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Title: Melincourt
or, Sir Oran Haut-Ton
Author: Thomas Love Peacock
Author of introduction, etc.: George Saintsbury
Illustrator: F. H. Townsend
Release date: April 23, 2025 [eBook #75943]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Macmillan and Co, 1896
Credits: Richard Tonsing, Tim Lindell, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MELINCOURT ***
MELINCOURT
[Illustration: [Logo]
[Illustration: _Sir Oran Haut-ton._]
MELINCOURT
OR
SIR ORAN HAUT-TON
BY
THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK
ILLUSTRATED BY F. H. TOWNSEND
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY GEORGE SAINTSBURY
=London=
MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD.
NEW YORK: MACMILLAN & CO.
1896
_All rights reserved_
INTRODUCTION
_Melincourt_ is usually considered the least interesting of Peacock’s
novels; and in the strictly comparative sense—that is to say that it is
the least interesting of a group, every one of which has peculiar and
exceptional interest—the statement is no doubt true. The defects of the
book are very obvious, and exceedingly easy to account for. _Headlong
Hall_ had been very popular; and it was only in the course of nature
that the author should repeat his successful experiment. But _Headlong
Hall_ had been by no means free from faults; and it certainly was not
out of the course of nature that they should reappear in the new
venture. In the very noteworthy introduction which the author wrote
nearly forty years later, and which contains the promise of _Gryll
Grange_ as supplement to complete the satire, it is not unimportant to
observe that he pays no attention to anything but the satirical purport.
A man of seventy, satiated with business and not specially hungering
after popularity, was not perhaps very likely to discuss his own novels
in detail, even to the extent to which Scott and other persons of
irreproachable taste have discussed theirs in separate or collected
editions. But it is not extravagant to take his silence as a kind of
indication of his point of view.
His practice, however, if not his expressed theory, testifies to a
consciousness that he had made a mistake in the scale of this novel.
_Nightmare Abbey_, the next, is only just a third of its length: no two
of the next three, even if added together, come up to it; and though
_Gryll Grange_ is not so very much shorter, _Gryll Grange_ contains the
accumulated irony of a lifetime, and is not open to any of the
objections to which _Melincourt_ is exposed.
These objections, put briefly, come to this, that the author has not yet
acquired the knack of telling a story, and that he has not discarded the
habit of inapposite dissertation. There is truth in this summary, sharp
and blunt at once as it is, and there is probably no reader who will not
sometimes put up a prayer for the excision, extinction, expulsion, and
general extermination of Mr. Fax. But political economy had always been
a favourite subject of Peacock’s French masters; it had acquired,
through Malthus (of whom Mr. Fax has sometimes been thought to be a
Peacockian portrait), considerable vogue in England; and we have seen it
reappear in our own time as a loading or padding to novels. Mr.
Forester’s anti-saccharine fervour was a real thing for many years after
_Melincourt_ was published—though I have never heard whether the amiable
anti-saccharists or their descendants have founded any association to
weep for the ruin of the West India planters first, and the West India
Islands afterwards.
Two other kinds of purpose appear in the novel, both of them distinctly
political. In _Headlong Hall_ the attack on the _Quarterly Review_ had
been tolerably obvious, but it had kept, if not entirely, yet mainly
free of personalities. The scenes at Cimmerian Lodge and Mainchance
Villa, with Mr. Feathernest’s sojourn at Melincourt, substitute for this
impersonality a directness of personal lampoon as to the taste of which
there cannot be very much question, while as to the justice and accuracy
of it there cannot be, and among rational people of both sides never has
been, any but one opinion. Mr. Vamp (Gifford), Mr. Anyside Antijack
(Canning), and Mr. Killthedead (believed to be Barrow, Secretary to the
Admiralty, and a well-known writer on naval subjects), were perhaps fair
game, for the two last were public men—in other words, public
targets—and Gifford had only himself to blame if, after playing all his
life at the roughest and most vicious of bowls, he got some rubbers. But
the animus, the injustice, and, above all, the ludicrous inaccuracy of
the attacks on Coleridge (Mr. Mystic), Southey (Mr. Feathernest), and
Wordsworth (Mr. Paperstamp), are still almost inconceivable. That there
was a certain superficial justification for accusing them all,
especially Coleridge and Southey, of rather remarkable changes of
opinion, that Coleridge was apt to be a little transcendental, and so
forth, may be granted. But the attempt to carry the satire on to their
moral and personal conduct is not only unjustifiable in itself, but
displays a quite ludicrous ignorance and recklessness. Coleridge, heaven
knows, was open enough to satire; and if Peacock had known anything
whatever about him, he might have made a rather terrible exposure. But
‘Mr. Mystic,’ with his elaborate establishment at Cimmerian Lodge, is so
unlike the fugitive philosopher who seldom had where to lay his head
except in other men’s houses, that even amusement is difficult. And when
we remember the style of living in which Wordsworth, even at his
wealthiest, indulged, and his tastes in all matters of art, coarse and
fine, the extensive dinner-party at Mainchance Villa and its ‘mighty
claret-shed’ become a very poor jest. The ‘sooth bourd’ may be ‘nae
bourd,’ but the bourd which is altogether and glaringly opposite to the
truth is a good deal worse. Most inexcusable of the three attacks,
however, is that on Southey, which, I am sorry to say, is renewed (as it
were, _sotto voce_) by the allusions to ‘Mr. Sackbut’ in _Nightmare
Abbey_. That Southey gave some provocation to the irregulars of the Whig
party by his slightly pharisaic airs of virtue, and some handle not
merely by his curious political history, but by his more voluminous than
impeccable poetical work, is undeniable. But to represent him as a
rascal, though it might be worthy of Byron, was not worthy of Peacock;
and to represent him as selling his soul for the pittance of the
laureateship was unpardonable. Southey, as Shelley himself and many
others of Peacock’s friends could have told the author of _Melincourt_,
‘feathered his nest’ with nothing but books, worked like a navvy (only
that the navvy works in bursts and Southey worked unceasingly), at the
least paying kinds of literature, in order to procure that lining, and
lived, though not sordidly, with the utmost simplicity. It would perhaps
be less difficult to forgive this unfairness if the result were more
amusing, but as it is Peacock is condemned by the laws of art no less
than by those of ethics.
He was quite infinitely more fortunate in his other political foray—the
satire on rotten boroughs in the history of the Onevote election. The
rotten-borough system may have had its advantages, but nobody ever
denied that it lent itself admirably to satire; and I am rather inclined
to fix on this as the first complete example of Peacock’s method of
sarcastic exposure. Indeed, ‘Mr. Sarcastic’ himself, unless my
imagination deceives me, comes nearer to Peacock’s own character than
almost any other of his personages. And the whole thing, in a bravura
style, is capital. It is indeed sad to notice that the constant
legislative curtailments of the picturesque and pleasing in politics
have quite recently done away with the last shred of actuality in the
Onevote episode. For it was recorded, during the first Parish Council
elections recently, that an actual Mr. Christopher Corporate was
practically disfranchised, because, though he proposed his candidate,
and might have voted for him, he was not allowed as a seconder, and no
other existed.
The not sarcastic or not purely sarcastic scenes and personages of the
novel have considerable merit, which would be more easily perceptible if
they were not kept apart from each other by so much of the
Fax-and-Forester business. Anthelia has excited interest and admiration
as a reminiscence of Peacock’s first love, and a first draft of the more
perfectly conceived Susannah Touchandgo in _Crotchet Castle_. They both
exhibit—with some modern touches, chiefly in the latter of the pair—the
sentimental but intelligent heroine of the last century. Mrs. Pinmoney
and her daughter are slight, but good, and the former’s list of tastes
is a capital passage, while Sir Telegraph Paxarett is an excellent
personage, showing something of Thackeray’s partiality for making a
young man of fashion not quite a coxcomb, such as the older novelists
had been prone to draw him. Mr. Derrydown, who is a sort of first sketch
of Mr. Chainmail in _Crotchet Castle_, is a very intelligent
mediaevalist; and the ‘supers,’ Mr. O’Scarum and the rest, play their
parts very well.
These compliments, however, will hardly extend to the hero or the
villains, though they apply with redoubled force to Sir Oran Haut-ton.
The quadrumanous baronet, indeed, is such an excellent fellow, that one
almost wishes he could have been discovered to be no Orang at all, but a
baby lost early in the woods, could have recovered his speech, improved
his good looks, and married Anthelia. For his patron, friend, rival, and
almost namesake, Sylvan Forester, is a terrible prig and bore. It is
difficult to believe that Peacock can have sympathised with him, and
impossible not to think that he simply followed the old theory of the
good young hero, as he did other old theories in the elopement and
recovery. But Mr. Forester is not much worse than the villains.
Grovelgrub indeed, though he is much worse than Portpipe (who is not
detestable), and is the sequel to Gaster in Peacock’s curious warfare
against the clergy, has a touch of wit now and then. But Lord Anophel
Achthar (how with that title he came to be heir-apparent to a marquis
Peacock does not explain) is an exceeding poor creature, not much more
valorous than Bob Acres, without any of Bob’s redeeming fun, and as dull
a dog as need or need not be.
One very curious feature in the book is the chess dance, which has been
sometimes carried out since in reality. It is one of not the least
interesting points in Peacock’s rather enigmatic character that he seems
to have had a liking for pageants and shows, whether in themselves, or
(in this particular instance) because of the example in his beloved
Rabelais, or as fashions of old time—for there never was such a lover of
old time as this Liberal free-lance. His grand-daughter tells us that he
used to hold Lady-of-the-May revels in his old age for the children at
Halliford, and the Aristophanic play in _Gryll Grange_ partakes at least
as much of this fancy as of the direct liking for theatrical performance
proper which Peacock had, and which made him for some years a regular
theatrical and operatic critic.
The songs of _Melincourt_ are, considering its length, not numerous, and
only one of them is, for Peacock, of the first class. Anthelia’s first
ballad, “The Tomb of Love,” is not very much above the strains of the
unhappy Della Crusca and his mates, whose bodies in her time still, to
speak figuratively, lay scattered on the critic mountains cold, where
they had been left by Gifford’s tomahawk. Nor is her second, “The Flower
of Love,” much better. The terzetto, which immediately follows this, is
not very strong, though “Hark o’er the Silent Waters Stealing” is
tolerable, and “The Morning of Love” is very fair imitation-Moore, and
the Antijacobin quintet very fair Hook. Of the two remaining serious
pieces “The Sun-Dial” is much better than “The Magic Bark.” But the
credit of the verse of this novel must rest upon “The Ghosts.” It faces
a page in which Southey is represented as saying of himself, “I knocked
myself down to the highest bidder,” and interrupts a discussion which,
putting aside this childish injustice, Mr. Hippy most properly describes
as “dry,” so that it must have been a considerable relief at the time.
The disputants, it is true, relapse; but probably few attended to them
originally, and now, through most of the rest of the novel, the reader
catches himself humming at intervals,
Let the Ocean be Port, and we’ll think it good sport
To be laid in that Red Sea!
GEORGE SAINTSBURY.
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE TO THE EDITION PUBLISHED IN 1856 1
CHAPTER I
ANTHELIA 5
CHAPTER II
FASHIONABLE ARRIVALS 14
CHAPTER III
HYPOCON HOUSE 22
CHAPTER IV
REDROSE ABBEY 29
CHAPTER V
SUGAR 38
CHAPTER VI
SIR ORAN HAUT-TON 44
CHAPTER VII
THE PRINCIPLE OF POPULATION 56
CHAPTER VIII
THE SPIRIT OF CHIVALRY 62
CHAPTER IX
THE PHILOSOPHY OF BALLADS 67
CHAPTER X
THE TORRENT 75
CHAPTER XI
LOVE AND MARRIAGE 85
CHAPTER XII
LOVE AND POVERTY 91
CHAPTER XIII
DESMOND 95
CHAPTER XIV
THE COTTAGE 107
CHAPTER XV
THE LIBRARY 115
CHAPTER XVI
THE SYMPOSIUM 121
CHAPTER XVII
MUSIC AND DISCORD 132
CHAPTER XVIII
THE STRATAGEM 139
CHAPTER XIX
THE EXCURSION 147
CHAPTER XX
THE SEA-SHORE 155
CHAPTER XXI
THE CITY OF NOVOTE 161
CHAPTER XXII
THE BOROUGH OF ONEVOTE 168
CHAPTER XXIII
THE COUNCIL OF WAR 182
CHAPTER XXIV
THE BAROUCHE 188
CHAPTER XXV
THE WALK 195
CHAPTER XXVI
THE COTTAGERS 200
CHAPTER XXVII
THE ANTI-SACCHARINE FÊTE 206
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE CHESS DANCE 212
CHAPTER XXIX
THE DISAPPEARANCE 220
CHAPTER XXX
THE PAPER-MILL 226
CHAPTER XXXI
CIMMERIAN LODGE 232
CHAPTER XXXII
THE DESERTED MANSION 243
CHAPTER XXXIII
THE PHANTASM 250
CHAPTER XXXIV
THE CHURCHYARD 256
CHAPTER XXXV
THE RUSTIC WEDDING 261
CHAPTER XXXVI
THE VICARAGE 268
CHAPTER XXXVII
THE MOUNTAINS 273
CHAPTER XXXVIII
THE FRACAS 276
CHAPTER XXXIX
MAINCHANCE VILLA 281
CHAPTER XL
THE HOPES OF THE WORLD 295
CHAPTER XLI
ALGA CASTLE 305
CHAPTER XLII
CONCLUSION 316
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Sir Oran Haut-ton _Frontispiece_
Both Irishmen and clergymen 4
He was always found in the morning comfortably asleep 8
A journey to London 11
Fashionable arrivals 15
Old Harry had become, by long habit, a curious species of
animated mirror 24
Sprang up, flung his night-gown one way, his night-cap
another 27
‘Possibly,’ thought Sir Telegraph, ‘possibly I may have
seen an uglier fellow’ 32
Sir Oran took a flying leap through the window 36
Mr. Fax 57
Anthelia 72
Proceeded very deliberately to pull up a pine 78
Alighted on the doctor’s head as he was crossing the
court 82
‘My dear sir, only take the trouble of sitting a few
hours in my shop’ 98
Sir Oran sat down in the artist’s seat 110
Mr. Feathernest 123
He managed so skilfully that his Lordship became himself
the proposer of the scheme 138
She thought there was something peculiar in his look 141
He caught them both up, one under each arm 145
Their conversation was interrupted by the appearance of
Mr. Hippy 158
‘We shall always be deeply attentive to your interests’ 172
‘Hail, plural unit!’ 176
Began to lay about him with great vigour and effect 179
Perched on the summit of the rock 183
‘My father,’ said Mr. Forester, ‘began what I merely
perpetuate’ 203
The company was sipping, not without many wry faces,
their anti-saccharine tea 213
Mr. Fax was of opinion that he was smitten 221
Mr. Mystic observed that they must go farther 236
Sir Oran Haut-ton ascending the stairs with the great
rain-water tub 240
Mr. Forester made inquiries of him 246
Sir Oran, throwing himself into a chair, began to shed
tears in great abundance 253
A great press of business to dispose of 257
‘Do you know, that in all likelihood, in the course of
six years, you will have as many children?’ 263
Sir Bonus Mac Scrip retreated through the breach, and
concealed himself under the dining-table 279
She immediately ran through the shrubbery 304
He flattered himself that Anthelia would at length come
to a determination 308
Gazing on the changeful aspects of the wintry sea 311
Preparing to administer natural justice by throwing him
out at the window 318
We shall leave them to run _ad libitum_ 320
‘He would confess all’ 322
MELINCOURT
OR
SIR ORAN HAUT-TON
_VOCEM COMOEDIA TOLLIT_[1]
PREFACE
TO THE EDITION PUBLISHED IN 1856[2]
‘Melincourt’ was first published thirty-nine years ago. Many changes
have since occurred, social, mechanical, and political. The boroughs of
Onevote and Threevotes have been extinguished: but there remain boroughs
of Fewvotes, in which Sir Oran Haut-ton might still find a free and
enlightened constituency. Beards disfigure the face, and tobacco poisons
the air, in a degree not then imagined. A boy, with a cigar in his
mouth, was a phenomenon yet unborn. Multitudinous bubbles have been
blown and have burst: sometimes prostrating dupes and impostors
together; sometimes leaving a colossal jobber upright in his triumphal
chariot, which has crushed as many victims as the car of Juggernaut.
