Complete Works of Thomas Love Peacock

by Thomas Love Peacock

  THE MAGIC BARK

  I

  O Freedom! power of life and light!

  Sole nurse of truth and glory!

  Bright dweller on the rocky cliff!

  Lone wanderer on the sea!

  Where’er the sunbeam slumbers bright

  On snow-clad mountains hoary;

  Wherever flies the veering skiff,

  O’er waves that breathe of thee!

  Be thou the guide of all my thought —

  The source of all my being —

  The genius of my waking mind —

  The spirit of my dreams!

  To me thy magic spell be taught,

  The captive spirit freeing,

  To wander with the ocean-wind

  Where’er thy beacon beams.

  II

  O sweet it were, in magic bark,

  On one loved breast reclining,

  To sail around the varied world,

  To every blooming shore;

  And oft the gathering storm to mark

  Its lurid folds combining;

  And safely ride, with sails unfurled,

  Amid the tempest’s roar;

  And see the mighty breakers rave

  On cliff and sand and shingle, And hear, with long re-echoing shock,

  The caverned steeps reply;

  And while the storm-cloud and the wave

  In darkness seemed to mingle,

  To skim beside the surf-swept rock,

  And glide uninjured by.

  III

  And when the summer seas were calm,

  And summer skies were smiling,

  And evening came, with clouds of gold,

  To gild the western wave;

  And gentle airs and dews of balm,

  The pensive mind beguiling, Should call the Ocean Swain to fold

  His sea-flocks in the cave,

  Unearthly music’s tenderest spell,

  With gentlest breezes blending

  And waters softly rippling near

  The prow’s light course along,

  Should flow from Triton’s winding shell,

  Through ocean’s depths ascending

  From where it charmed the Nereid’s ear,

  Her coral bowers among.

  IV

  How sweet, where eastern Nature smiles,

  With swift and mazy motion

  Before the odour-breathing breeze

  Of dewy morn to glide;

  Or ‘mid the thousand emerald isles

  That gem the southern ocean,

  Where fruits and flowers, from loveliest trees,

  O’erhang the slumbering tide:

  Or up some western stream to sail,

  To where its myriad fountains

  Roll down their everlasting rills

  From many a cloud-capped height,

  Till mingling in some nameless vale,

  ‘Mid forest-cinctured mountains,

  The river-cataract shakes the hills

  With vast and volumed might.

  V

  The poison-trees their leaves should shed,

  The yellow snake should perish,

  The beasts of blood should crouch and cower,

  Where’er that vessel past:

  All plagues of fens and vapours bred,

  That tropic fervours cherish,

  Should fly before its healing power,

  Like mists before the blast.

  Where’er its keel the strand imprest

  The young fruit’s ripening cluster,

  The bird’s free song, its touch should greet

  The opening flower’s perfume;

  The streams along the green earth’s breast

  Should roll in purer lustre,

  And love should heighten every sweet,

  And brighten every bloom.

  VI And, Freedom! thy meridian blaze

  Should chase the clouds that lower,

  Wherever mental twilight dim

  Obscures Truth’s vestal flame,

  Wherever Fraud and Slavery raise

  The throne of bloodstained Power,

  Wherever Fear and Ignorance hymn

  Some fabled daemon’s name!

  The bard, where torrents thunder down

  Beside thy burning altar,

  Should kindle, as in days of old,

  The mind’s ethereal fire;

  Ere yet beneath a tyrant’s frown

  The Muse’s voice could falter,

  Or Flattery strung with chords of gold

  The minstrel’s venal lyre.

  CHAPTER XLII

  CONCLUSION

  LORD ANOPHEL ONE morning paid Anthelia his usual visit. ‘You must be aware, Miss Melincourt,’ said he, ‘that if your friends could have found you out, they would have done it before this; but they have searched the whole country far and near, and have now gone home in despair.’

  Anthelia. That, my Lord, I cannot believe; for there is one, at least, who I am confident will never be weary of seeking me, and who, I am equally confident, will not always seek in vain.

  Lord Anophel Achthar. If you mean the young lunatic of Redrose Abbey, or his friend the dumb Baronet, they are both gone to London to attend the opening of the Honourable House; and if you doubt my word, I will show you their names in the Morning Post, among the Fashionable Arrivals at Wildman’s Hotel.

  Anthelia. Your Lordship’s word is quite as good as the authority you have quoted.

  Lord Anophel Achthar. Well, then, Miss Melincourt, I presume you perceive that you are completely in my power, and that I have gone too far to recede. If, indeed, I had supposed myself an object of such very great repugnance to you, which I must say (looking at himself in a glass) is quite unaccountable, I might not, perhaps, have laid this little scheme, which I thought would be only settling the affair in a compendious way; for that any woman in England would consider it a very great hardship to be Lady Achthar, and hereafter Marchioness of Agaric, and would feel any very mortal resentment for means that tended to make her so, was an idea, egad, that never entered my head. However, as I have already observed, you are completely in my power: both our characters are compromised, and there is only one way to mend the matter, which is to call in Grovelgrub, and make him strike up ‘Dearly beloved.’

