to guide them in their search. They had hitherto had the advantage of those halcyon days which often make the middle of winter a season of serenity and sunshine; but, on this day, towards the evening, the sky grew black with clouds, the snow fell rapidly in massy flakes, and the mountains and valleys were covered with one uniform veil of whiteness. All vestiges of roads and paths were obliterated. They were winding round the side of a mountain, and their situation began to wear a very unpromising aspect, when, on a sudden turn of the road, the trees and chimneys of a villa burst upon their view in the valley below. To this they bent their way, and on ringing at the gate-bell, and making the requisite inquiries, they found it to be Mainchance Villa, the new residence of Peter Paypaul Paperstamp, Esquire, whom we introduced to our readers in the twenty-eighth chapter. They sent in their names, and received a polite invitation to walk in. They were shown into a parlour, where they found their old acquaintance Mr. Derrydown tête-à-tête at the piano with Miss Celandina, with whom he was singing a duet. Miss Celandina said, ‘her papa was just then engaged, but would soon have the pleasure of waiting on them: in the meantime Mr. Derrydown would do the honours of the house.’ Miss Celandina left the room; and they learned in conversation with Mr. Derrydown, that the latter, finding his case hopeless with Anthelia, had discovered some good reasons in an old ballad for placing his affections where they would be more welcome; he had therefore thrown himself at the feet of Miss Celandina Paperstamp; the young lady’s father, having inquired into Mr. Derrydown’s fortune, had concluded, from the answer he received, that it would be a very good match for his daughter; and the day was already definitely arranged on which Miss Celandina Paperstamp was to be metamorphosed into Mrs. Derrydown.

  Mr. Derrydown informed them that they would not see Mr. Paperstamp till dinner, as he was closeted in close conference with Mr. Feathernest, Mr. Vamp, Mr. Killthedead, and Mr. Any side Antijack, a very important personage just arrived from abroad on the occasion of a letter from Mr. Mystic of Cimmerian Lodge, denouncing an approaching period of public light, which had filled Messieurs Paperstamp, Feathernest, Vamp, Killthedead, and Antijack with the deepest dismay; and they were now holding a consultation on the best means to be adopted for totally and finally extinguishing the light of the human understanding. ‘I am excluded from the council,’ proceeded Mr. Derrydown, ‘and it is their intention to keep me altogether in the dark on the subject; but I shall wait very patiently for the operation of the second bottle, when the wit will be out of the brain, and the cat will be out of the bag.’

  ‘Is that picture a family piece?’ said Mr. Fax.

  ‘I hardly know,’ said Mr. Derrydown, ‘whether there is any relationship between Mr. Paperstamp and the persons there represented; but there is at least a very intimate connection. The old woman in the scarlet cloak is the illustrious Mother Goose; — the two children playing at see-saw are Margery Daw and Tommy with his Banbury cake; — the little boy and girl, the one with a broken pitcher, and the other with a broken head, are little Jack and Jill: the house, at the door of which the whole party is grouped, is the famous house that Jack built; you see the clock through the window and the mouse running up it, as in that sublime strain of immortal genius, entitled Dickery Dock: and the boy in the corner is little Jack Horner eating his Christmas pie. The latter is one of the most splendid examples on record of the admirable practical doctrine of “taking care of number one,” and he is therefore in double favour with Mr. Paperstamp, for his excellence as a pattern of moral and political wisdom, and for the beauty of the poetry in which his great achievement of extracting a plum from the Christmas pie is celebrated. Mr. Paperstamp, Mr. Feathernest, Mr. Vamp, Mr. Killthedead, and Mr.

  Anyside Antijack are unanimously agreed that the Christmas pie in question is a type and symbol of the public purse; and as that is a pie in which every one of them has a finger, they look with great envy and admiration on little Jack Horner, who extracted a plum from it, and who, I believe, haunts their dreams with his pie and his plum, saying, “Go, and do thou likewise!”’

  The secret council broke up, and Mr. Paperstamp entering with his four compeers, bade the new-comers welcome to Mainchance Villa, and introduced to them Mr. Anyside Antijack. Mr. Paperstamp did not much like Mr. Forester’s modes of thinking; indeed he disliked them the more, from their having once been his own; but a man of large landed property was well worth a little civility, as there was no knowing what turn affairs might take, what party might come into place, and who might have the cutting up of the Christmas pie.