Political mountebanks have founded profitable investments on public
gullibility. British colonists have been compelled to emancipate their
slaves; and foreign slave labour, under the pretext of free trade, has
been brought to bear against them by the friends of liberty. The Court
is more moral: therefore, the public is more moral; more decorous, at
least in external semblance, wherever the homage, which Hypocrisy pays
to Virtue, can yield any profit to the professor: but always ready for
the same reaction, with which the profligacy of the Restoration rolled,
like a spring-tide, over the Puritanism of the Commonwealth. The
progress of intellect, with all deference to those who believe in it, is
not quite so obvious as the progress of mechanics. The ‘reading public’
has increased its capacity of swallow, in a proportion far exceeding
that of its digestion. Thirty-nine years ago, steamboats were just
coming into action, and the railway locomotive was not even thought of.
Now everybody goes everywhere: going for the sake of going, and
rejoicing in the rapidity with which they accomplish nothing. _On va,
mais on ne voyage pas._ Strenuous idleness drives us on the wings of
steam in boats and trains, seeking the art of enjoying life, which,
after all, is in the regulation of the mind, and not in the whisking
about of the body.[3] Of the disputants whose opinions and public
characters (for I never trespassed on private life) were shadowed in
some of the persons of the story, almost all have passed from the
diurnal scene. Many of the questions, discussed in the dialogues, have
more of general than of temporary application, and have still their
advocates on both sides: and new questions have arisen, which furnish
abundant argument for similar conversations, and of which I may yet,
perhaps, avail myself on some future occasion.
THE AUTHOR OF ‘HEADLONG HALL.’
_March 1856._
[Illustration: _Both Irishmen and clergymen._]
CHAPTER I
ANTHELIA
Anthelia Melincourt, at the age of twenty-one, was mistress of herself
and of ten thousand a year, and of a very ancient and venerable castle
in one of the wildest valleys in Westmoreland. It follows of course,
without reference to her personal qualifications, that she had a very
numerous list of admirers, and equally of course that there were both
Irishmen and clergymen among them. The young lady nevertheless possessed
sufficient attractions to kindle the flames of disinterested passion;
and accordingly we shall venture to suppose that there was at least one
in the number of her sighing swains with whom her rent-roll and her old
castle were secondary considerations; and if the candid reader should
esteem this supposition too violent for the probabilities of daily
experience in this calculating age, he will at least concede it to that
degree of poetical licence which is invariably accorded to a tale
founded on facts.
Melincourt Castle had been a place of considerable strength in those
golden days of feudal and royal prerogative, when no man was safe in his
own house unless he adopted every possible precaution for shutting out
all his neighbours. It is, therefore, not surprising, that a rock, of
which three sides were perpendicular, and which was only accessible on
the fourth by a narrow ledge, forming a natural bridge over a tremendous
chasm, was considered a very enviable situation for a gentleman to build
on. An impetuous torrent boiled through the depth of the chasm, and
after eddying round the base of the castle-rock, which it almost
insulated, disappeared in the obscurity of a woody glen, whose
mysterious recesses, by popular superstition formerly consecrated to the
devil, are now fearlessly explored by the solitary angler, or laid open
to view by the more profane hand of the picturesque tourist, who
contrives, by the magic of his pencil, to transport their romantic
terrors from the depths of mountain solitude to the gay and crowded,
though not very wholesome, atmosphere of a metropolitan exhibition.
The narrow ledge, which formed the only natural access to the
castle-rock, had been guarded by every impediment which the genius of
fortification could oppose to the progress of the hungry Scot, who might
be disposed, in his neighbourly way, to drop in without invitation and
carouse at the expense of the owner, rewarding him, as usual, for his
extorted hospitality, by cutting his throat and setting fire to his
house. A drawbridge over the chasm, backed by a double portcullis,
presented the only mode of admission. In this secure retreat thus
strongly guarded both by nature and art, and always plentifully
victualled for a siege, lived the lords of Melincourt in all the luxury
of rural seclusion, throwing open their gates on occasional halcyon days
to regale all the peasants and mountaineers of the vicinity with roasted
oxen and vats of October.
When these times of danger and turbulence had passed, Melincourt Castle
was not, as most of its brother edifices were, utterly deserted. The
drawbridge, indeed, became gradually divorced from its chains; the
double portcullis disappeared; the turrets and battlements were
abandoned to the owl and the ivy; and a very spacious wing was left free
to the settlement of a colony of ghosts, which, according to the report
of the peasantry and the domestics, very soon took possession, and
retained it most pertinaciously, notwithstanding the pious incantations
of the neighbouring vicar, the Reverend Mr. Portpipe, who often passed
the night in one of the dreaded apartments over a blazing fire with the
same invariable exorcising apparatus of a large venison pasty, a little
Prayer-book, and three bottles of Madeira: for the reverend gentleman
sagaciously observed, that as he had always found the latter an
infallible charm against blue devils, he had no doubt of its proving
equally efficacious against black, white, and gray. In this opinion
experience seemed to confirm him; for though he always maintained a
becoming silence as to the mysteries of which he was a witness during
his spectral vigils, yet a very correct inference might be drawn from
the fact that he was always found in the morning comfortably asleep in
his large arm-chair, with the dish scraped clean, the three bottles
empty, and the Prayer-book clasped and folded precisely in the same
state and place in which it had lain the preceding night.
[Illustration: _He was always found in the morning comfortably asleep._]
But the larger and more commodious part of the castle continued still to
be inhabited; and while one half of the edifice was fast improving into
a picturesque ruin, the other was as rapidly degenerating, in its
interior at least, into a comfortable modern dwelling.
In this romantic seclusion Anthelia was born. Her mother died in giving
her birth. Her father, Sir Henry Melincourt, a man of great
acquirements, and of a retired disposition, devoted himself in solitude
to the cultivation of his daughter’s understanding; for he was one of
those who maintained the heretical notion that women are, or at least
may be, rational beings; though, from the great pains usually taken in
what is called education to make them otherwise, there are unfortunately
very few examples to warrant the truth of the theory.
The majestic forms and wild energies of Nature that surrounded her from
her infancy impressed their character on her mind, communicating to it
all their own wildness, and more than their own beauty. Far removed from
the pageantry of courts and cities, her infant attention was awakened to
spectacles more interesting and more impressive: the misty mountain-top,
the ash-fringed precipice, the gleaming cataract, the deep and shadowy
glen, and the fantastic magnificence of the mountain clouds. The murmur
of the woods, the rush of the winds, and the tumultuous dashing of the
torrents, were the first music of her childhood. A fearless wanderer
among these romantic solitudes, the spirit of mountain liberty diffused
itself through the whole tenor of her feelings, modelled the symmetry of
her form, and illumined the expressive but feminine brilliancy of her
features: and when she had attained the age at which the mind expands
itself to the fascinations of poetry, the muses of Italy became the
chosen companions of her wanderings, and nourished a naturally
susceptible imagination by conjuring up the splendid visions of chivalry
and enchantment in scenes so congenial to their development.
It was seldom that the presence of a visitor dispelled the solitude of
Melincourt; and the few specimens of the living world with whom its
inmates held occasional intercourse were of the usual character of
country acquaintance, not calculated to leave behind them any very
lively regret, except for the loss of time during the period of their
stay. One of these was the Reverend Mr. Portpipe, whom we have already
celebrated for his proficiency in the art of exorcising goblins by dint
of venison and Madeira. His business in the ghost line had, indeed,
declined with the progress of the human understanding, and no part of
his vocation was in very high favour with Sir Henry, who, though an
unexceptionable moral character, was unhappily not one of the children
of grace, in the theological sense of the word: but the vicar, adopting
St. Paul’s precept of being all things to all men, found it on this
occasion his interest to be liberal; and observing that no man could
coerce his opinions, repeated with great complacency the line of Virgil:
Tros Tyriusve mihi nullo discrimine agetur;
though he took especial care that his heterodox concession should not
reach the ears of his bishop, who would infallibly have unfrocked him
for promulgating a doctrine so subversive of the main pillar of all
orthodox establishments.
When Anthelia had attained her sixteenth year, her father deemed it
necessary to introduce her to that human world of which she had hitherto
seen so little, and for this purpose took a journey to London, where he
was received by the surviving portion of his old acquaintance as a ghost
returned from Acheron. The impression which the gay scenes of the
metropolis made on the mind of Anthelia—to what illustrious characters
she was introduced—‘and all she thought of all she saw,’—it would be
foreign to our present purpose to detail; suffice it to say, that from
this period Sir Henry regularly passed the winter in London and the
summer in Westmoreland, till his daughter attained the age of twenty,
about which period he died.
Anthelia passed twelve months from this time in total seclusion at
Melincourt, notwithstanding many pressing invitations from various
match-making dowagers in London, who were solicitous to dispose of her
according to their views of her advantage; in which how far their own
was lost sight of it may not be difficult to determine.
[Illustration: _A journey to London._]
Among the numerous lovers who had hitherto sighed at her shrine, not one
had succeeded in making the slightest impression on her heart; and
during the twelve months of seclusion which elapsed from the death of
her father to the commencement of this authentic history, they had all
completely vanished from the tablet of her memory. Her knowledge of love
was altogether theoretical; and her theory, being formed by the study of
Italian poetry in the bosom of mountain solitude, naturally and
necessarily pointed to a visionary model of excellence which it was very
little likely the modern world could realise.
The dowagers, at length despairing of drawing her from her retirement,
respectively came to various resolutions for the accomplishment of their
ends; some resolving to go in person to Melincourt, and exert all their
powers of oratory to mould her to their wishes, and others instigating
their several _protégés_ to set boldly forward in search of fortune, and
lay siege to the castle and its mistress together.
CHAPTER II
FASHIONABLE ARRIVALS
It was late in the afternoon of an autumnal day, when the elegant
post-chariot of the Honourable Mrs. Pinmoney, a lady of high renown in
the annals of match-making, turned the corner of a stupendous precipice
in the narrow pass which formed the only access to the valley of
Melincourt. This honourable lady was accompanied by her only daughter
Miss Danaretta Contantina; which names, by the bye, appear to be female
diminutives of the Italian words _danaro contante_, signifying _ready
money_, and genteelly hinting to all fashionable Strephons, the only
terms on which the _commodity_ so denominated would be disposed of,
according to the universal practice of this liberal and enlightened
generation, in that most commercial of all bargains, marriage.
[Illustration: _Fashionable arrivals._]
The ivied battlements and frowning towers of Melincourt Castle, as they
burst at once upon the sight, very much astonished the elder and
delighted the younger lady; for the latter had cultivated a great deal
of theoretical romance—in taste, not in feeling—an important
distinction—which enabled her to be most liberally sentimental in words,
without at all influencing her actions; to talk of heroic affection and
selfsacrificing enthusiasm, without incurring the least danger of
forming a disinterested attachment, or of erring in any way whatever on
the score of practical generosity. Indeed, in all respects of practice
the young lady was the true counterpart of her mother, though they
sometimes differed a little in the forms of sentiment: thus, for
instance, when any of their dear friends happened to go, as it is
called, down hill in the world, the old lady was generally very severe
on their _imprudence_, and the young lady very pathetic on their
_misfortune_: but as to holding any further intercourse with, or
rendering any species of assistance to, any dear friend so
circumstanced, neither the one nor the other was ever suspected of
conduct so very unfashionable. In the main point, therefore, of both
their lives, that of making a _good match_ for Miss Danaretta, their
views perfectly coincided; and though Miss Danaretta, in her speculative
conversations on this subject, among her female acquaintance, talked as
young ladies always talk, and laid down very precisely _the only kind of
man she would ever think of marrying_, endowing him, of course, with all
the virtues in our good friend Hookman’s Library; yet it was very well
understood, as it usually is on similar occasions, that no other proof
of the possession of the aforesaid virtues would be required from any
individual who might present himself in the character of _Corydon
sospiroso_ than a satisfactory certificate from the old lady in
Threadneedle Street, that the bearer was a _good man_, and could be
proved so in the _Alley_.
Such were the amiable specimens of worldly wisdom, and affected romance,
that prepared to invade the retirement of the mountain-enthusiast, the
really romantic unworldly Anthelia.
‘What a strange-looking old place!’ said Mrs. Pinmoney; ‘it seems like
anything but the dwelling of a young heiress. I am afraid the rascally
postboys have joined in a plot against us, and intend to deliver us to a
gang of thieves!’
‘Banditti, you should say, mamma,’ said Miss Danaretta; ‘thieves is an
odious word.’