  Anthelia. As to your character, Lord Anophel, that must be your concern. Mine is in my own keeping; for, having practised all my life a system of uniform sincerity, which gives me a right to be believed by all who know me, and more especially by all who love me, I am perfectly indifferent to private malice or public misrepresentation.

  Lord Anophel Achthar. There is such a thing, Miss Melincourt, as tiring out a man’s patience; and, ‘pon honour, if gentle means don’t succeed with you, I must have recourse to rough ones, ‘pon honour.

  Anthelia. My Lord!

  Lord Anophel Achthar. I am serious, curse me. You will be glad enough to hush all up, then, and we’ll go to court together in due form.

  Anthelia. What you mean by hushing up, Lord Anophel, I know not: but of this be assured, that under no circumstances will I ever be your wife; arid that whatever happens to me in any time or place, shall be known to all who are interested in my welfare. I know too well the difference between the true quality of a pure and simple mind and the false affected modesty which goes by that name in the world, to be intimidated by threats which can only be dictated by a supposition that your wickedness would be my disgrace, and that false shame would induce me to conceal what both truth and justice would command me to make known.

  Lord Anophel stood aghast for a few minutes, at the declaration of such unfashionable sentiments. At length saying, ‘Ay, preaching is one thing, and practice another, as Grovelgrub can testify,’ he seized her hand with violence, and threw his arm round her waist. Anthelia screamed, and at that very moment a violent noise of ascending steps was heard on the stairs; the door was burst open, and Sir Oran Haut-ton appeared in the aperture, with the Reverend Mr. Grovelgrub in custody, wh
om he dragged into the apartment, followed by Mr. Forester and Mr. Fax. Mr. Forester flew to Anthelia, who threw herself into his arms, hid her face in his bosom, and burst into tears: which when Sir Oran saw, his wrath grew boundless, and quitting his hold of the Rev. Mr. Grovelgrub (who immediately ran downstairs, and out of the castle, as fast as a pair of short thick legs could carry him), seized on Lord Anophel Achthar, and was preparing to administer natural justice by throwing him out at the window; but Mr. Fax interposed, and calling Mr. Forester’s attention, which was totally engaged with Anthelia, they succeeded in rescuing the terrified sprig of nobility; who immediately, leaving the enemy in free possession, flew downstairs after his reverend tutor; whom, on issuing from the castle, he discovered at an immense distance on the sands, still running with all his might. Lord Anophel gave him chase, and after a long time came within hail of him, and shouted to him to stop.

  But this only served to quicken the reverend gentleman’s speed; who, hearing the voice of pursuit, and too much terrified to look back, concluded that the’ dumb Baronet had found his voice, and was then in the very act of gaining on his flight. Therefore, the more Lord Anophel shouted ‘Stop!’ the more nimbly the reverend gentleman sped along the sands, running and roaring all the way, like Falstaff on Gadshill; his Lordship still exerting all his powers of speed in the rear, and gaining on his flying Mentor by very imperceptible gradations: where we shall leave them to run ad libitum, while we account for the sudden appearance of Mr. Forester and his friends.

  We left them walking along the shore of the sea, which they followed till they arrived in the vicinity of Alga Castle, from which the Reverend Mr. Grovelgrub emerged in evil hour, to take a meditative walk on the sands. The keen sight of the natural man descried him from far. Sir Oran darted on his prey; and though it is supposed that he could not have overtaken the swift-footed Achilles, he had very little difficulty in overtaking the Reverend Mr. Grovelgrub, who had begun to run for his life as soon as he was aware of the foe. Sir Oran shook his stick over his head, and the reverend gentleman dropping on his knees, put his hands together, and entreated for mercy, saying ‘he would confess all.’ Mr. Forester and Mr. Fax came up in time to hear the proposal: the former restrained the rage of Sir Oran, who, however, still held his prisoner fast by the arm; and the reluctant divine, with many a heavy groan, conducted his unwelcome company to the door of Anthelia’s apartments.

  ‘O Forester!’ said Anthelia, ‘you have realised all my wishes. I have found you the friend of the poor, the enthusiast of truth, the disinterested cultivator of the rural virtues, the active promoter of the cause of human liberty. It only remained that you should emancipate a captive damsel, who, however, will but change the mode of her durance, and become your captive for life.’

  It was not long after this event, before the Reverend Mr. Portpipe and the old chapel of Melincourt Castle were put in requisition, to make a mystical unit of Anthelia and Mr. Forester. The day was celebrated with great festivity throughout their respective estates, and the Reverend Mr. Portpipe was voti compos, that is to say, he had taken a resolution on the day of Anthelia’s christening, that he would on the day of her marriage drink one bottle more than he had ever taken at one sitting on any other occasion; which resolution he had now the satisfaction of carrying into effect.

  Sir Oran Haut-ton continued to reside with Mr. Forester and Anthelia. They discovered in the progress of time that he had formed for the latter the same kind of reverential attachment as the Satyr in Fletcher forms for the Holy Shepherdess: and Anthelia might have said to him in the words of Corin:

  They wrong thee that do call thee rude:

  Though thou be’st outward rough and tawny-hued,

  Thy manners are as gentle and as fair

  As his who boasts himself born only heir

  To all humanity.

