Complete Works of Thomas Love Peacock

by Thomas Love Peacock

  One is on fire, and one has struck on rocks

  And melted in the waves like fallen snow.

  Two crash together in the middle sea,

  And go to pieces on the instant, leaving

  No soul to tell the tale, and one is hurled

  In fragments to the sky, strewing the deep

  With death and wreck. I had rather live with Circe

  Even as I was, than flit about the world

  In those enchanted ships which some Alastor

  Must have devised as traps for mortal ruin.

  Look yet again.

  Now the whole scene is changed.

  I see long chains of strange machines on wheels,

  With one in front of each, purring white smoke

  From a black hollow column. Fast and far

  They speed, like yellow leaves before the gale,

  When autumn winds are strongest. Through their windows

  I judge them thronged with people; but distinctly

  Their speed forbids my seeing.

  SPIRIT-RAPPER

  This is one

  Of the great glories of our modern time,

  * Men are become as birds,’ and skim like swallows

  The surface of the world.

  GRYLLUS

  For what good end?

  SPIRIT-RAPPER

  The end is in itself — the end of skimming

  The surface of the world.

  GRYLLUS

  If that be all,

  I had rather sit in peace in my old home:

  But while I look, two of them meet and clash,

  And pile their way with ruin. One is rolled

  Down a steep bank; one through a broken bridge

  Is dashed into a flood. Dead, dying, wounded,

  Are there as in a battle-field. Are these

  Your modern triumphs? Jove preserve me from them.

  SPIRIT-RAPPER

  These ills are rare. Millions are borne in safety

  Where ore incurs mischance. Look yet again.

  GRYLLUS

  I see a mass of light brighter than that

  Which burned in Circe’s palace, and beneath it

  A motley crew, dancing to joyous music.

  But from that light explosion comes, and flame;

  And forth the dancers rush in haste and fear

  From their wide-blazing hall.

  SPIRIT-RAPPER

  Oh, Circe! Circe!

  Thou show’st him all the evil of our arts

  In more than just proportion to the good.

  Good without evil is not given to man.

  Jove, from his urns dispensing good and ill,

  Gives all unmixed to some, and good and ill

  Mingled to many — good unmixed to none.

  Our arts are good. The inevitable ill

  That mixes with them, as with all things human,

  Is as a drop of water in a goblet

  Full of old wine.

  1 This is the true sense of the Homeric passage: —

  (Greek passage)

  Homer: ii. xxiv.

  There are only two distributions: good and ill mixed, and

  unmixed ill. None, as Heyne has observed, receive unmixed

  good. Ex dolio bonorum....

  GRYLLUS

  More than one drop, I fear,

  And those of bitter water.

  CIRCE

  There is yet

  An ample field of scientific triumph:

  What shall we show him next?

  SFIRIT-RAPPER

  Pause we awhile,

  He is not in the mood to feel conviction

  Of our superior greatness. He is all

  For rural comfort and domestic ease,

  But our impulsive days are all for moving:

  Sometimes with some ulterior end, but still

  For moving, moving, always. There is nothing

  Common between us in our points of judgment.

  He takes his stand upon tranquillity,

  We ours upon excitement. There we place

  The being, end, and aim of mortal life,

  The many are with us: some few, perhaps,

  With him. We put the question to the vote

  By universal suffrage. Aid us, Circe I

  On tajismanic wings youi spells can waft

  The question and reply* Are we not wiser,

  Happier, and better, than the men of old,

  Of Homer’s days, of Athens, and of Rome?

  VOICES WITHOUT

  Ay. No. Ay, ay. No. Ay, ay, ay, ay, ay,

  We are the wisest race the earth has known,

  The most advanced in all the arts of life,

  In science and in morals.

  ...nemo meracius accipit: hoc memorare omisit. This sense is

  implied, not expressed. Pope missed it in his otherwise

  beautiful translation.