‘Pooh, child!’ said Mrs. Pinmoney. ‘The reality is odious enough, let
the word be what it will. Is not a rogue a rogue, call him by what name
you may?’
‘Oh, certainly not,’ said Miss Danaretta; ‘for in that case a poor rogue
without a title, would not be more a rogue than a rich rogue with one;
but that he is so in a most infinite proportion, the whole experience of
the world demonstrates.’
‘True,’ said the old lady; ‘and as our reverend friend Dr. Bosky
observes, to maintain the contrary would be to sanction a principle
utterly subversive of all social order and aristocratical privilege.’
The carriage now rolled over the narrow ledge which connected the site
of the castle with the neighbouring rocks. A furious peal at the outer
bell brought forth a venerable porter, who opened the gates with
becoming gravity, and the carriage entered a spacious court, of much
more recent architecture than the exterior of the castle, and built in a
style of modern Gothic, that seemed to form a happy medium between the
days of feudality, commonly called the dark ages, and the nineteenth
century, commonly called the enlightened age: _why_ I could never
discover.
The inner gates were opened by another grave and venerable domestic,
who, with all the imperturbable decorum and formality of the old school,
assisted the ladies to alight, and ushered them along an elegant
colonnade into the library, which we shall describe no further than by
saying that the apartment was Gothic, and the furniture Grecian: whether
this be an unpardonable incongruity calculated to disarrange all
legitimate associations, or a judicious combination of solemnity and
elegance, most happily adapted to the purposes of study, we must leave
to the decision, or rather discussion, of picturesque and antiquarian
disputants.
The windows, which were of stained glass, were partly open to a
shrubbery, which admitting the meditative mind into the recesses of
nature, and excluding all view of distant scenes, heightened the deep
seclusion and repose of the apartment. It consisted principally of
evergreens; but the parting beauty of the last flowers of autumn, and
the lighter and now fading tints of a few deciduous shrubs, mingled with
the imperishable verdure of the cedar and the laurel.
The old domestic went in search of his young mistress, and the ladies
threw themselves on a sofa in graceful attitudes. They were shortly
joined by Anthelia, who welcomed them to Melincourt with all the
politeness which the necessity of the case imposed.
The change of dress, the dinner, the dessert, seasoned with the _newest
news_ of the fashionable world, which the visitors thought must be of
all things the most delightful to the mountain recluse, filled up a
portion of the evening. When they returned from the dining-room to the
library, the windows were closed, the curtains drawn, and the tea and
coffee urns bubbling on the table, and sending up their steamy columns:
an old fashion to be sure, and sufficiently rustic, for which we
apologise in due form to the reader, who prefers his tea and coffee
brought in cool by the butler in little cups on a silver salver, and
handed round to the simpering company till it is as cold as an Iceland
spring. There is no disputing about taste, and the taste of Melincourt
Castle on this subject had been always very poetically unfashionable;
for the tea would have satisfied Johnson, and the coffee enchanted
Voltaire.
‘I must confess, my dear,’ said the Honourable Mrs. Pinmoney, ‘there is
a great deal of comfort in your way of living, that is, there would be,
in good company; but you are so solitary——’
‘Here is the best of company,’ said Anthelia, smiling, and pointing to
the shelves of the library.
_The Hon. Mrs. Pinmoney._ Very true: books are very good things in their
way; but an hour or two at most is quite enough of them for me; more can
serve no purpose but to muddle one’s head. If I were to live such a life
for a week as you have done for the last twelve months, I should have
more company than I like, in the shape of a whole legion of blue devils.
_Miss Danaretta._ Nay, I think there is something delightfully romantic
in Anthelia’s mode of life; but I confess I should like now and then,
peeping through the ivy of the battlements, to observe a _preux
chevalier_ exerting all his eloquence to persuade the inflexible porter
to open the castle gates, and allow him one opportunity of throwing
himself at the feet of the divine lady of the castle, for whom he had
been seven years dying a lingering death.
_The Hon. Mrs. Pinmoney._ And growing fatter all the while. Heaven
defend me from such hypocritical fops! Seven years indeed! It did not
take as many weeks to bring me and poor dear dead Mr. Pinmoney together.
_Anthelia._ I should have been afraid that so short an acquaintance
would scarcely have been sufficient to acquire that mutual knowledge of
each other’s tastes, feelings, and character, which I should think the
only sure basis of matrimonial happiness.
_The Hon. Mrs. Pinmoney._ Tastes, feelings, and character! Why, my love,
you really do seem to believe yourself in the age of chivalry, when
those words certainly signified very essential differences. But now the
matter is, very happily, simplified. Tastes,—they depend on the fashion.
There is always a fashionable taste: a taste for driving the mail—a
taste for acting Hamlet—a taste for philosophical lectures—a taste for
the marvellous—a taste for the simple—a taste for the brilliant—a taste
for the sombre—a taste for the tender—a taste for the grim—a taste for
banditti—a taste for ghosts—a taste for the devil—a taste for French
dancers and Italian singers, and German whiskers and tragedies—a taste
for enjoying the country in November, and wintering in London till the
end of the dog-days—a taste for making shoes—a taste for picturesque
tours—a taste for taste itself, or for essays on taste;—but no gentleman
would be so rash as have a taste of his own, or his last winter’s taste,
or any taste, my love, but the fashionable taste. Poor dear Mr. Pinmoney
was reckoned a man of exquisite taste among all his acquaintance; for
the new taste, let it be what it would, always fitted him as well as his
new coat, and he was the very pink and mirror of fashion, as much in the
one as the other.—So much for tastes, my dear.
_Anthelia._ I am afraid I shall always be a very unfashionable creature;
for I do not think I should have sympathised with any one of the tastes
you have just enumerated.
_The Hon. Mrs. Pinmoney._ You are so contumacious, such a romantic
heretic from the orthodox supremacy of fashion. Now, as for feelings, my
dear, you know there are no such things in the fashionable world;
therefore that difficulty vanishes even more easily than the first.
_Anthelia._ I am sorry for it.
_The Hon. Mrs. Pinmoney._ Sorry! Feelings are very troublesome things,
and always stand in the way of a person’s own interests. Then, as to
character, a gentleman’s character is usually in the keeping of his
banker, or his agent, or his steward, or his solicitor; and if they can
certify and demonstrate that he has the means of keeping a handsome
equipage, and a town and country house, and of giving routs and dinners,
and of making a good settlement on the happy object of his choice—what
more of any gentleman’s character would you desire to know?
_Anthelia._ A great deal more. I would require him to be free in all his
thoughts, true in all his words, generous in all his actions—ardent in
friendship, enthusiastic in love, disinterested in both—prompt in the
conception, and constant in the execution, of benevolent enterprise—the
friend of the friendless, the champion of the feeble, the firm opponent
of the powerful oppressor—not to be enervated by luxury, nor corrupted
by avarice, nor intimidated by tyranny, nor enthralled by
superstition—more desirous to distribute wealth than to possess it, to
disseminate liberty than to appropriate power, to cheer the heart of
sorrow than to dazzle the eyes of folly.
_The Hon. Mrs. Pinmoney._ And do you really expect to find such a
knight-errant? The age of chivalry is gone.
_Anthelia._ It is, but its spirit survives. Disinterested benevolence,
the mainspring of all that is really admirable in the days of chivalry,
will never perish for want of some minds calculated to feel its
influence, still less for want of a proper field of exertion. To protect
the feeble, to raise the fallen—to liberate the captive—to be the
persevering foe of tyrants (whether the great tyrant of an overwhelming
empire, the petty tyrant of the fields, or the ‘little tyrant of a
little corporation,’)[4] it is not necessary to wind the bugle before
enchanted castles, or to seek adventures in the depths of mountain
caverns and forests of pine; there is no scene of human life but
presents sufficient scope to energetic generosity; the field of action,
though less splendid in its accompaniments, is not less useful in its
results, nor less attractive to a liberal spirit: and I believe it is
possible to find as true a knight-errant in a brown coat in the
nineteenth century, as in a suit of golden armour in the days of
Charlemagne.
_The Hon. Mrs. Pinmoney._ Well! well! my dear, when you have seen a
little more of the world, you will get rid of some of your chivalrous
whimsies; and I think you will then agree with me that there is not, in
the whole sphere of fashion, a more elegant, fine-spirited, dashing,
generous fellow than my nephew Sir Telegraph Paxarett, who, by the bye,
will be driving his barouche this way shortly, and if you do not
absolutely forbid it, will call on me in his route.
These words seemed to portend that the Honourable Mrs. Pinmoney’s visit
would be a visitation, and at the same time threw a clear light on its
motive; but they gave birth in the mind of Anthelia to a train of ideas
which concluded in a somewhat singular determination.
CHAPTER III
HYPOCON HOUSE
Anthelia had received intimations from various quarters of similar
intentions on the part of various individuals, not less valuable than
Sir Telegraph Paxarett in the scale of moral utility; and though there
was not one among them for whom she felt the slightest interest, she
thought it would be too uncourteous in a pupil of chivalry, and too
inhospitable in the mistress of an old English castle, to bar her gates
against them. At the same time she felt the want of a lord seneschal to
receive and entertain visitors so little congenial to her habits and
inclinations: and it immediately occurred to her that no one would be
more fit for this honourable office, if he could be prevailed on to
undertake it, than an old relation—a medium, as it were, between cousin
and great-uncle; who had occasionally passed a week or a month with her
father at Melincourt. The name of this old gentleman was Hippy—Humphrey
Hippy, Esquire, of Hypocon House, in the county of Durham. He was a
bachelor, and his character exhibited a singular compound of
kind-heartedness, spleen, and melancholy, which governed him by turns,
and sometimes in such rapid succession that they seemed almost
co-existent. To him Anthelia determined on sending an express, with a
letter entreating him to take on himself, for a short time, the
superintendence of Melincourt Castle, and giving as briefly as possible
her reasons for the request. In pursuance of this determination, old
Peter Gray, a favourite domestic of Sir Henry, and, I believe, a distant
relation of little Lucy,[5] was despatched the following morning to
Hypocon House, where the gate was opened to him by old Harry Fell, a
distant relation of little Alice, who, as the reader well knows,
‘belonged to Durham.’ Old Harry had become, by long habit, a curious
species of animated mirror, and reflected all the humours of his master
with wonderful nicety. When Mr. Hippy was in a rage, old Harry looked
fierce; when Mr. Hippy was in a good humour, old Harry was the picture
of human kindness; when Mr. Hippy was blue-devilled, old Harry was
vapourish; when Mr. Hippy was as melancholy as a gib-cat, old Harry was
as dismal as a screech-owl. The latter happened to be the case when old
Peter presented himself at the gate, and old Harry accordingly opened it
with a most rueful elongation of visage. Peter Gray was ready with a
warm salutation for his old acquaintance Harry Fell; but the lamentable
cast of expression in the physiognomy of the latter froze it on his
lips, and he contented himself with asking in a hesitating tone, ‘Is Mr.
Hippy at home?’
[Illustration: _Old Harry had become, by long habit, a curious species
of animated mirror._]
‘He is,’ slowly and sadly articulated Harry Fell, shaking his head.
‘I have a letter for him,’ said Peter Gray.
‘Ah!’ said Harry Fell, taking the letter, and stalking off with it as
solemnly as if he had been following a funeral.
‘A pleasant reception,’ thought Peter Gray, ‘instead of the old ale and
cold sirloin I dreamed of.’
Old Harry tapped three times at the door of his master’s chamber,
observing the same interval between each tap as is usual between the
sounds of a muffled drum: then, after a due pause, he entered the
apartment. Mr. Hippy was in his night-gown and slippers, with one leg on
a cushion, suffering under an imaginary attack of the gout, and in the
last stage of despondency. Old Harry walked forward in the same slow
pace till he found himself at the proper distance from his master’s
chair. Then putting forth his hand as deliberately as if it had been the
hour-hand of the kitchen clock, he presented the letter. Mr. Hippy took
it in the same manner, sank back in his chair as if exhausted with the
effort, and cast his eyes languidly on the seal. Immediately his eyes
brightened, he tore open the letter, read it in an instant, sprang up,
flung his night-gown one way, his night-cap another, kicked off his
slippers, kicked away his cushion, kicked over his chair, and bounced
downstairs, roaring for his coat and boots, and his travelling chariot,
with old Harry capering at his heels, and re-echoing all his
requisitions. Harry Fell was now a new man. Peter Gray was seized by the
hand and dragged into the buttery, where a cold goose and a flagon of
ale were placed before him, to which he immediately proceeded to do
ample justice; while old Harry rushed off with a cold fowl and ham for
the refection of Mr. Hippy, who had been too seriously indisposed in the
morning to touch a morsel of breakfast. Having placed these and a bottle
of Madeira in due form and order before his master, he flew back to the
buttery, to assist old Peter in the demolition of the goose and ale, his
own appetite in the morning having sympathised with his master’s, and
being now equally disposed to make up for lost time.
Mr. Hippy’s travelling chariot was rattled up to the door by four
high-mettled posters from the nearest inn. Mr. Hippy sprang into the
carriage, old Harry vaulted into the dicky, the postilions cracked their
whips, and away they went,
Over the hills and the plains,
Over the rivers and rocks,
leaving old Peter gaping after them at the gate, in profound
astonishment at their sudden metamorphosis, and in utter despair of
being able, by any exertions of his own, to be their forerunner and
announcer at Melincourt. Considering, therefore, that when the necessity
of being too late is inevitable, hurry is manifestly superfluous, he
mounted his galloway with great gravity and deliberation, and trotted
slowly off towards the mountains, philosophising all the way in the
usual poetical style of a Cumberland peasant. Our readers will of course
feel much obliged to us for not presenting them with his meditations.
But instead of jogging back with old Peter Gray, or travelling post with
Humphrey Hippy, Esquire, we shall avail ourselves of the four-in-hand
barouche which is just coming in view, to take a seat on the box by the
side of Sir Telegraph Paxarett, and proceed in his company to
Melincourt.
[Illustration: _Sprang up, flung his night-gown one way, his night-cap
another._]
CHAPTER IV
REDROSE ABBEY
Sir Telegraph Paxarett had entered the precincts of the mountains of
Westmoreland, and was bowling his barouche along a romantic valley,
looking out very anxiously for an inn, as he had now driven his regular
diurnal allowance of miles, and was becoming very impatient for his
equally regular diurnal allowance of fish, fowl, and Madeira. A wreath
of smoke ascending from a thick tuft of trees at a distance, and in a
straight direction before him, cheered up his spirits, and induced him
to cheer up those of his horses with two or three of those technical
terms of the road, which we presume to have formed part of the genuine
language of the ancient Houyhnhnms, since they seem not only much better
adapted to equine than human organs of sound, but are certainly much
more generally intelligible to four-footed than to two-footed animals.