  His greatest happiness was in listening to the music of her harp and voice: in the absence of which he solaced himself, as usual, with his flute and French horn. He became likewise a proficient in drawing; but what progress he made in the art of speech we have not been able to ascertain.

  Mr. Fax was a frequent visitor at Melincourt, and there was always a cover at the table for the Reverend Mr. Portpipe.

  Mr. Hippy felt half inclined to make proposals to Miss Evergreen; but understanding from Mr. Forester that, from the death of her lover in early youth, that lady had irrevocably determined on a single life, he comforted himself with passing half his time at Melincourt Castle, and dancing the little Foresters on his knee, whom he taught to call him ‘grandpapa Hippy,’ and seemed extremely proud of the imaginary relationship.

  Mr. Forester disposed of Redrose Abbey to Sir Telegraph Paxarett, who, after wearing the willow twelve months, married, left off driving, and became a very respectable specimen of an English country gentleman.

  We must not conclude without informing those among our tender-hearted readers who would be much grieved if Miss Danaretta Contantina Pinmoney should have been disappointed in her principal object of making a good match, that she had at length the satisfaction, through the skilful management of her mother, of making the happiest of men of Lord Anophel Achthar.

  THE END

  Nightmare Abbey

  Published in 1818, Nightmare Abbey is Peacock’s third novel and, along with Crotchet Castle, his best known. It is a Gothic satire in which the author pokes light-hearted fun at the Romantic Movement in contemporary English literature, in particular its obsession with morbid subjects, misanthropy and transcendental philosophical systems. Most of the characters in the novella are based on historical figures that Peacock wishes to pillory.

  Insofar as Nightmare Abbey may be said to have a plot (like Peacock’s other novels it is mainly concerned with the discussion of contemporary philosophical and political ideas), it follows the fortunes of Christopher Glowry, Esquire, a morose widower that lives with his only son Scythrop in his semi-dilapidated family mansion Nightmare Abbey, which is situated on a strip of dry land between the sea and the fens in Lincolnshire.

  The novella was lightly revised by the author in 1837 for republication in Volume 57 of Bentley’s Standard Novels.

  Title page of the first edition

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  The first edition of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s ‘The Sorrows of Young Werther’ – a quintessential and immensely popular work of Romanticism and one of the novel’s many satirical targets

  There’s a dark lantern of the spirit,

  Which none see by but those who bear it,

  That makes them in the dark see visions

  And hag themselves with apparitions,

  Find racks for their own minds, and vaunt

  Of their own misery and want.

  BUTLER.

  MATTHEW. Oh! it’s your only fine humour, sir. Your true melancholy breeds your perfect fine wit, sir. I am melancholy myself, divers times, sir; and then do I no more but take pen and paper presently, and overflow you half a score or a dozen of sonnets at a sitting.

  STEPHEN. Truly, sir, and I love such things out of measure.

  MATTHEW. Why, I pray you, sir, make use of my study: it’s at your service.

  STEPHEN. I thank you, sir, I shall be bold, I warrant you. Have you a stool there, to be melancholy upon?

  BEN JONSON, Every Man in his Humour, Act 3, Sc. I

  Ay esleu gazouiller et siffler oye, comme dit le commun proverbe, entre les cygnes, plutoust que d’estre entre tant de gentils poëtes et faconds orateurs mut du tout estimé.

  RABELAIS, Prol. L. 5

  CHAPTER I


  NIGHTMARE ABBEY, A venerable family-mansion, in a highly picturesque state of semi-dilapidation, pleasantly situated on a strip of dry land between the sea and the fens, at the verge of the county of Lincoln, had the honour to be the seat of Christopher Glowry, Esquire. This gentleman was naturally of an atrabilarious temperament, and much troubled with those phantoms of indigestion which are commonly called blue devils. He had been deceived in an early friendship: he had been crossed in love; and had offered his hand, from pique, to a lady, who accepted it from interest, and who, in so doing, violently tore asunder the bonds of a tried and youthful attachment. Her vanity was gratified by being the mistress of a very extensive, if not very lively, establishment; but all the springs of her sympathies were frozen. Riches she possessed, but that which enriches them, the participation of affection, was wanting. All that they could purchase for her became indifferent to her, because that which they could not purchase, and which was more valuable than themselves, she had, for their sake, thrown away. She discovered, when it was too late, that she had mistaken the means for the end — that riches, rightly used, are instruments of happiness, but are not in themselves happiness. In this wilful blight of her affections, she found them valueless as means: they had been the end to which she had immolated all her affections, and were now the only end that remained to her. She did not confess this to herself as a principle of action, but it operated through the medium of unconscious self-deception, and terminated in inveterate avarice. She laid on external things the blame of her mind’s internal disorder, and thus became by degrees an accomplished scold. She often went her daily rounds through a series of deserted apartments, every creature in the house vanishing at the creak of her shoe, much more at the sound of her voice, to which the nature of things affords no simile; for, as far as the voice of woman, when attuned by gentleness and love, transcends all other sounds in harmony, so far does it surpass all others in discord, when stretched into unnatural shrillness by anger and impatience.