  Two urns by Jove’s high throne have ever stood,

  The source of evil one, and one of good;

  From thence the cup of mortal man he fills,

  Blessings to these, to those distributes ills,

  To most he mingles both: the wretch decreed

  To taste the bad, unmixed, is curst indeed;

  Pursued by wrongs, by meagre famine driven,

  He wanders, outcast both of earth and heaven.

  — Pope.

  SPIRIT-RAPPER

  The ays have it.

  What is that wondrous sound, that seems like thunder

  Mixed with gigantic laughter?

  CIRCE

  It is Jupiter,

  Who laughs at your presumption; half in anger,

  And half in mockery. Now, my worthy masters,

  You must in turn experience in yourselves

  The mighty magic thus far tried on others.

  The table turned slowly, and by degrees went on spinning

  with accelerated speed. The legs assumed motion, and it

  danced off the stage. The arms of the chairs put forth

  hands, and pinched the spirit-rappers, who sprang up and ran

  off, pursued by their chairs. This piece of mechanical

  pantomime was a triumph of Lord Curryfin’s art, and afforded

  him ample satisfaction for the failure of his resonant

  vases.

  CIRCE

  Now, Gryllus, we may seek our ancient home

  In my enchanted isle.

  GRYLLUS

  Not yet, not yet.

  Good signs are toward of a joyous supper.

  Therein the modern world may have its glory,

  And I, like an impartial judge, am ready

  To do it ample justice. But, perhaps,

  As all we hitherto have seen are shadows,

  So too may be the supper.

  CIRCE

  Fear not, Gryllus.

  That you will find a sound reality,

  To which the land and air, seas, lakes, and rivers,

  Have sent their several tributes. Now, kind friends,

  Who with your smiles have graciously rewarded

  Our humble, but most earnest aims to please,

  And with your presence at our festal board

  Will charm the winter midnight, Music gives

  The signal: Welcome and old wine await you.

  THE CHORUS

  Shadows to-night have offered portraits true

  Of many follies which the world enthrall.

  ‘Shadows we are, and shadows we pursue’:

  But, in the banquet’s well-illumined hall,

  Realides, delectable to all,

  Invite you now our festal joy to share.

  Could we our Attic prototype recall,

  One compound word should give our bill of fare:

  But where our language fails, our hearts true welcome bear.

  1 As at the end of the Ecclesusæ

  Miss Gryll was resplendent as Circe; and Miss Niphet., as leader of the chorus, looked like Melpomene
herself, slightly unbending her tragic severity into that solemn smile which characterised the chorus of the old comedy. The charm of the first acted irresistibly on Mr. Falconer. The second would have completed, if anything had been wanted to complete it, the conquest of Lord Curryfin.

  The supper passed off joyously, and it was a late hour of the morning before the company dispersed.

  CHAPTER XXIX

  THE BALD VENUS — INEZ DE CASTRO — THE UNITY OF LOVE

  Within the temple of my purer mind

  One imaged form shall ever live enshrined,

  And hear the vows, to first affection due,

  Still breathed: for love that ceases ne’er was true.

  — Leyden’s Scenes of Infancy.

  An interval of a week was interposed between the comedy and the intended ball. Mr. Falconer having no fancy for balls, and disturbed beyond endurance by the interdict which Miss Gryll had laid on him against speaking, for four times seven days, on the subject nearest his heart, having discharged with becoming self-command his share in the Aristophanic comedy, determined to pass his remaining days of probation in the Tower, where he found, in the attentions of the seven sisters, not a perfect Nepenthe, but the only possible antidote to intense vexation of spirit. It is true, his two Hebes, pouring out his Madeira, approximated as nearly as anything could do to Helen’s administration of the true Nepenthe. He might have sung of Madeira, as Redi’s Bacchus sang of one of his favourite wines: —

  Egli è il vero oro potabile,

  Che mandar suole in esilio

  Ogni male inrimediabile:

  Egli è d’Elena il Nepente,

  Che fa stare il mondo allegro,

  Dai pensieri

  Foschi e neri

  Sempre sciolto, e sempre esente.