  They now adjourned to dinner, during which, as usual, little was said, and much was done. When the wine began to circulate, Mr. Feathernest held forth for some time in praise of himself; and by the assistance of a little smattering in Mr. Mystic’s synthetical logic, proved himself to be a model of taste, genius, consistency, and public virtue. This was too good an example to be thrown away; and Mr. Paperstamp followed it up with a very lofty encomium on his own virtues and talents, declaring he did not believe so great a genius, or so amiable a man as himself, Peter Paypaul Paperstamp, Esquire, of Mainchance Villa, had appeared in the world since the days of Jack the Giantkiller, whose coat of darkness he hoped would become the costume of all the rising generation, whenever adequate provision should be made for the whole people to be taught and trained.

  Mr. Vamp, Mr. Killthedead, and Mr. Anyside Antijack were all very loud in their encomiums of the wine, which Mr. Paperstamp observed had been tasted for him by his friend Mr. Feathernest, who was a great connoisseur in ‘Sherris sack.’

  Mr. Derrydown was very intent on keeping the bottle in motion, in the hope of bringing the members of the criticopoetical council into that state of blind self-love, when the great vacuum of the head, in which brain was, like Mr. Harris’s indefinite article, supplied by negation, would be inflated with oenogen gas, or, in other words, with the fumes of wine, the effect of which, according to psychological chemistry, is, after filling up every chink and crevice of the cranial void, to evolve through the labial valve, bringing with it all the secrets both of memory and anticipation which had been carefully laid up in the said chinks and crevices. This state at length arrived; and Mr. Derrydown, to quicken its operation, contrived to pick a quarrel with Mr. Vamp, who being naturally very testy and waspish, poured out upon him a torrent of invectives, to the infinite amusement of Mr. Derrydown, who, however, affecting to be angry, said to him in a tragical tone,

  Thus in dregs of folly sunk,

  Art thou, miscreant, mad or drunk?

  Cups intemperate always teach

  Virulent abusive speech.

  This produced a general cry of ‘Chair! chair!’ Mr. Paperstamp called Mr. Derrydown to order. The latter apologised with as much gravity as he could assume, and said, to make amends for his warmth, he would give them a toast, and pronounced accordingly: ‘Your scheme for extinguishing the light of the human understanding: may it meet the success it merits.’

  Mr. Any side Antijack. Nothing can be in a more hopeful train. We must set the alarmists at work, as in the Antijacobin war: when, to be
sure, we had one or two honest men among our opposers — (Mr. Feathernest and Mr. Paperstamp smiled and bowed) — though they were for the most part ill-read in history, and ignorant of human nature.

  Mr. Feathernest and Mr. Paperstamp. How, sir?

  Mr. Any side Antijack. For the most part, observe me. Of course I do not include my quondam antagonists, and now very dear friends, Mr. Paperstamp and Mr. Feathernest, who have altered their minds, as the sublime Burke altered his mind, from the most disinterested motives.

  Mr. Forester. Yet there are some persons, and those not the lowest in the scale of moral philosophy, who have called the sublime Burke a pensioned apostate.

  Mr. Vamp. Moral philosophy! Every man who talks of moral philosophy is a thief and a rascal, and will never make any scruple of seducing his neighbour’s wife, or stealing his neighbour’s property.

  Mr. Forester. You can prove that assertion of course.

  Mr. Vamp. Prove it! The editor of the Legitimate Review required to prove an assertion!

  Mr. Any side Antijack. The church is in danger!

  Mr. Forester. I confess I do not see how the church is endangered by a simple request to prove the asserted necessary connection between the profession of moral philosophy and the practice of robbery.

  Mr. Any side Antijack. For your satisfaction, sir, and from my disposition to oblige you, as you are a gentleman of family and fortune, I will prove it. Every moral philosopher discards the creed and commandments: the sixth commandment says, Thou shalt not steal; therefore, every moral philosopher is a thief.

  Mr. Feathernest, Mr. Killthedead, and Mr. Paperstamp. Nothing can be more logical. The church is in danger! The church is in danger!

  Mr. Vamp. Keep up that. It is an infallible tocsin for rallying all the old women about us when everything else fails.