Sir Telegraph was doomed to a temporary disappointment; for when he had
attained the desired point, the smoke proved to issue from the chimneys
of an ancient abbey which appeared to have been recently converted from
a pile of ruins into the habitation of some variety of the human
species, with very singular veneration for the relics of antiquity,
which, in their exterior aspect, had suffered little from the
alteration. There was something so analogous between the state of this
building and what he had heard of Melincourt, that if it had not been
impossible to mistake an abbey for a castle, he might almost have
fancied himself arrived at the dwelling of the divine Anthelia. Under a
detached piece of ruins near the road, which appeared to have been part
of a chapel, several workmen were busily breaking the ground with spade
and pickaxe: a gentleman was superintending their operations, and seemed
very eager to arrive at the object of his search. Sir Telegraph stopped
his barouche to inquire the distance to the nearest inn: the gentleman
replied, ‘Six miles.’ ‘That is just five miles and a half too far,’ said
Sir Telegraph, and was proceeding to drive on, when, on turning round to
make his parting bow to the stranger, he suddenly recognised him for an
old acquaintance and fellow-collegian.
‘Sylvan Forester!’ exclaimed Sir Telegraph; ‘who should have dreamed of
meeting you in this uncivilised part of the world?’
‘I am afraid,’ said Mr. Forester, ‘this part of the world does not
deserve the compliment implied in the epithet you have bestowed on it.
Within no very great distance from this spot are divers towns, villages,
and hamlets, in any one of which, if you have money, you may make pretty
sure of being cheated, and if you have none, quite sure of being
starved—strong evidences of a state of civilisation.’
‘Aha!’ said Sir Telegraph, ‘your old way, now I recollect—always fond of
railing at civilised life, and holding forth in praise of savages and
what you called original men. But what, in truth, make you in
Westmoreland?’
‘I have purchased this old abbey,’ said Mr. Forester ‘(anciently called
the abbey of Rednose, which I have altered to Redrose, as being more
analogous to my notions of beauty, whatever the reverend Fellows of our
old college might have thought of it), and have fitted it up for my
habitation, with the view of carrying on in peace and seclusion some
peculiar experiments on the nature and progress of man. Will you dine
with me, and pass the night here? and I will introduce you to an
original character.’
‘With all my heart,’ said Sir Telegraph; ‘I can assure you,
independently of the pleasure of meeting an old acquaintance, it is a
great comfort to dine in a gentleman’s house, after living from inn to
inn and being poisoned with bad wine for a month.’
Sir Telegraph descended from his box, and directed one of his grooms to
open the carriage-door and emancipate the coachman, who was fast asleep
inside. Sir Telegraph gave him the reins, and Mr. Forester sent one of
his workmen to show him the way to the stables.
[Illustration: ‘_Possibly_,’ _thought Sir Telegraph_, ‘_possibly I may
have seen an uglier fellow_.’]
‘And pray,’ said Sir Telegraph, as the barouche disappeared among the
trees, ‘what may be the object of your researches in this spot?’
‘You know,’ said Mr. Forester, ‘it is a part of my tenets that the human
species is gradually decreasing in size and strength, and I am digging
in the old cemetery for bones and skulls to establish the truth of my
theory.’
‘Have you found any?’ said Sir Telegraph.
‘Many,’ said Mr. Forester. ‘About three weeks ago we dug up a very fine
skeleton, no doubt of some venerable father, who must have been, in more
senses than one, a pillar of the Church. I have had the skull polished
and set in silver. You shall drink your wine out of it, if you please,
to-day.’
‘I thank you,’ said Sir Telegraph, ‘but I am not particular; a glass
will suit me as well as the best skull in Europe. Besides, I am a
moderate man: one bottle of Madeira and another of claret are enough for
me at any time; so that the quantity of wine a reverend sconce can carry
would be just treble my usual allowance.’
They walked together towards the abbey. Sir Telegraph earnestly
requested, that, before they entered, he might be favoured with a peep
at the stable. Mr. Forester of course complied. Sir Telegraph found this
important part of the buildings capacious and well adapted to its
purpose, but did not altogether approve its being totally masked by an
old ivied wall, which had served in former times to prevent the braw and
bonny Scot from making too free with the beeves of the pious fraternity.
The new dwelling-house was so well planned, and fitted in so well
between the ancient walls, that very few vestiges of the modern
architect were discernible; and it was obvious that the growth of the
ivy, and of numerous trailing and twining plants, would soon overrun all
vestiges of the innovation, and blend the whole exterior into one
venerable character of antiquity.
‘I do not think,’ said Mr. Forester, as they proceeded through part of
the grounds, ‘that the most determined zealot of the picturesque would
quarrel with me here. I found the woods around the abbey matured by time
and neglect into a fine state of wildness and intricacy, and I think I
have left enough of them to gratify their most ardent admirer.’
‘Quite enough, in all conscience,’ said Sir Telegraph, who was in white
jean trousers, with very thin silk stockings and pumps. ‘I do not
generally calculate on being, as an old song I have somewhere heard
expresses it,
Forced to scramble,
When I ramble,
Through a copse of furze and bramble;
which would be all very pleasant perhaps, if the fine effect of
picturesque roughness were not unfortunately, as Macbeth says of his
dagger, “sensible to feeling as to sight.” But who is that gentleman,
sitting under the great oak yonder in the green coat and nankins? He
seems very thoughtful.’
‘He is of a contemplative disposition,’ said Mr. Forester: ‘you must not
be surprised if he should not speak a word during the whole time you are
here. The politeness of his manner makes amends for his habitual
taciturnity. I will introduce you.’
The gentleman under the oak had by this time discovered them, and came
forward with great alacrity to meet Mr. Forester, who cordially shook
hands with him, and introduced him to Sir Telegraph as Sir Oran
Haut-ton, Baronet.
Sir Telegraph looked earnestly at the stranger, but was too polite to
laugh, though he could not help thinking there was something very
ludicrous in Sir Oran’s physiognomy, notwithstanding the air of high
fashion which characterised his whole deportment, and which was
heightened by a pair of enormous whiskers, and the folds of a vast
cravat. He therefore bowed to Sir Oran with becoming gravity, and Sir
Oran returned the bow with very striking politeness.
‘Possibly,’ thought Sir Telegraph, ‘possibly I may have seen an uglier
fellow.’
The trio entered the abbey, and shortly after sat down to dinner.
Mr. Forester and Sir Oran Haut-ton took the head and foot of the table.
Sir Telegraph sat between them. ‘Some soup, Sir Telegraph?’ said Mr.
Forester. ‘I rather think,’ said Sir Telegraph, ‘I shall trouble Sir
Oran for a slice of fish.’ Sir Oran helped him with great dexterity, and
then performed the same office for himself. ‘I think you will like this
Madeira?’ said Mr. Forester. ‘Capital!’ said Sir Telegraph: ‘Sir Oran,
shall I have the pleasure of taking wine with you?’ Sir Oran Haut-ton
bowed gracefully to Sir Telegraph Paxarett, and the glasses were tossed
off with the usual ceremonies. Sir Oran preserved an inflexible silence
during the whole duration of dinner, but showed great proficiency in the
dissection of game.
[Illustration: _Sir Oran took a flying leap through the window._]
When the cloth was removed, the wine circulated freely, and Sir
Telegraph, as usual, filled a numerous succession of glasses. Mr.
Forester, not as usual, did the same; for he was generally very
abstemious in this respect; but, on the present occasion, he relaxed
from his severity, quoting the _Placari genius festis impune diebus_,
and the _Dulce est desipere in loco_, of Horace. Sir Oran likewise
approved, by his practice, that he thought the wine particularly
excellent, and _Beviamo tutti tre_ appeared to be the motto of the
party. Mr. Forester inquired into the motives which had brought Sir
Telegraph to Westmoreland; and Sir Telegraph entered into a rapturous
encomium of the heiress of Melincourt which was suddenly cut short by
Sir Oran, who, having taken a glass too much, rose suddenly from table,
took a flying leap through the window, and went dancing along the woods
like a harlequin.
‘Upon my word,’ said Sir Telegraph, ‘a devilish lively, pleasant fellow!
Curse me if I know what to make of him.’
‘I will tell you his history,’ said Mr. Forester, ‘by and by. In the
meantime I must look after him, that he may neither do nor receive
mischief. Pray take care of yourself till I return.’ Saying this, he
sprang through the window after Sir Oran, and disappeared by the same
track among the trees.
‘Curious enough!’ soliloquised Sir Telegraph; ‘however, not much to
complain of, as the best part of the company is left behind: videlicet,
the bottle.’
CHAPTER V
SUGAR
Sir Telegraph was tossing off the last heeltap of his regular diurnal
allowance of wine, when Mr. Forester and Sir Oran Haut-ton reappeared,
walking past the window arm in arm; Sir Oran’s mode of progression being
very vacillating, indirect, and titubant; enough so, at least, to show
that he had not completely danced off the effects of the Madeira. Mr.
Forester shortly after entered; and Sir Telegraph inquiring concerning
Sir Oran, ‘I have persuaded him to go to bed,’ said Mr. Forester, ‘and I
doubt not he is already fast asleep.’ A servant now entered with tea.
Sir Telegraph proceeded to help himself, when he perceived there was no
sugar, and reminded his host of the omission.
_Mr. Forester._ If I had anticipated the honour of your company, Sir
Telegraph, I would have provided myself with a small quantity of that
nefarious ingredient: but in this solitary situation, these things are
not to be had at a moment’s notice. As it is, seeing little company, and
regulating my domestic arrangements on philosophical principles, I never
suffer an atom of West Indian produce to pass my threshold. I have no
wish to resemble those pseudo-philanthropists, those miserable
declaimers against slavery, who are very liberal of words which cost
them nothing, but are not capable of advancing the object they profess
to have at heart, by submitting to the smallest personal privation. If I
wish seriously to exterminate an evil, I begin by examining how far I am
myself, in any way whatever, an accomplice in the extension of its
baleful influence. My reform commences at home. How can I unblushingly
declaim against thieves, while I am a receiver of stolen goods? How can
I seriously call myself an enemy to slavery, while I indulge in the
luxuries that slavery acquires? How can the consumer of sugar pretend to
throw on the grower of it the exclusive burden of their participated
criminality? How can he wash his hands, and say with Pilate, “_I am
innocent of this blood, see ye to it_”?
Sir Telegraph poured some cream into his unsweetened tea, drank it, and
said nothing. Mr. Forester proceeded:
If every individual in this kingdom, who is truly and conscientiously an
enemy to the slave-trade, would subject himself to so very trivial a
privation as abstinence from colonial produce, I consider that a mortal
blow would be immediately struck at the roots of that iniquitous system.
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ If every individual enemy to the slave-trade
would follow your example, the object would no doubt be much advanced;
but the practice of one individual more or less has little or no
influence on general society: most of us go on with the tide, and the
dread of the single word _quiz_ has more influence in keeping the
greater part of us within the pale of custom, fashion, and precedent,
than all the moral reasonings and declamations in the world will ever
have in persuading us to break through it. As to the diffusion of
liberty, and the general happiness of mankind, which used to be your
favourite topics when we were at college together, I should have thought
your subsequent experience would have shown you that there is not one
person in ten thousand who knows what liberty means, or cares a single
straw for any happiness but his own——
_Mr. Forester._ Which his own miserable selfishness must estrange from
him for ever. He whose heart has never glowed with a generous
resolution, who has never felt the conscious triumph of a disinterested
sacrifice, who has never sympathised with human joys or sorrows, but
when they have had a direct and palpable reference to himself, can never
be acquainted with even the semblance of happiness. His utmost enjoyment
must be many degrees inferior to that of a pig, inasmuch as the sordid
mire of selfish and brutal stupidity is more defiling to the soul, than
any coacervation of mere material mud can possibly be to the body. The
latter may be cleared away with two or three ablutions, but the former
cleaves and accumulates into a mass of impenetrable corruption, that
bids defiance to the united powers of Hercules and Alpheus.
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ Be that as it may, every man will continue to
follow his own fancy. The world is bad enough, I daresay; but it is not
for you or me to mend it.
_Mr. Forester._ There is the keystone of the evil—mistrust of the
influence of individual example. ‘We are bad ourselves, because we
despair of the goodness of others.’[6] Yet the history of the world
abounds with sudden and extraordinary revolutions in the opinions of
mankind, which have been effected by single enthusiasts.
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ Speculative opinions have been sometimes
changed by the efforts of roaring fanatics. Men have been found very
easily permutable into _ites_ and _onians_, _avians_, and _arians_,
Wesleyites or Whitfieldites, Huntingdonians or Muggletonians, Moravians,
Trinitarians, Unitarians, Anythingarians: but the metamorphosis only
affects a few obscure notions concerning types, symbols, and mysteries,
which have scarcely any effect on moral theory, and of course, _a
fortiori_, none whatever on moral practice: the latter is for the most
part governed by the general habits and manners of the society we live
in. One man may twang responses in concert with the parish clerk;
another may sit silent in a Quakers’ meeting, waiting for the
inspiration of the Spirit; a third may groan and howl in a tabernacle; a
fourth may breakfast, dine, and sup in a Sandemanian chapel: but meet
any of the four in the common intercourse of society, you will scarcely
know one from another. The single adage, _Charity begins at home_, will
furnish a complete key to the souls of all four; for I have found, as
far as my observation has extended, that men carry their religion[7] in
other men’s heads, and their morality in their own pockets.
_Mr. Forester._ I think it will be found that individual example has in
many instances produced great moral effects on the practice of society.
Even if it were otherwise, is it not better to be Abdiel among the
fiends, than to be lost and confounded in the legion of imps grovelling
in the train of the evil power?
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ There is something in that.