  1 Redi: Bacco in Toscana.

  Matters went on quietly at the Grange. One evening, Mr. Gryll said quietly to the Reverend Doctor Opimian —

  ‘I have heard you, doctor, more than once, very eulogistic of hair as indispensable to beauty. What say you to the bald Venus of the Romans — Venus Calva?’

  The Rev. Dr. Opimian. Why, sir, if it were a question whether the Romans had any such deity, I would unhesitatingly maintain the negatur. Where do you find her?

  Mr. Gryll. In the first place, I find her in several dictionaries.

  The Rev. Dr. Opimian. A dictionary is nothing without an authority. You have no authority but that of one or two very late writers, and two or three old grammarians, who had found the word and guessed at its meaning. You do not find her in any genuine classic. A bald Venus! It is as manifest a contradiction in terms as hot ice, or black snow.

  Lord Curryfin. Yet I have certainly read, though I cannot at this moment say where, that there was in Rome a temple to Venus Calva, and that it was so dedicated in consequence of one of two circumstances: the first being that through some divine anger the hair of the Roman women fell off, and that Ancus Martius set up a bald statue of his wife, which served as an expiation, for all the women recovered their hair, and the worship of the Bald Venus was instituted; the other being, that when Rome was taken by the Gauls, and when they had occupied the city, and were besieging the Capitol, the besieged having no materials to make bowstrings, the women cut off their hair for the purpose, and after the war a statue of the Bald Venus was raised in honour of the women.

  The Rev. Dr. Opimian. I have seen the last story transferred to the time of the younger Maximin. But when two or three explanations, of which only one can possibly be true, are given of any real or supposed fact, we may safely conclude that all are false. These are ridiculous myths, founded on the misunderstanding of an obsolete word. Some hold that Calva, as applied to Venus, signifies pure; but I hold with others that it signifies alluring, with a sense of deceit. You will find the cognate verbs, calvo and calvor, active,

  1 Julius Capitolinus: Max. Jun. c. 7.

  2 Est et Venus Calva ob hanc causam, quod cum Galli

  Capitolium obsiderent, et deessent funes Romanis ad tormenta

  facienda, prima. Domitia crinem suum, post caeterae matron,

  imitatae earn, exsecuerune, unde facta tormenta; et post

  bellum statua Veneri hoc nomine collocata est: licet alii

  Calvam Venerem quasi puram tradant: alii Calvam, quod corda

  calviat, id est, fallat atque éludât. Quidam dicunt,

  porrigine olim capillos cecidisse fominis, et Ancum regem

  suae uxori statuam Calvam posuisse, quod constitit piaculo;

  nam mox omnibus fominis capilli renati sunt: unde institutum

  ut Calva Venus coleretur.

  — Servius ad Aen. i.

  passive, and deponent, in Servius, Plautus, and Sallust. Nobody pretends that the Greeks had a bald Venus. The Venus Calva of the Romans was the Aphrodite Dolie of the Greeks. Beauty cannot co-exist with baldness; but it may and does co-exist with deceit. Homer makes deceitful allurement an essential element in the girdle of Venus. Sappho addresses her as craft-weaving Venus. Why should I multiply examples, when poetry so abounds with complaints of deceitful love that I will be bound every one of this company could, without a moment’s hesitation, find a quotation in point? — Miss Gryll, to begin with.

  1 Contra ille calvi ratus. Sallust: Hist. iii.

  Thinking himself to be deceitfully allured.

  2 Nam ubi domi sola sum, sopor manus calvitur.

  — Plautus in Casina.

  For when I am at home alone, sleep alluringly deceives my hands.

  3 (Greek passage)

  4 (Greek passage)

  5 (Greek passage)

  Miss Gryll. Oh, doctor, with every one who has a memory for poetry, it must be l’embarras de richesses. We could occupy the time till midnight in going round and round on the subject. We should soon come to an end with instances of truth and constancy.

