Complete Works of Thomas Love Peacock

by Thomas Love Peacock

  Elphin answered, “We thank you: we are but two.”

  “Two or four,” said Seithenyn, “all is one. You are welcome all. When a stranger enters, the custom in other places is to begin by washing his feet. My custom is, to begin by washing his throat. Seithenyn ap Seithyn Saidi bids you welcome.”

  Elphin, taking the wine-cup, answered, “Elphin ap Gwythno Garanhir thanks you.”

  Seithenyn started up. He endeavoured to straighten himself into perpendicularity, and to stand steadily on his legs. He accomplished half his object by stiffening all his joints but those of his ankles, and from these the rest of his body vibrated upwards with the inflexibility of a bar. After thus oscillating for a time, like an inverted pendulum, finding that the attention requisite to preserve his rigidity absorbed all he could collect of his dissipated energies, and that he required a portion of them for the management of his voice, which he felt a dizzy desire to wield with peculiar steadiness in the presence of the son of the king, he suddenly relaxed the muscles that perform the operation of sitting, and dropped into his chair like a plummet. He then, with a gracious gesticulation, invited Prince Elphin to take his seat on his right hand, and proceeded to compose himself into a dignified attitude, throwing his body back into the left corner of his chair, resting his left elbow on its arm and his left cheekbone on the middle of the back of his left hand, placing his left foot on a footstool, and stretching out his right leg as straight and as far as his position allowed. He had thus his right hand at liberty, for the ornament of his eloquence and the conduct of his liquor.

  Elphin seated himself at the right hand of Seithenyn. Theithrin remained at the end of the hall: on which Seithenyn exclaimed, “Come on, man, come on. What, if you be not the son of a king, you are the guest of Seithenyn ap Seithenyn Saidi. The most honourable place to the most honourable guest, and the next most honourable place to the next most honourable guest; the least honourable guest above the most honourable inmate; and, where there are but two guests, be the most honourable who he may, the least honourable of the two is next in honour to the most honourable of the two, because they are no more but two; and, where there are only two, there can be nothing between. Therefore sit, and drink. GWIN O EUR: wine from gold.”

  Elphin motioned Teithrin to approach, and sit next to him.

  Prince Seithenyn, whose liquor was “his eating and his drinking solely”, seemed to measure the gastronomy of his guests by his own; but his groom of the pantry thought the strangers might be disposed to eat, and placed before them a choice of provision, on which Teithrin ap Tathral did vigorous execution.

  “I pray your excuses,” said Seithenyn, “my stomach is weak, and I am subject to dizziness in the head, and my memory is not so good as it was, and my faculties of attention are somewhat impaired, and I would dilate more upon the topic, whereby you should hold me excused, but I am troubled with a feverishness and parching of the mouth, that very much injures my speech, and impedes my saying all I would say, and will say before I have done, in token of my loyalty and fealty to your highness and your highness’s house. I must just moisten my lips, and I will then proceed with my observations. Cupbearer, fill.

  “Prince Seithenyn,” said Elphin, “I have visited you on a subject of deep moment. Reports have been brought to me, that the embankment, which has been so long intrusted to your care, is in a state of dangerous decay.”

  “Decay,” said Seithenyn, “is one thing, and danger is another. Every thing that is old must decay. That the embankment is old, I am free to confess; that it is somewhat rotten in parts, I will not altogether deny; that it is any the worse for that, I do most sturdily gainsay. It does its business well: it works well: it keeps out the water from the land, and it lets in the wine upon the High Commission of Embankment. Cupbearer, fill. Our ancestors were wiser than we: they built it in their wisdom; and, if we should be so rash as to try to mend it, we should only mar it.”

  “The stonework,” said Teithrin, “is sapped and mined: the piles are rotten, broken, and dislocated: the floodgates and sluices are leaky and creaky.”

  “That is the beauty of it,” said Seithenyn. “Some parts of it are rotten, and some parts of it are sound.”