_Mr. Forester._ To borrow an allegory from Homer: I would say society is
composed of two urns, one of good, and one of evil. I will suppose that
every individual of the human species receives from his natal genius a
little phial, containing one drop of a fluid, which shall be evil, if
poured into the urn of evil, and good if into that of good. If you were
proceeding to the station of the urns with ten thousand persons, every
one of them predetermined to empty his phial into the urn of evil, which
I fear is too true a picture of the practice of society, should you
consider their example, if you were hemmed in in the centre of them, a
sufficient excuse for not breaking from them, and approaching the
neglected urn? Would you say, “The urn of good will derive little
increase from my solitary drop, and one more or less will make very
little difference in the urn of ill; I will spare myself trouble, do as
the world does, and let the urn of good take its chance, from those who
can approach it with less difficulty”? No: you would rather say, “That
neglected urn contains the hopes of the human species: little, indeed,
is the addition I can make to it, but it will be good as far as it
goes”; and if, on approaching the urn, you should find it not so empty
as you had anticipated, if the genius appointed to guard it should say
to you, “There is enough in this urn already to allow a reasonable
expectation that it will one day be full, and yet it has only
accumulated drop by drop through the efforts of individuals, who broke
through the pale and pressure of the multitude, and did not despair of
human virtue”; would you not feel ten thousand times repaid for the
difficulties you had overcome, and the scoffs of the fools and slaves
you had abandoned, by the single reflection that would then rush upon
your mind, _I am one of these_?
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ Gad, very likely: I never considered the
subject in that light. You have made no allowance for the mixture of
good and evil, which I think the fairest state of the case. It seems to
me, that the world always goes on pretty much in one way. People eat,
drink, and sleep, make merry with their friends, get as much money as
they can, marry when they can afford it, take care of their children
because they are their own, are thought well of while they live in
proportion to the depth of their purse, and when they die, are sure of
as good a character on their tombstones as the bellman and stonemason
can afford for their money.
_Mr. Forester._ Such is the multitude; but there are noble exceptions to
this general littleness.
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ Now and then an original genius strikes out of
the common track; but there are two ways of doing that—into a worse as
well as a better.
_Mr. Forester._ There are some assuredly who strike into a better, and
these are the ornaments of their age, and the lights of the world. You
must admit too, that there are many, who, though without energy or
capacity to lead, have yet virtue enough to follow an illustrious
example.
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ One or two.
_Mr. Forester._ In every mode of human action there are two ways to be
pursued—a good and a bad one. It is the duty of every man to ascertain
the former, as clearly as his capacity will admit, by an accurate
examination of general relations; and to act upon it rigidly, without
regard to his own previous habits, or the common practice of the world.
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ And you infer from all this that it is my duty
to drink my tea without sugar.
_Mr. Forester._ I infer that it is the duty of every one, thoroughly
penetrated with the iniquity of the slave-trade, to abstain entirely
from the use of colonial produce.
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ I may do that, without any great effort of
virtue. I find the difference, in this instance, more trivial than I
could have supposed. In fact, I never thought of it before.
_Mr. Forester._ I hope I shall before long have the pleasure of
enrolling you a member of the Anti-saccharine Society, which I have had
the happiness to organise, and which is daily extending its numbers.
Some of its principal members will shortly pay a visit to Redrose Abbey;
and I purpose giving a festival, to which I shall invite all that is
respectable and intelligent in this part of the country, and in which I
intend to demonstrate practically, that a very elegant and luxurious
entertainment may be prepared without employing a single particle of
that abominable ingredient, and theoretically, that the use of sugar is
economically superfluous, physically pernicious, morally atrocious, and
politically abominable.
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ I shall be happy to join the party, and I may
possibly bring with me one or two inside passengers, who will prove both
ornamental and attractive to your festival. But you promised me an
account of Sir Oran.
CHAPTER VI
SIR ORAN HAUT-TON
_Mr. Forester._ Sir Oran Haut-ton was caught very young in the woods of
Angola.
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ Caught!
_Mr. Forester._ Very young. He is a specimen of the natural and original
man—the wild man of the woods; called in the language of the more
civilised and sophisticated natives of Angola, _Pongo_, and in that of
the Indians of South America, _Oran Outang_.
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ The devil he is!
_Mr. Forester._ Positively. Some presumptuous naturalists have refused
his species the honours of humanity; but the most enlightened and
illustrious philosophers agree in considering him in his true light as
the natural and original man.[8] One French philosopher, indeed, has
been guilty of an inaccuracy, in considering him as a degenerated
man;[9] degenerated he cannot be; as his prodigious physical strength,
his uninterrupted health, and his amiable simplicity of manners
demonstrate. He is, as I have said, a specimen of the natural and
original man—a genuine facsimile of the philosophical Adam.
He was caught by an intelligent negro very young, in the woods of
Angola; and his gentleness and sweet temper[10] winning the hearts of
the negro and negress, they brought him up in their cottage as the
playfellow of their little boys and girls, where, with the exception of
speech, he acquired the practice of such of the simpler arts of life as
the degree of civilisation in that part of Africa admits. In this way he
lived till he was about seventeen years of age——
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ By his own reckoning?
_Mr. Forester._ By analogical computation. At this period, my old friend
Captain Hawltaught of the Tornado frigate, being driven by stress of
weather to the coast of Angola, was so much struck with the
contemplative cast of Sir Oran’s countenance,[11] that he offered the
negro an irresistible bribe to surrender him to his possession. The
negro brought him on board, and took an opportunity to leave him slily,
but with infinite reluctance and sympathetic grief. When the ship
weighed anchor, and Sir Oran found himself separated from the friends of
his youth, and surrounded with strange faces, he wept bitterly,[12] and
fell into such deep grief that his life was despaired of.[13] The
surgeon of the ship did what he could for him; and a much better doctor,
Time, completed his cure. By degrees a very warm friendship for my
friend Captain Hawltaught extinguished his recollection of his negro
friends. Three years they cruised together in the Tornado, when a
dangerous wound compelled the old captain to renounce his darling
element, and lay himself up in ordinary for the rest of his days. He
retired on his half-pay and the produce of his prize-money to a little
village in the West of England, where he employed himself very
assiduously in planting cabbages and watching the changes of the wind.
Mr. Oran, as he was then called, was his inseparable companion, and
became a very expert practical gardener. The old captain used to
observe, he could always say he had an honest man in his house, which
was more than could be said of many honourable houses where there was
much vapouring about honour.
Mr. Oran had long before shown a taste for music, and with some little
instruction from a marine officer in the Tornado, had become a
proficient on the flute and French horn.[14] He could never be brought
to understand the notes; but, from hearing any simple tune played or
sung two or three times, he never failed to perform it with great
exactness and brilliancy of execution. I shall merely observe, _en
passant_, that music appears, from this and several similar
circumstances, to be more natural to man than speech. The old captain
was fond of his bottle of wine after dinner, and his glass of grog at
night. Mr. Oran was easily brought to sympathise in this taste;[15] and
they have many times sat up together half the night over a flowing bowl,
the old captain singing Rule Britannia, True Courage, or Tom Tough, and
Sir Oran accompanying him on the French horn.
During a summer tour in Devonshire, I called on my old friend Captain
Hawltaught, and was introduced to Mr. Oran. You, who have not forgotten
my old speculations on the origin and progress of man, may judge of my
delight at this happy _rencontre_. I exerted all the eloquence I was
master of to persuade Captain Hawltaught to resign him to me, that I
might give him a philosophical education.[16] Finding this point
unattainable, I took a house in the neighbourhood, and the intercourse
which ensued was equally beneficial and agreeable to all three.
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ And what part did you take in their nocturnal
concerts, with Tom Tough and the French horn?
_Mr. Forester._ I was seldom present at them, and often remonstrated,
but ineffectually, with the captain, on his corrupting the amiable
simplicity of the natural man by this pernicious celebration of vinous
and spirituous orgies; but the only answer I could ever get from him was
a hearty damn against all water-drinkers, accompanied with a reflection
that he was sure every enemy to wine and grog must have clapped down the
hatches of his conscience on some secret villainy, which he feared good
liquor would pipe ahoy; and he usually concluded by striking up _Nothing
like Grog_, _Saturday Night_, or _Swing the flowing Bowl_, his friend
Oran’s horn ringing in sympathetic symphony.
The old captain used to say that grog was the elixir of life: but it did
not prove so to him; for one night he tossed off his last bumper, sang
his last stave, and heard the last flourish of his Oran’s horn. I
thought poor Oran would have broken his heart; and, had he not been
familiarised to me, and conceived a very lively friendship for me before
the death of his old friend, I fear the consequences would have been
fatal.
Considering that change of scene would divert his melancholy, I took him
with me to London. The theatres delighted him, particularly the opera,
which not only accorded admirably with his taste for music, but where,
as he looked round on the ornaments of the fashionable world, he seemed
to be particularly comfortable, and to feel himself completely at home.
There is, to a stranger, something ludicrous in a first view of his
countenance, which led me to introduce him only into the best society,
where politeness would act as a preventive to the propensity to laugh;
for he has so nice a sense of honour (which I shall observe, by the way,
is peculiar to man), that if he were to be treated with any kind of
contumely, he would infallibly die of a broken heart, as has been seen
in some of his species.[17] With a view of ensuring him the respect of
society which always attends on rank and fortune, I have purchased him a
baronetcy, and made over to him an estate. I have also purchased of the
Duke of Rottenburgh one half of the elective franchise vested in the
body of Mr. Christopher Corporate, the free, fat, and dependent burgess
of the ancient and honourable borough of Onevote, who returns two
members to Parliament, one of whom will shortly be Sir Oran. (_Sir
Telegraph gave a long whistle._) But before taking this important step,
I am desirous that he should _finish his education_. (_Sir Telegraph
whistled again._) I mean to say that I wish, if possible, to put a few
words into his mouth, which I have hitherto found impracticable, though
I do not entirely despair of ultimate success. But this circumstance,
for reasons which I will give you by and by, does not at all militate
against the proofs of his being a man.
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ If he be but half a man, he will be the fitter
representative of half an elector; for as that ‘large body corporate of
one,’ the free, fat, and dependent burgess of Onevote, returns two
members to the honourable house, Sir Oran can only be considered as the
representative of half of him. But, seriously, is not your principal
object an irresistible exposure of the universality and omnipotence of
corruption by purchasing for an oran outang one of those seats, the sale
of which is unblushingly acknowledged to be _as notorious as the sun at
noonday_? or do you really think him _one of us_?
_Mr. Forester._ I really think him a variety of the human species; and
this is a point which I have it much at heart to establish in the
acknowledgment of the civilised world.
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ Buffon, whom I dip into now and then in the
winter, ranks him, with Linnaeus, in the class of _Simiae_.
_Mr. Forester._ Linnaeus has given him the curious denominations of
_Troglodytes_, _Homo nocturnus_, and _Homo silvestris_: but he evidently
thought him a man; he describes him as having a hissing speech,
thinking, reasoning, believing that the earth was made for him, and that
he will one day be its sovereign.[18]
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ God save King Oran! By the bye, you put me
very much in mind of Valentine and Orson. This wild man of yours will
turn out some day to be the son of a king, lost in the woods, and
suckled by a lioness:—‘No waiter, but a knight templar’:—no Oran, but a
true prince.
_Mr. Forester._ As to Buffon, it is astonishing how that great
naturalist could have placed him among the _singes_, when the very words
of his description give him all the characteristics of human nature.[19]
It is still more curious to think that modern travellers should have
made beasts, under the names of Pongos, Mandrills, and Oran Outangs, of
the very same beings whom the ancients worshipped as divinities under
the names of Fauns and Satyrs, Silenus and Pan.[20]
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ Your Oran rises rapidly in the scale of
being:—from a baronet and M.P. to a king of the world, and now to a god
of the woods.
_Mr. Forester._ When I was in London last winter, I became acquainted
with a learned mythologist, who has long laboured to rebuild the fallen
temple of Jupiter. I introduced him to Sir Oran, for whom he immediately
conceived a high veneration, and would never call him by any name but
Pan. His usual salutation to him was in the following words:
ἐλθε, μακαρ, σκιρτητα, φιλενθεος, ἀντροδιαιτε,
ἁρμονιην κοσμοιο κρεκων φιλοπαιγμονι μολπῃ,
κοσμοκρατωρ, βακχευτα![21]
Which he thus translated:
King of the world! enthusiast free,
Who dwell’st in caves of liberty!
And on thy wild pipe’s notes of glee
Respondent Nature’s harmony!
Leading beneath the spreading tree
The Bacchanalian revelry!
‘This,’ said he, ‘is part of the Orphic invocation of Pan. It alludes to
the happy existence of the dancing Pans, Fauns, Orans, _et id genus
omne_, whose dwellings are the caves of rocks and the hollows of trees,
such as undoubtedly was, or would have been, the natural mode of life of
our friend Pan among the woods of Angola. It alludes, too, to their
musical powers, which in our friend Pan it gives me indescribable
pleasure to find so happily exemplified. The epithet _Bacchic_, our
friend Pan’s attachment to the bottle demonstrates to be very
appropriate; and the epithet κοσμοκρατωρ, king of the world, points out
a striking similarity between the Orphic Pan and the Troglodyte of
Linnaeus, _who believes that the earth was made for him, and that he
will again be its sovereign_.’ He laid great stress on the word AGAIN,
and observed, if he were to develop all the ideas to which this word
gave rise in his mind, he should find ample matter for a volume. Then
repeating several times, Παν κοσμοκρατωρ, and _iterum fore telluris
imperantem_, he concluded by saying he had known many profound
philosophical and mythological systems founded on much slighter
analogies.
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ Your learned mythologist appears to be non
compos.
_Mr. Forester._ By no means. He has a system of his own, which only
appears in the present day more absurd than other systems, because it
has fewer followers. The manner in which the spirit of system twists
everything to its own views is truly wonderful. I believe that in every
nation of the earth the system which has most followers will be found
the most absurd in the eye of an enlightened philosophy.
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ But if your Oran be a man, how is it that his
long intercourse with other varieties of the human species has not
taught him to speak?
_Mr. Forester._ Speech is a highly artificial faculty. Civilised man is
a highly artificial animal. The change from the wild to the civilised
state affects not only his moral, but his physical nature, and this not
rapidly and instantly, but in a long process of generations. The same
change is obvious in domestic animals, and in cultivated plants. You
know not where to look for the origin of the common dog, or the common
fowl. The wild and tame hog, and the wild and tame cat, are marked by
more essential differences than the oran and the civilised man. The
origin of corn is as much a mystery to us as the source of the Nile was
to the ancients. Innumerable flowers have been so changed from their
original simplicity, that the art of horticulture may almost lay claim
to the magic of a new creation. Is it then wonderful that the civilised
man should have acquired some physical faculties which the natural man
has not? It is demonstrable that speech is one. I do not, however,
despair of seeing him make some progress in this art. Comparative
anatomy shows that he has all the organs of articulation. Indeed he has,
in every essential particular, the human form, and the human anatomy.