  The Rev. Dr. Opimian. Not so soon, perhaps. If we were to go on accumulating examples, I think I could find you a Penelope for a Helen, a Fiordiligi for an Angelica, an Imogene for a Calista, a Sacripant for a Rinaldo, a Romeo for an Angelo, to nearly the end of the chapter. I will not say quite, for I am afraid at the end of the catalogue the numbers of the unfaithful would predominate.

  Miss Ilex. Do you think, doctor, you would find many examples of love that is one, and once for all; love never transferred from its first object to a second?

  The Rev. Dr. Opimian. Plato holds that such is the essence of love, and poetry and romance present it in many instances.

  Miss Ilex. And the contrary in many more.

  The Rev. Dr. Opimian. If we look, indeed, into the realities of life, as they offer themselves to us in our own experience, in history, in biography, we shall find few instances of constancy to first love; but it would be possible to compile a volume of illustrious examples of love which, though it may have previously ranged, is at last fixed in single, unchanging constancy. Even Inez de Castro was only the second love of Don Pedro of Portugal; yet what an instance is there of love enduring in the innermost heart, as if it had been engraved on marble.

  Miss Gryll. What is that story, doctor? I know it but imperfectly.

  The Rev. Dr. Opimian. Inez de Castro was the daughter, singularly beautiful and accomplished, of a Castilian nobleman, attached to the court of Alphonso the Fourth of Portugal. When very young, she became the favourite and devoted friend of Constance, the wife of the young Prince Don Pedro. The princess died early, and the grief of Inez touched the heart of Pedro, who found no consolation but in her society. Thence grew love, which resulted in secret marriage. Pedro and Inez lived in seclusion at Coimbra, perfectly happy in each other, and in two children who were born to them, till three of Alphonso’s courtiers, moved by I know not what demon of mischief — for I never could discover an adequate motive — induced the king to attempt the dissolution of the marriage, and failing in this, to authorise them to murder Inez during a brief absence of her husband. Pedro raised a rebellion, and desolated the estates of the assassins, who esc
aped, one into France, and two into Castile. Pedro laid down his arms on the entreaty of his mother, but would never again see his father, and lived with his two children in the strictest retirement in the scene of his ruined happiness. When Alphonso died, Pedro determined not to assume the crown till he had punished the assassins of his wife. The one who had taken refuge in France was dead; the others were given up by the King of Castile. They were put to death, their bodies were burned, and their ashes were scattered to the winds. He then proceeded to the ceremony of his coronation. The mortal form of Inez, veiled and in royal robes, was enthroned by his side: he placed the queenly crown on her head, and commanded all present to do her homage. He raised in a monastery, side by side, two tombs of white marble, one for her, one for himself. He visited the spot daily, and remained inconsolable till he rejoined her in death. This is the true history, which has been sadly perverted by fiction.

  Miss Ilex. There is, indeed, something grand in that long-enduring constancy: something terribly impressive in that veiled spectral image of robed and crowned majesty. You have given this, doctor, as an instance that the first love is not necessarily the strongest, and this, no doubt, is frequently true. Even Romeo had loved Rosalind before he saw Juliet. But love which can be so superseded is scarcely love. It is acquiescence in a semblance: acquiescence, which may pass for love through the entire space of life, if the latent sympathy should never meet its perfect counterpart.

  The Rev. Dr. Opimian. Which it very seldom does; but acquiescence in the semblance is rarely enduring, and hence there are few examples of lifelong constancy. But I hold with Plato that true love is single, indivisible, unalterable.

  Miss Ilex. In this sense, then, true love is first love; for the love which endures to the end of life, though it may be the second in semblance, is the first in reality.

  The next morning Lord Curryfin said to Miss Niphet. ‘You took no part in the conversation of last evening. You gave no opinion on the singleness and permanence of love.’

  Miss Niphet. I mistrust the experience of others, and I have none of my own.