  “It is well,” said Elphin, “that some parts are sound: it were better that all were so.”

  “So I have heard some people say before,” said Seithenyn; “perverse people, blind to venerable antiquity: that very unamiable sort of people, who are in the habit of indulging their reason. But I say, the parts that are rotten give elasticity to those that are sound: they give them elasticity, elasticity, elasticity. If it were all sound, it would break by its own obstinate stiffness: the soundness is checked by the rottenness, and the stiffness is balanced by the elasticity. There is nothing so dangerous as innovation. See the waves in the equinoctial storms, dashing and clashing, roaring and pouring, spattering and battering, rattling and battling against it. I would not be so presumptuous as to say, I could build any thing that would stand against them half an hour; and here this immortal old work, which God forbid the finger of modern mason should bring into jeopardy, this immortal work has stood for centuries, and will stand for centuries more, if we let it alone. It is well: it works well: let well alone. Cupbearer, fill. It was half rotten when I was born, and that is a conclusive reason why it should be three parts rotten when I die.”

  The whole body of the High Commission roared approbation.

  “And after all,” said Seithenyn, “the worst that could happen would be the overflow of a springtide, for that was the worst that happened before the embankment was thought of; and, if the high water should come in, as it did before, the low water would go out again, as it did before. We should be no deeper in it than our ancestors were, and we could mend as easily as they could make.”

  “The level of the sea,” said Teithrin, “is materially altered.”

  “The level of the sea!” exclaimed Seithenyn. “Who ever heard of such a thing as altering the level of the sea? Alter the level of that bowl of wine before you, in which, as I sit here, I see a very ugly reflection of your very good-looking face. Alter the level of that: drink up the reflection: let me see the face without the reflection, and leave the sea to level itself.”

  “Not to level the embankment,” said Teithrin.

  “Good, very good,” said Seithenyn. “I love a smart saying, though it hits at me. But, whether yours is a smart saying or no, I do not very clearly see; and, whether it hits at me or no, I do not very sensibly feel. But all is one. Cupbearer, fill.”

  “I think,” pursued Seithenyn, looking as intently as he could at Teithrin ap Tathral, “I have seen something very like you before. There was a fellow here the other day very like you: he stayed here some time: he would not talk: he did nothing but drink: he used to drink till he could not stand, and then he went walking about the embankment. I suppose he thought it wanted mending; but he did not say any thing. If he had, I should have told him to embank his own throat, to keep the liquor out of that. That would have posed him: he could not have answered that: he would not have had a word to say for himself after that.”

  “He must have been a miraculous person,” said Teithrin, “to walk when he could not stand.”

  “All is one for that,” said Seithenyn. “Cupbearer, fill.”

  “Prince Seithenyn,” said Elphin, “if I were not aware that wine speaks in the silence of reason, I should be astonished at your strange vindication of your neglect of duty, which I take shame to myself for not having sooner known and remedied. The wise bard has well observed, “Nothing is done without the eye of the king.”“

  “I am very sorry,” said Seithenyn, “that you see things in a wrong light: but we will not quarrel for three reasons: first, because you are the son of the king, and may do and say what you please, without any one having a right to be displeased: second, because I never quarrel with a guest, even if he grows riotous in his cups: third, because there is nothing to quarrel about; and perhaps that
is the best reason of the three; or rather the first is the best, because you are the son of the king; and the third is the second, that is, the second best, because there is nothing to quarrel about; and the second is nothing to the purpose, because, though guests will grow riotous in their cups, in spite of my good orderly example, God forbid I should say, that is the case with you. And I completely agree in the truth of your remark, that reason speaks in the silence of wine.”

  Seithenyn accompanied his speech with a vehement swinging of his right hand: in so doing, at this point, he dropped his cup: a sudden impulse of rash volition, to pick it dexterously up before he resumed his discourse, ruined all his devices for maintaining dignity; in stooping forward from his chair, he lost his balance, and fell prostrate on the floor.