_Now I will only observe that if an animal who walks upright—is of the
human form, both outside and inside—uses a weapon for defence and
attack—associates with his kind—makes huts to defend himself from the
weather, better I believe than those of the New Hollanders—is tame and
gentle—and instead of killing men and women, as he could easily do,
takes them prisoners and makes servants of them—who has, what I think
essential to the human kind, a sense of honour_; which is shown by
breaking his heart, if laughed at, or made a show, or treated with any
kind of contumely—_who, when he is brought into the company of civilised
men, behaves_ (as you have seen) _with dignity and composure, altogether
unlike a monkey; from whom he differs likewise in this material respect,
that he is capable of great attachment to particular persons, of which
the monkey is altogether incapable; and also in this respect, that a
monkey never can be so tamed that we may depend on his not doing
mischief when left alone, by breaking glasses or china within his reach;
whereas the oran outang is altogether harmless;—who has so much of the
docility of a man that he learns not only to do the common offices of
life, but also to play on the flute_ and French horn; _which shows that
he must have an idea of melody and concord of sounds, which no brute
animal has;—and lastly, if joined to all these qualities he has the
organ of pronunciation, and consequently the capacity of speech, though
not the actual use of it; if, I say, such an animal be not a man, I
should desire to know in what the essence of a man consists, and what it
is that distinguishes a natural man from the man of art_.[22] That he
understands many words, though he does not yet speak any, I think you
may have observed, when you asked him to take wine, and applied to him
for fish and partridge.[23]
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ The gestures, however slight, that accompany
the expression of the ordinary forms of intercourse, may possibly
explain that.
_Mr. Forester._ You will find that he understands many things addressed
to him on occasions of very unfrequent occurrence. _With regard to his
moral character, he is undoubtedly a man, and a much better man than
many that are to be found in civilised countries_,[24] as, when you are
better acquainted with him, I feel very confident you will readily
acknowledge.[25]
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ I shall be very happy, when his election comes
on for Onevote, to drive him down in my barouche to the honourable and
ancient borough.
Mr. Forester promised to avail himself of this proposal; when the iron
tongue of midnight tolling twelve induced them to separate for the
night.
CHAPTER VII
THE PRINCIPLE OF POPULATION
The next morning, while Sir Telegraph, Sir Oran, and Mr. Forester were
sitting down to their breakfast, a post-chaise rattled up to the door;
the glass was let down, and a tall, thin, pale, grave-looking personage
peeped from the aperture. ‘This is Mr. Fax,’ said Mr. Forester, ‘the
champion of calm reason, the indefatigable explorer of the cold clear
springs of knowledge, the bearer of the torch of dispassionate truth,
that gives more light than warmth. He looks on the human world, the
world of mind, the conflict of interests, the collision of feelings, the
infinitely diversified developments of energy and intelligence, as a
mathematician looks on his diagrams, or a mechanist on his wheels and
pulleys, as if they were foreign to his own nature, and were nothing
more than subjects of curious speculation.’
Mr. Forester had not time to say more; for Mr. Fax entered, and shook
hands with him, was introduced in due form to Sir Telegraph, and sat
down to assist in the demolition of the _matériel_ of breakfast.
_Mr. Fax._ Your Redrose Abbey is a beautiful metamorphosis.—I can
scarcely believe that these are the mouldering walls of the pious
fraternity of Rednose, which I contemplated two years ago.
_Mr. Forester._ The picturesque tourists will owe me no goodwill for the
metamorphosis, though I have endeavoured to leave them as much mould,
mildew, and weather-stain as possible.
_Mr. Fax._ The exterior has suffered little; it still retains a truly
venerable monastic character.
[Illustration: _Mr. Fax._]
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ Something monastic in the interior too.—Very
orthodox old wine in the cellar, I can tell you. And the Reverend Father
Abbot there, as determined a bachelor as the Pope.
_Mr. Forester._ If I am so, it is because, like the Squire of Dames, I
seek and cannot find. I see in my mind’s eye the woman I would choose,
but I very much fear that is the only mode of optics in which she will
ever be visible.
_Mr. Fax._ No matter. Bachelors and spinsters I decidedly venerate. The
world is overstocked with featherless bipeds. More men than corn is a
fearful pre-eminence, the sole and fruitful cause of penury, disease,
and war, plague, pestilence, and famine.
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ I hope you will not long have cause to
venerate me. What is life without love? A rosebush in winter, all
thorns, and no flowers.
_Mr. Fax._ And what is it with love? A double-blossomed cherry, flowers
without fruit; if the blossoms last a month, it is as much as can be
expected: they fall, and what comes in their place? Vanity, and vexation
of spirit.
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ Better vexation than stagnation: marriage may
often be a stormy lake, but celibacy is almost always a muddy horsepond.
_Mr. Fax._ Rather a calm clear river——
_Mr. Forester._ Flowing through a desert, where it moves in loneliness,
and reflects no forms of beauty.
_Mr. Fax._ That is not the way to consider the case. Feelings and
poetical images are equally out of place in a calm philosophical view of
human society. Some must marry, that the world may be peopled: many must
abstain, that it may not be overstocked. _Little and good_ is very
applicable in this case. It is better that the world should have a
smaller number of peaceable and rational inhabitants, living in
universal harmony and social intercourse, than the disproportionate mass
of fools, slaves, coxcombs, thieves, rascals, liars, and cutthroats,
with which its surface is at present encumbered. It is in vain to
declaim about the preponderance of physical and moral evil, and
attribute it, with the Manicheans, to a mythological principle, or, with
some modern philosophers, to the physical constitution of the globe. The
cause of all the evils of human society is single, obvious, reducible to
the most exact mathematical calculation; and of course susceptible not
only of remedy but even of utter annihilation. The cause is the tendency
of population to increase beyond the means of subsistence. The remedy is
an universal social compact, binding both sexes to equally rigid
celibacy, till the prospect of maintaining the average number of six
children be as clear as the arithmetic of futurity can make it.
_Mr. Forester._ The arithmetic of futurity has been found in a more than
equal number of instances to baffle human skill. The rapid and sudden
mutations of fortune are the inexhaustible theme of history, poetry, and
romance; and they are found in forms as various and surprising, in the
scenes of daily life, as on the stage of Drury Lane.
_Mr. Fax._ That the best prospects are often overshadowed, is most
certainly true; but there are degrees and modes of well-grounded
reliance on futurity, sufficient to justify the enterprises of prudence,
and equally well-grounded prospiciences of hopelessness and
helplessness, that should check the steps of rashness and passion, in
their headlong progress to perdition.
_Mr. Forester._ You have little cause to complain of the present age. It
is calculating enough to gratify the most determined votary of moral and
political arithmetic. This certainly is not the time
When unrevenged stalks Cocker’s injured ghost.
What is friendship—except in some most rare and miraculous instances—but
the fictitious bond of interest, or the heartless intercourse of
idleness and vanity? What is love, but the most venal of all venal
commodities? What is marriage, but the most sordid of bargains, the most
cold and slavish of all the forms of commerce? We want no philosophical
ice-rock, towed into the Dead Sea of modern society, to freeze that
which is too cold already. We want rather the torch of Prometheus to
revivify our frozen spirits. We are a degenerate race, half-reasoning
developments of the principle of infinite littleness, ‘with hearts in
our bodies no bigger than pins’ heads.’ We are in no danger of
forgetting that two and two make four. There is no fear that the warm
impulses of feeling will ever overpower, with us, the tangible eloquence
of the pocket.
_Mr. Fax._ With relation to the middle and higher classes, you are right
in a great measure as to fact, but wrong, as I think, in the asperity of
your censure. But among the lower orders the case is quite different.
The baleful influence of the poor laws has utterly destroyed the
principle of calculation in them. They marry by wholesale, without
scruple or compunction, and commit the future care of their family to
Providence and the overseer. They marry even in the workhouse, and
convert the intended asylum of age and infirmity into a flourishing
manufactory of young beggars and vagabonds.
Sir Telegraph’s barouche rolled up gracefully to the door. Mr. Forester
pressed him to stay another day, but Sir Telegraph’s plea of urgency was
not to be overcome. He promised very shortly to revisit Redrose Abbey,
shook hands with Mr. Forester and Sir Oran, bowed politely to Mr. Fax,
mounted his box, and disappeared among the trees.
‘Those four horses,’ said Mr. Fax, as the carriage rolled away, ‘consume
the subsistence of eight human beings, for the foolish amusement of one.
As Solomon observes: “This is vanity, and a great evil.”’
‘Sir Telegraph is thoughtless,’ said Mr. Forester, ‘but he has a good
heart and a good natural capacity. I have great hopes of him. He had
some learning, when he went to college; but he was cured of it before he
came away. Great, indeed, must be the zeal for improvement which an
academical education cannot extinguish.’
CHAPTER VIII
THE SPIRIT OF CHIVALRY
Sir Telegraph was welcomed to Melincourt in due form by Mr. Hippy, and
in a private interview with the Honourable Mrs. Pinmoney, was exhorted
to persevere in his suit to Anthelia, though she could not flatter him
with very strong hopes of immediate success, the young lady’s notions
being, as she observed, extremely outré and fantastical, but such as she
had no doubt time and experience would cure. She informed him at the
same time, that he would shortly meet a formidable rival, no less a
personage than Lord Anophel Achthar,[26] son and heir of the Marquis of
Agaric[27] who was somewhat in favour with Mr. Hippy, and seemed
determined at all hazards to carry his point; ‘and with any other girl
than Anthelia,’ said Mrs. Pinmoney, ‘considering his title and fortune,
I should pronounce his success infallible, unless a duke were to make
his appearance.’ She added, ‘The young lord would be accompanied by his
tutor, the Reverend Mr. Grovelgrub, and by a celebrated poet, Mr.
Feathernest, to whom the Marquis had recently given a place in exchange
for his conscience. It was thought by Mr. Feathernest’s friends that he
had made a very good bargain. The poet had, in consequence, burned his
old _Odes to Truth and Liberty_, and had published a volume of
Panegyrical Addresses “to all the crowned heads in Europe,” with the
motto, “Whatever is at court, is right.”’
The dinner-party that day at Melincourt Castle consisted of Mr. Hippy,
in the character of lord of the mansion; Anthelia, in that of his
inmate; Mrs. and Miss Pinmoney, as her visitors; and Sir Telegraph, as
the visitor of Mrs. Pinmoney, seconded by Mr. Hippy’s invitation to
stay. Nothing very luminous passed on this occasion.
The fame of Mr. Hippy, and his hospitable office, was rapidly diffused
by Dr. Killquick, the physician of the district; who thought a draught
or pill could not possibly be efficacious, unless administered with an
anecdote, and who was called in, in a very few hours after Mr. Hippy’s
arrival, to cure the hypochondriacal old gentleman of an imaginary
swelling in his elbow. The learned doctor, who had studied with peculiar
care the symptoms, diagnostics, prognostics, sedatives, lenitives, and
sanatives of hypochondriasis, had arrived at the sagacious conclusion
that the most effectual method of curing an imaginary disease was to
give the patient a real one; and he accordingly sent Mr. Hippy a pint
bottle of mixture, to be taken by a tablespoonful every two hours, which
would have infallibly accomplished the purpose, but that the bottle was
cracked over the head of Harry Fell, for treading on his master’s toe,
as he presented the composing potion, which would perhaps have composed
him in the Roman sense.
The fashionable attractions of Low-Wood and Keswick afforded facilities
to some of Anthelia’s lovers to effect a _logement_ in her
neighbourhood, from whence occasionally riding over to Melincourt
Castle, they were hospitably received by the lord seneschal, Humphrey
Hippy, Esquire, who often made them fixed stars in the circumference of
that jovial system, of which the bottle and glasses are the sun and
planets, till it was too late to dislodge for the night; by which means
they sometimes contrived to pass several days together at the Castle.
The gentlemen in question were Lord Anophel Achthar, with his two
parasites, Mr. Feathernest and the Reverend Mr. Grovelgrub; Harum
O’Scarum, Esquire, the sole proprietor of a vast tract of undrained bog
in the county of Kerry; and Mr. Derrydown, the only son of an old lady
in London, who having in vain solicited a visit from Anthelia, had sent
off her hopeful progeny to try his fortune in Westmoreland. Mr.
Derrydown had received a laborious education, and had consumed a great
quantity of midnight oil over ponderous tomes of ancient and modern
learning, particularly of moral, political, and metaphysical philosophy,
ancient and modern. His lucubrations in the latter branch of science
having conducted him, as he conceived, into the central opacity of utter
darkness, he formed a hasty conclusion ‘that all human learning is
vanity’; and one day, in a listless mood, taking down a volume of the
_Reliques of Ancient Poetry_, he found, or fancied he found, in the
plain language of the old English ballad, glimpses of the truth of
things, which he had vainly sought in the vast volumes of philosophical
disquisition. In consequence of this luminous discovery, he locked up
his library, purchased a travelling chariot, with a shelf in the back,
which he filled with collections of ballads and popular songs; and
passed the greater part of every year in posting about the country, for
the purpose, as he expressed it, of studying together poetry and the
peasantry, unsophisticated nature and the truth of things.
Mr. Hippy introduced Lord Anophel, and his two learned friends, to Sir
Telegraph and Mrs. and Miss Pinmoney. Mr. Feathernest whispered to the
Reverend Mr. Grovelgrub, ‘This Sir Telegraph Paxarett has some good
livings in his gift’; which bent the plump figure of the reverend
gentleman into a very orthodox right angle.
Anthelia, who felt no inclination to show particular favour to any one
of her Strephons, was not sorry to escape the evil of a solitary
persecutor, more especially as they so far resembled the suitors of
Penelope, as to eat and drink together with great cordiality. She could
have wished, when she left them to the congenial society of Bacchus, to
have retired to company more congenial to her than that of Mrs. Pinmoney
and Miss Danaretta; but she submitted to the course of necessity with
the best possible grace.
She explicitly made known to all her suitors her ideas on the subject of
marriage. She had never perverted the simplicity of her mind by
indulging in the usual cant of young ladies, that she should prefer a
single life: but she assured them that the spirit of the age of
chivalry, manifested in the forms of modern life, would constitute the
only character on which she could fix her affections.
Lord Anophel was puzzled, and applied for information to his tutor.
‘Grovelgrub,’ said he, ‘what is the spirit of the age of chivalry?’
‘Really, my lord,’ said the Reverend Mr. Grovelgrub, ‘my studies never
lay that way.’
‘True,’ said Lord Anophel; ‘it was not necessary to your degree.’