  The whole body of the High Commission arose in simultaneous confusion, each zealous to be the foremost in uplifting his fallen chief. In the vehemence of their surprise, they hurled the benches backward and the tables forward; the crash of cups and bowls accompanied their overthrow; and rivulets of liquor ran gurgling through the hall. The household wished to redeem the credit of their leader in the eyes of the Prince; but the only service they could render him was to participate his discomfiture; for Seithenyn, as he was first in dignity, was also, as was fitting, hardest in skull; and that which had impaired his equilibrium had utterly destroyed theirs. Some fell, in the first impulse, with the tables and benches; others were tripped up by the rolling bowls; and the remainder fell at different points of progression, by jostling against each other, or stumbling over those who had fallen before them.

  CHAPTER III

  THE OPPRESSION OF GWENHIDWY

  Nid meddw y dyn a allo

  Cwnu ei hun a rhodio,

  Ac yved rhagor ddiawd:

  Nid yw hyny yn veddwdawd.

  Not drunk is he, who from the floor

  Can rise alone, and still drink more;

  But drunk is he, who prostrate lies,

  Without the power to drink or rise.

  A SIDE door, at the upper end of the hall, to the left of Seithenyn’s chair, opened, and a beautiful young girl entered the hall, with her domestic bard, and her attendant maidens.

  It was Angharad, the daughter of Seithenyn. The tumult had drawn her from the solitude of her chamber, apprehensive that some evil might befall her father in that incapability of self-protection to which he made a point of bringing himself by set of sun. She gracefully saluted Prince Elphin, and directed the cupbearers, (who were bound, by their office, to remain half sober till the rest of the company were finished off, after which they indemnified themselves at leisure,) she directed the cupbearers to lift up Prince Seithenyn, and bear him from the hall. The cupbearers reeled off with their lord, who had already fallen asleep, and who now began to play them a pleasant march with his nose, to inspirit their progression.

  Elphin gazed with delight on the beautiful apparition, whose gentle and serious loveliness contrasted so strikingly with the broken trophies and fallen heroes of revelry that lay scattered at her feet.

  “Stranger,” she said, “this seems an unfitting place for you: let me conduct you where you will be more agreeably lodged.”

  “Still less should I deem it fitting for you, fair maiden,” said Elphin.

  She answered, “The pleasure of her father is the duty of Angharad.”

  Elphin was desirous to protract the conversation, and this very desire took from him the power of speaking to the purpose. He paused for a moment to collect his ideas, and Angharad stood still, in apparent expectation that he would show symptoms of following, in compliance with her invitation.

  In this interval of silence, he heard the loud dashing of the sea, and the blustering of the wind through the apertures of the walls.

  This supplied him with what has been, since Britain was Britain, the alpha and omega of British conversation. He said, “It seems a stormy night.”

  She answered, “We are used to storms: we are far from the mountains, between the lowlands and the sea, and the winds blow round us from all quarters.”

  There was another pause of deep silence. The noise of the sea was louder, and the gusts pealed like thunder through the apertures. Amidst the fallen and sleeping revellers, the confused and littered hall, the low and wavering torches, Angharad, lovely always, shone with single and surpassing loveliness. The gust died away in murmurs, and swelled again into thunder, and died away in murmurs again; and, as it died away, mixed with the murmurs of the ocean, a voice, that seemed one of the many voices of the wind, pronounced the ominous words, “Beware of the oppression of Gwenhidwy.”

  They looked at each other, as if questioning whether all had heard alike.

  “Did you not hear a voice?” said Angharad, after a pause.

  “The same,” said Elphin, “which has once before seemed to say to me, ‘Beware of the oppression of Gwenhidwy.’”

  Teithrin hurried forth on the rampart: Angharad turned pale, and leaned against a pillar of the hall. Elphin was amazed and awed, absorbed as his feelings were in her. The sleepers on the floor made an uneasy movement, and uttered an inarticulate cry.

  Teithrin returned. “What saw you?” said Elphin.