His lordship’s next recourse was to Mr. Feathernest. ‘Feathernest, what
is the spirit of the age of chivalry?’
Mr. Feathernest was taken by surprise. Since his profitable
metamorphosis into an _ami du prince_, he had never dreamed of such a
question. It burst upon him like the spectre of his youthful integrity,
and he mumbled a half-intelligible reply about truth and
liberty—disinterested benevolence—self-oblivion—heroic devotion to love
and honour—protection of the feeble, and subversion of tyranny.
‘All the ingredients of a rank Jacobin, Feathernest, ‘pon honour!’
exclaimed his lordship.
There was something in the word Jacobin very grating to the ears of Mr.
Feathernest, and he feared he had thrown himself between the horns of a
dilemma; but from all such predicament he was happily provided with an
infallible means of extrication. His friend Mr. Mystic, of Cimmerian
Lodge, had initiated him in some of the mysteries of the transcendental
philosophy, which on this, as all similar occasions, he called in to his
assistance; and overwhelmed his lordship with a volley of ponderous
jargon, which left him in profound astonishment at the depth of Mr.
Feathernest’s knowledge.
‘The spirit of the age of chivalry!’ soliloquised Mr. O’Scarum; ‘I think
I know what that is: I’ll shoot all my rivals, one after another, as
fast as I can find a decent pretext for picking a quarrel. I’ll write to
my friend Major O’Dogskin to come to Low-Wood Inn, and hold himself in
readiness. He is the neatest hand in Ireland at delivering a challenge.’
‘The spirit of the age of chivalry!’ soliloquised Mr. Derrydown; ‘I
think I am at home there. I will be a knight of the round table. I will
be Sir Lancelot, or Sir Gawaine, or Sir Tristram. No: I will be a
troubadour—a love-lorn minstrel. I will write the most irresistible
ballads in praise of the beautiful Anthelia. She shall be my lady of the
lake. We will sail about Ulleswater in our pinnace, and sing duets about
Merlin, and King Arthur, and Fairyland. I will develop the idea to her
in a ballad; it cannot fail to fascinate her romantic spirit.’ And he
sat down to put his scheme in execution.
Sir Telegraph’s head ran on tilts and tournaments, and trials of skill
and courage. How could they be resolved into the forms of modern life? A
four-in-hand race he thought would be a pretty substitute; Anthelia to
be arbitress of the contest, and place the Olympic wreath on the head of
the victor, which he had no doubt would be himself, though Harum
O’Scarum, Esquire, would dash through neck or nothing, and Lord Anophel
Achthar was reckoned one of the best coachmen in England.
CHAPTER IX
THE PHILOSOPHY OF BALLADS
The very indifferent success of Lord Anophel did not escape the eye of
his abject slave, the Reverend Mr. Grovelgrub, whose vanity led him to
misinterpret Anthelia’s general sweetness of manner into the
manifestation of something like a predilection for himself. Having made
this notable discovery, he sat down to calculate the probability of his
chance of Miss Melincourt’s fortune on the one hand, and the certainty
of church-preferment, through the patronage of the Marquis of Agaric, on
the other. The sagacious reflection, that a bird in the hand was worth
two in the bush, determined him not to risk the loss of the Marquis’s
favour for the open pursuit of a doubtful success; but he resolved to
carry on a secret attack on the affections of Anthelia, and not to throw
off the mask to Lord Anophel till he could make sure of his prize.
It would have totally disconcerted the schemes of the Honourable Mrs.
Pinmoney, if Lord Anophel had made any progress in the favour of
Anthelia—not only because she had made up her mind that her young friend
should be her niece and Lady Paxarett, but because, from the moment of
Lord Anophel’s appearance, she determined on drawing lines of
circumvallation round him, to compel him to surrender at discretion to
her dear Danaretta, who was very willing to second her views. That Lord
Anophel was both a fool and a coxcomb, did not strike her at all as an
objection; on the contrary, she considered them as very favourable
circumstances for the facilitation of her design.
As Anthelia usually passed the morning in the seclusion of her library
Lord Anophel and the Reverend Mr. Grovelgrub killed the time in
shooting; Sir Telegraph, in driving Mrs. and Miss Pinmoney in his
barouche, to astonish the natives of the mountain-villages; Harum
O’Scarum, Esquire, in riding full gallop along the best roads, looking
every now and then at his watch, to see how time went; Mr. Derrydown, in
composing his troubadour ballad; Mr. Feathernest, in writing odes to all
the crowned heads in Europe; and Mr. Hippy, in getting very ill after
breakfast every day of a new disease, which came to its climax at the
intermediate point of time between breakfast and dinner, showed symptoms
of great amendment at the ringing of the first dinner-bell, was very
much alleviated at the butler’s summons, vanished entirely at the sight
of Anthelia, and was consigned to utter oblivion after the ladies
retired from table, when the Reverend Mr. Grovelgrub lent his clerical
assistance to lay its ghost in the Red Sea of a copious libation of
claret.
Music and conversation consumed the evenings. Mr. Feathernest and Mr.
Derrydown were both zealous admirers of old English literature; but the
former was chiefly enraptured with the ecclesiastical writers and the
translation of the Bible; the latter admired nothing but ballads, which
he maintained to be, whether ancient or modern, the only manifestations
of feeling and thought containing any vestige of truth and nature.
‘Surely,’ said Mr. Feathernest one evening, ‘you will not maintain that
Chevy Chase is a finer poem than Paradise Lost?’
_Mr. Derrydown._ I do not know what you mean by a fine poem; but I will
maintain that it gives a much deeper insight into the truth of things.
_Mr. Feathernest._ I do not know what you mean by the truth of things.
_The Rev. Mr. Grovelgrub._ Define, gentlemen, define; let the one
explain what he means by a fine poem, and the other what he means by the
truth of things.
_Mr. Feathernest._ A fine poem is a luminous development of the
complicated machinery of action and passion, exalted by sublimity,
softened by pathos, irradiated with scenes of magnificence, figures of
loveliness, and characters of energy, and harmonised with infinite
variety of melodious combination.
_Lord Anophel Achthar._ Admirable!
_Miss Danaretta Contantina Pinmoney._ Admirable, indeed, my lord! (_With
a sweet smile at his Lordship, which unluckily missed fire._)
_The Rev. Mr. Grovelgrub._ Now, sir, for the truth of things.
_Mr. O’Scarum._ Troth, sir, that is the last point about which I should
expect a gentleman of your cloth to be very solicitous.
_The Rev. Mr. Grovelgrub._ I must say, sir, that is a very uncalled-for
and very illiberal observation.
_Mr. O’Scarum._ Your coat is your protection, sir.
_The Rev. Mr. Grovelgrub._ I will appeal to his lordship if——
_Mr. O’Scarum._ I shall be glad to know his lordship’s opinion.
_Lord Anophel Achthar._ Really, sir, I have no opinion on the subject.
_Mr. O’Scarum._ I am sorry for it, my lord.
_Mr. Derrydown._ The truth of things is nothing more than an exact view
of the necessary relations between object and subject, in all the modes
of reflection and sentiment which constitute the reciprocities of human
association.
_The Rev. Mr. Grovelgrub._ I must confess I do not exactly comprehend——
_Mr. Derrydown._ I will illustrate. You all know the ballad of Old Robin
Gray.
Young Jamie loved me well, and ask’d me for his bride;
But saving a crown, he had nothing else beside.
To make the crown a pound my Jamie went to sea,
And the crown and the pound they were both for me.
He had not been gone a twelvemonth and a day,
When my father broke his arm, and our cow was stolen away;
My mother she fell sick, and Jamie at the sea,
And old Robin Gray came a-courting to me.
In consequence whereof, as you all very well know, old Robin being rich,
the damsel married the aforesaid old Robin.
_The Rev. Mr. Grovelgrub._ In the heterodox kirk of the north?
_Mr. Derrydown._ Precisely. Now, in this short space, you have a more
profound view than the deepest metaphysical treatise or the most
elaborate history can give you of the counteracting power of opposite
affections, the conflict of duties and inclinations, the omnipotence of
interest, tried by the test of extremity, and the supreme and
irresistible dominion of universal moral necessity.
Young Jamie loved me well, and ask’d me for his bride;
and would have had her, it is clear, though she does not explicitly say
so, if there had not been a necessary moral motive counteracting what
would have been otherwise the plain free will of both. ‘Young Jamie
loved me well.’ She does not say that she loved young Jamie; and here is
a striking illustration of that female decorum which forbids young
ladies to speak as they think on any subject whatever: an admirable
political institution, which has been found by experience to be most
happily conducive to that ingenuousness of mind and simplicity of manner
which constitute so striking a charm in the generality of the fair sex.
But saving a crown, he had nothing else beside.
Here is the quintessence of all that has been said and written on the
subject of love and prudence, a decisive refutation of the stoical
doctrine that poverty is no evil, a very clear and deep insight into the
nature of the preventive or prudential check to population, and a
particularly luminous view of the respective conduct of the two sexes on
similar occasions. The poor love-stricken swain, it seems, is ready to
sacrifice all for love. He comes with a crown in his pocket, and asks
for his bride. The damsel is a better arithmetician. She is fully
impressed with the truth of the old proverb about poverty coming in at
the door, and immediately stops him short with ‘What can you settle on
me, Master Jamie?’ or, as Captain Bobadil would express it, ‘How much
money ha’ you about you, Master Matthew?’ Poor Jamie looks very
foolish—fumbles in his pocket—produces his crown-piece—and answers like
Master Matthew with a remarkable elongation of visage, ‘’Faith, I ha’n’t
past a five shillings or so.’ ‘Then,’ says the young lady, in the words
of another very admirable ballad—where you will observe it is also the
damsel who asks the question:
Will the love that you’re so rich in,
Make a fire in the kitchen?
[Illustration: _Anthelia._]
On which the poor lover shakes his head, and the lady gives him leave of
absence. Hereupon Jamie falls into a train of reflections.
_Mr. O’Scarum._ Never mind his reflections.
_Mr. Derrydown._ The result of which is, that he goes to seek his
fortune at sea; intending, with the most perfect and disinterested
affection, to give all he can get to his mistress, who seems much
pleased with the idea of having it. But when he comes back, as you will
see in the sequel, he finds his mistress married to a rich old man. The
detail of the circumstances abounds with vast and luminous views of
human nature and society, and striking illustrations of the truth of
things.
_Mr. Feathernest._ I do not yet see that the illustration throws any
light on the definition, or that we are at all advanced in the answer to
the question concerning Chevy Chase and Paradise Lost.
_Mr. Derrydown._ We will examine Chevy Chase, then, with a view to the
truth of things, instead of Old Robin Gray:
God prosper long our noble king,
Our lives and safeties all.
_Mr. O’Scarum._ God prosper us all, indeed! if you are going through
Chevy Chase at the same rate as you were through Old Robin Gray, there
is an end of us all for a month. The truth of things, now!—is it that
you’re looking for? Ask Miss Melincourt to touch the harp. The harp is
the great key to the truth of things: and in the hand of Miss Melincourt
it will teach you the music of the spheres, the concord of creation, and
the harmony of the universe.
_Anthelia._ You are a libeller of our sex, Mr. Derrydown, if you think
the truth of things consists in showing it to be more governed by the
meanest species of self-interest than yours. Few, indeed, are the
individuals of either in whom the spirit of the age of chivalry
survives.
_Mr. Derrydown._ And yet, a man distinguished by that spirit would not
be in society what Miss Melincourt is—a phoenix. Many knights can wield
the sword of Orlando, but only one nymph can wear the girdle of
Florimel.
_The Hon. Mrs. Pinmoney._ That would be a very pretty compliment, Mr.
Derrydown, if there were no other ladies in the room.
Poor Mr. Derrydown looked a little disconcerted: he felt conscious that
he had on this occasion lost sight of his usual politeness by too close
an adherence to the truth of things.
_Anthelia._ Both sexes, I am afraid, are too much influenced by the
spirit of mercenary calculation. The desire of competence is prudence;
but the desire of more than competence is avarice: it is against the
latter only that moral censure should be directed: but I fear that in
ninety-nine cases out of a hundred in which the course of true love is
thwarted by considerations of fortune, it will be found that avarice
rather than prudence is to be considered as the cause. Love in the age
of chivalry, and love in the age of commerce, are certainly two very
different deities; so much so, that the former may almost be regarded as
a departed power; and, perhaps, the little ballad I am about to sing
does not contain too severe an allegory in placing the tomb of chivalric
love among the ruins of the castles of romance.
THE TOMB OF LOVE
By the mossy weed-flower’d column,
Where the setting moonbeam’s glance
Streams a radiance cold and solemn
On the haunts of old romance:
Know’st thou what those shafts betoken,
Scatter’d on that tablet lone,
Where the ivory bow lies broken
By the monumental stone!
When true knighthood’s shield, neglected,
Moulder’d in the empty hall;
When the charms that shield protected
Slept in death’s eternal thrall;
When chivalric glory perish’d
Like the pageant of a dream,
Love in vain its memory cherish’d,
Fired in vain the minstrel’s theme.
Falsehood to an elfish minion
Did the form of Love impart;
Cunning plumed its vampire pinion;
Avarice tipp’d its golden dart.
Love, the hideous phantom flying,
Hither came, no more to rove:
There his broken bow is lying
On that stone—the tomb of Love!
CHAPTER X
THE TORRENT
Anthelia did not wish to condemn herself to celibacy, but in none of her
present suitors could she discover any trace of the character she had
drawn in her mind for the companion of her life: yet she was aware of
the rashness of precipitate judgments, and willing to avail herself of
this opportunity of studying the kind of beings that constitute modern
society. She was happy in the long interval between breakfast and
dinner, to retire to the seclusion of her favourite apartment; whence
she sometimes wandered into the shades of her shrubbery: sometimes
passing onward through a little postern door, she descended a flight of
rugged steps, which had been cut in the solid stone, into the gloomy
glen of the torrent that dashed round the base of the castle-rock; and
following a lonely path through the woods that fringed its sides,
wandered into the deepest recesses of mountain solitude. The sunshine of
a fine autumnal day, the solemn beauty of the fading woods, the thin
gray mist, that spread waveless over the mountains, the silence of the
air, the deep stillness of nature, broken only by the sound of the
eternal streams, tempted her on one occasion beyond her usual limits.