  Teithrin answered, “A tempest is coming from the west. The moon has waned three days, and is half hidden in clouds, just visible above the mountains: the bank of clouds is black in the west; the scud is flying before them; and the white waves are rolling to the shore.”

  “This is the highest of the springtides,” said Angharad, “and they are very terrible in the storms from the west, when the spray flies over the embankment, and the breakers shake the tower which has its foot in the surf.”

  “Whence was the voice,” said Elphin, “which we heard erewhile? Was it the cry of a sleeper in his drink, or an error of the fancy, or a warning voice from the elements?”

  “It was surely nothing earthly,” said Angharad, “nor was it an error of the fancy, for we all heard the words, “Beware of the oppression of Gwenhidwy.” Often and often, in the storms of the springtides, have I feared to see her roll her power over the fields of Gwaelod.”

  “Pray heaven she do not tonight,” said Teithrin.

  “Can there be such a danger?” said Elphin.

  “I think,” said Teitherin, “of the decay I have seen, and I fear the voice I have heard.”

  A long pause of deep silence ensued, during which they heard the intermitting peals of the wind, and the increasing sound of the rising sea, swelling progressively into wilder and more menacing tumult, till, with one terrific impulse, the whole violence of the equinoctial tempest seemed to burst upon the shore. It was one of those tempests which occur once in several centuries, and which, by their extensive devastations, are chronicled to eternity; for a storm that signalizes its course with extraordinary destruction, becomes as worthy of celebration as a hero for the same reason. The old bard seemed to be of this opinion; for the turmoil which appalled Elphin, and terrified Angharad, fell upon his ears as the sound of inspiration: the awen came upon him; and, seizing his harp, he mingled his voice and his music with the uproar of the elements:

  THE SONG OF THE FOUR WINDS

  Wind from the north: the young spring day

  Is pleasant on the sunny mead;

  Tho’ merry harps at evening play;

  The dance gay youths and maidens lead:

  The thrush makes chorus from the thorn:

  The mighty drinker fills his horn.

  Wind from the east: the shore is still;

  The mountain-clouds fly tow’rds the sea;

  The ice is on the winter-rill;

  The great hall fire is blazing free:

  The prince’s circling feast is spread:

  Drink fills with fumes the brainless head.

  Wind from the south: in summer shade

  ’Tis sweet to hear the loud harp ring;

  Sweet is the step of comely maid,

  Who to the bard a cup doth bring:

 
The black crow flies where carrion lies:

  Where pignuts lurk, the swine will work.

  Wind from the west: the autumnal deep

  Rolls on the shore its billowy pride:

  He, who the rampart’s watch must keep,

  Will mark with awe the rising tide:

  The high springtide, that bursts its mound,

  May roll o’er miles of level ground.

  Wind from the west: the mighty wave

  Of ocean bounds o’er rock and sand;

  The foaming surges roar and rave

  Against the bulwarks of the land:

  When waves are rough, and winds are high,

  Good is the land that’s high and dry.

  Wind from the west: the storm-clouds rise;

  The breakers rave; the whirlblasts roar;

  The mingled rage of the seas and skies

  Bursts on the low and lonely shore:

  When safety’s far, and danger nigh,

  Swift feet the readiest aid supply.

  Wind from the west —

  His song was cut short by a tremendous crash. The tower, which had its foot in the sea, had long been sapped by the waves; the storm had prematurely perfected the operation, and the tower fell into the surf, carrying with it a portion of the wall of the main building, and revealing, through the chasm, the white raging of the breakers beneath the blackness of the midnight storm. The wind rushed into the hall, extinguishing the torches within the line of its course, tossing the grey locks and loose mantle of the bard, and the light white drapery and long black tresses of Angharad. With the crash of the falling tower, and the simultaneous shriek of the women, the sleepers started from the floor, staring with drunken amazement; and, shortly after, reeling like an Indian from the wine-rolling Hydaspes, in staggered Seithenyn ap Seithyn.