Passing over the steep and wood-fringed hills of rock that formed the
boundary of the valley of Melincourt, she descended through a grove of
pines into a romantic chasm, where a foaming stream was crossed by a
rude and ancient bridge, consisting of two distinct parts, each of which
rested against a columnar rock, that formed an island in the roaring
waters. An ash had fixed its roots in the fissures of the rock, and the
knotted base of its aged trunk offered to the passenger a natural seat,
over-canopied with its beautiful branches and leaves, now tinged with
their autumnal yellow. Anthelia rested awhile in this delightful
solitude. There was no breath of wind, no song of birds, no humming of
insects, only the dashing of the waters beneath. She felt the presence
of the genius of the scene. She sat absorbed in a train of
contemplations, dimly defined, but infinitely delightful: emotions
rather than thoughts, which attention would have utterly dissipated, if
it had paused to seize their images.
She was roused from her reverie by sounds of music, issuing from the
grove of pines through which she had just passed, and which skirted the
hollow. The notes were wild and irregular, but their effect was singular
and pleasing. They ceased. Anthelia looked to the spot from whence they
had proceeded, and saw, or thought she saw, a face peeping at her
through the trees; but the glimpse was momentary. There was in the
expression of the countenance something so extraordinary, that she
almost felt convinced her imagination had created it; yet her
imagination was not in the habit of creating such physiognomies. She
could not, however, apprehend that this remarkable vision portended any
evil to her; for, if so, alone and defenceless as she was, why should it
be deferred? She rose, therefore, to pursue her walk, and ascended, by a
narrow winding path, the brow of a lofty hill, which sank precipitously
on the other side, to the margin of a lake, that seemed to slumber in
the same eternal stillness as the rocks that bordered it. The murmur of
the torrent was inaudible at that elevation. There was an almost
oppressive silence in the air. The motion and life of nature seemed
suspended. The gray mist that hung on the mountains, spreading its thin
transparent uniform veil over the whole surrounding scene, gave a deeper
impression to the mystery of loneliness, the predominant feeling that
pressed on the mind of Anthelia, to seem the only thing that lived and
moved in all that wide and awful scene of beauty.
[Illustration: _Proceeded very deliberately to pull up a pine._]
Suddenly the gray mist fled before the rising wind, and a deep black
line of clouds appeared in the west, that, rising rapidly, volume on
volume, obscured in a few minutes the whole face of the heavens. There
was no interval of preparation, no notice for retreat. The rain burst
down in a sheeted cataract, comparable only to the bursting of a
waterspout. The sides of the mountains gleamed at once with a thousand
torrents. Every little hollow and rain-worn channel, which but a few
minutes before was dry, became instantaneously the bed of a foaming
stream. Every half-visible rivulet swelled to a powerful and turbid
river. Anthelia glided down the hill like an Oread, but the wet and
slippery footing of the steep descent necessarily retarded her progress.
When she regained the bridge, the swollen torrent had filled the chasm
beneath, and was still rising like a rapid and impetuous tide, rushing
and roaring along with boiling tumult and inconceivable swiftness. She
had passed one half of the bridge—she had gained the insular rock—a few
steps would have placed her on the other side of the chasm—when a large
trunk of an oak, which months, perhaps years, before had baffled the
woodman’s skill, and fallen into the dingle above, now disengaged by the
flood, and hurled onward with irresistible strength, with large and
projecting boughs towering high above the surface, struck the arch she
had yet to pass, which, shattered into instant ruin, seemed to melt like
snow into the torrent, leaving scarcely a vestige of its place.
Anthelia followed the trunk with her eyes till it disappeared among the
rocks, and stood gazing on the torrent with feelings of awful delight.
The contemplation of the mighty energies of nature, energies of liberty
and power which nothing could resist or impede, absorbed, for a time,
all considerations of the difficulty of regaining her home. The water
continued to rise, but still she stood riveted to the spot, watching
with breathless interest its tumultuous revolutions. She dreamed not
that its increasing pressure was mining the foundation of the arch she
had passed. She was roused from her reverie only by the sound of its
dissolution. She looked back, and found herself on the solitary rock
insulated by the swelling flood.
Would the flood rise above the level of the rock? The ash must in that
case be her refuge. Could the force of the torrent rend its massy roots
from the rocky fissures which grasped them with giant strength? Nothing
could seem less likely: yet it was not impossible. But she had always
looked with calmness on the course of necessity: she felt that she was
always in the order of nature. Though her life had been a series of
uniform prosperity, she had considered deeply the changes of things, and
_the nearness of the paths of night and day_[28] in every pursuit and
circumstance of human life. She sat on the stem of the ash. The torrent
rolled almost at her feet. Could this be the calm sweet scene of the
morning, the ivied bridges, the romantic chasm, the stream far below,
bright in its bed of rocks, chequered by the pale sunbeams through the
leaves of the ash?
She looked towards the pine-grove, through which she had descended in
the morning; she thought of the wild music she had heard, and of the
strange face that had appeared among the trees. Suddenly it appeared
again: and shortly after a stranger issuing from the wood ran with
surprising speed to the edge of the chasm.
Anthelia had never seen so singular a physiognomy; but there was nothing
in it to cause alarm. The stranger seemed interested for her situation,
and made gestures expressive of a design to assist her. He paused a
moment, as if measuring with his eyes the breadth of the chasm, and
then, returning to the grove, proceeded very deliberately to pull up a
pine.[29] Anthelia thought him mad; but infinite was her astonishment to
see the tree sway and bend beneath the efforts of his incredible
strength, till at length he tore it from the soil, and bore it on his
shoulders to the chasm: where placing one end on a high point of the
bank, and lowering the other on the insulated rock, he ran like a flash
of lightning along the stem, caught Anthelia in his arms, and carried
her safely over in an instant: not that we should wish the reader to
suppose our heroine, a mountaineer from her infancy, could not have
crossed a pine-bridge without such assistance; but the stranger gave her
no time to try the experiment.
The remarkable physiognomy and unparalleled strength of the stranger
caused much of surprise, and something of apprehension to mingle with
Anthelia’s gratitude: but the air of high fashion which characterised
his whole deportment diminished her apprehension, while it increased her
surprise at the exploit he had performed.
[Illustration: _Alighted on the doctor’s head as he was crossing the
court._]
Shouts were now heard in the wood, from which shortly emerged Mr. Hippy,
Lord Anophel Achthar, and the Reverend Mr. Grovelgrub. Anthelia had been
missed at Melincourt at the commencement of the storm, and Mr. Hippy had
been half distracted on the occasion. The whole party had in consequence
dispersed in various directions in search of her, and accident had
directed these three gentlemen to the spot where Anthelia was just set
down by her polite deliverer, Sir Oran Haut-ton, Baronet.
Mr. Hippy ran up with great alacrity to Anthelia, assuring her that at
the time when Miss Danaretta Contantina Pinmoney informed him his dear
niece was missing, he was suffering under a complete paralysis of his
right leg, and was on the point of swallowing a potion sent to him by
Dr. Killquick, which, on receiving the alarming intelligence, he had
thrown out of the window, and he believed it had alighted on the
doctor’s head as he was crossing the court. Anthelia communicated to him
the particulars of the signal service she had received from the
stranger, whom Mr. Hippy stared at heartily, and shook hands with
cordially.
Lord Anophel now came up, and surveyed Sir Oran through his
quizzing-glass, who, making him a polite bow, took his quizzing-glass
from him, and examined him through it in the same manner. Lord Anophel
flew into a furious passion; but receiving a gentle hint from Mr. Hippy,
that the gentleman to whom he was talking had just pulled up a pine, he
deemed it prudent to restrain his anger within due bounds.
The Reverend Mr. Grovelgrub now rolled up to the party, muffled in a
ponderous greatcoat, and surmounted with an enormous umbrella, humbly
soliciting Miss Melincourt to take shelter. Anthelia assured him that
she was so completely wet through, as to render all shelter superfluous,
till she could change her clothes. On this, Mr. Hippy, who was wet
through himself, but had not till that moment been aware that he was so,
voted for returning to Melincourt with all possible expedition; adding
that he feared it would be necessary, immediately on their arrival, to
send off an express for Dr. Killquick, for his dear Anthelia’s sake, as
well as his own. Anthelia disclaimed any intention or necessity on her
part of calling in the services of the learned doctor, and, turning to
Sir Oran, requested the favour of his company to dinner at Melincourt.
This invitation was warmly seconded by Mr. Hippy, with gestures as well
as words. Sir Oran bowed acknowledgment, but pointing in a direction
different from that of Melincourt, shook his head, and took a respectful
farewell.
‘I wonder who he is,’ said Mr. Hippy, as they walked rapidly homewards:
‘manifestly dumb, poor fellow! a man of consequence, no doubt: no great
beauty, by the bye; but as strong as Hercules—quite an Orlando Furioso.
He pulled up a pine, my lord, as you would do a mushroom.’
‘Sir,’ said Lord Anophel, ‘I have nothing to do with mushrooms; and as
to this gentleman, whoever he is, I must say, notwithstanding his
fashionable air, his taking my quizzing-glass was a piece of
impertinence, for which I shall feel necessitated to require gentlemanly
satisfaction.’
A long, toilsome, and slippery walk brought the party to the castle
gate.
CHAPTER XI
LOVE AND MARRIAGE
Sir Oran Haut-ton, as we conjecture, had taken a very long ramble beyond
the limits of Redrose Abbey, and had sat down in the pine-grove to
solace himself with his flute, when Anthelia, bursting upon him like a
beautiful vision, riveted him in silent admiration to the spot whence
she departed, about which he lingered in hopes of her reappearance, till
the accident which occurred on her return enabled him to exert his
extraordinary physical strength in a manner so remarkably advantageous
to her. On parting from her and her companions, he ran back all the way
to the Abbey, a formidable distance, and relieved the anxious
apprehensions which his friend Mr. Forester entertained respecting him.
A few mornings after this occurrence, as Mr. Forester, Mr. Fax, and Sir
Oran were sitting at breakfast, a letter was brought in, addressed to
_Sir Oran Haut-ton, Baronet, Redrose Abbey_; a circumstance which very
much surprised Mr. Forester, as he could not imagine how Sir Oran had
obtained a correspondent, seeing that he could neither write nor read.
He accordingly took the liberty of opening the letter himself.
It proved to be from a limb of the law, signing himself Richard
Ratstail, and purporting to be a notice to Sir Oran to defend himself in
an action brought against him by the said Richard Ratstail, solicitor,
in behalf of his client, Lawrence Litigate, Esquire, lord of the manor
of Muckwormsby, for that he, the said Oran Haut-ton, did, with force and
arms, videlicet, sword, pistols, daggers, bludgeons, and staves, break
into the manor of the said Lawrence Litigate, Esquire, and did then and
there, with malice aforethought, and against the peace of our sovereign
lord the King, his crown and dignity, cut down, root up, hew, hack, and
cut in pieces, sundry and several pine-trees, of various sizes and
dimensions, to the utter ruin, havoc, waste, and devastation of a large
tract of pine-land; and that he had wilfully, maliciously, and with
intent to injure the said Lawrence Litigate, Esquire, carried off with
force and arms, namely, swords, pistols, bludgeons, daggers, and staves,
fifty cartloads of trunks, fifty cartloads of bark, fifty cartloads of
loppings, and fifty cartloads of toppings.
This was a complete enigma to Mr. Forester; and his surprise was
increased when, on reading further, he found that Miss Melincourt, of
Melincourt Castle, was implicated in the affair, as having aided and
abetted Sir Oran in devastating the pine-grove, and carrying it off by
cartloads with force and arms.
It immediately occurred to him that the best mode he could adopt of
elucidating the mystery would be to call on Miss Melincourt, whom,
besides, Sir Telegraph’s enthusiastic description had given him some
curiosity to see; and the present appeared a favourable opportunity to
indulge it.
He therefore asked Mr. Fax if he were disposed for a very long walk. Mr.
Fax expressed a cordial assent to the proposal, and no time was lost in
preparation.
Mr. Forester, though he had built stables for the accommodation of his
occasional visitors, kept no horses himself, for reasons which will
appear hereafter.
They set forth accordingly, accompanied by Sir Oran, who joined them
without waiting for an invitation.
‘We shall see Sir Telegraph Paxarett,’ said Mr. Forester, ‘and, perhaps,
his phoenix, Miss Melincourt.’
_Mr. Fax._ If a woman be the object, and a lover’s eyes the medium, I
should say there is nothing in nature so easily found as a phoenix.
_Mr. Forester._ My eyes have no such magical property. I am not a lover,
it is true, but it is because I have never found a phoenix.
_Mr. Fax._ But you have one in your mind, a _beau ideal_, I doubt not.
_Mr. Forester._ Not too ideal to exclude the possible existence of its
material archetype, though I have never found it yet.
_Mr. Fax._ You will, however, find a female who has some one at least of
the qualities of your imaginary damsel, and that one quality will serve
as a peg on which your imagination will suspend all the others. This is
the usual process of mental hallucination. A little truth forms the
basis, and the whole superstructure is falsehood.
_Mr. Forester._ I shall guard carefully against such self-deception;
though, perhaps, a beautiful chimera is better than either a hideous
reality or a vast and formless void.
_Mr. Fax._ As an instrument of transitory pleasure, probably; but very
far from it as a means of permanent happiness, which is only consistent
with perfect mental tranquillity, which again is only consistent with
the calm and dispassionate contemplation of truth.
_Mr. Forester._ What say you, then, to the sentiment of Voltaire?—
Le raisonneur tristement s’accrédite:
On court, dit-on, après la vérité,
Ah! croyez-moi, l’erreur a son mérite.
_Mr. Fax._ You will scarcely coincide with such a sentiment, when you
consider how much this doctrine of happy errors, and pleasing illusions,
and salutary prejudices, has tended to rivet the chains of superstition
on the necks of the grovelling multitude.
_Mr. Forester._ And yet, if you take the colouring of imagination from
the objects of our mental perception, and pour the full blaze of
daylight into all the dark recesses of selfishness and cunning, I am
afraid a refined and enthusiastic benevolence will find little to
interest or delight in the contemplation of the human world.
_Mr. Fax._ That should rather be considered the consequence of morbid
feelings, and exaggerated expectations of society and human nature. It
is the false colouring in which youthful enthusiasm depicts the scenes
of futurity that throws the gloom of disappointment so deeply on their
actual presence. You have formed to yourself, as you acknowledge, a
visionary model of female perfection, which has rendered you utterly
insensible to the real attractions of every woman you have seen. This
exaggerated imagination loses more than it gains. It has not made a fair
calculation of the mixture of good and evil in every constituent portion
of the world of reality. It has utterly excluded the latter from the
objects of its hope, and has magnified the former into such gigantic
proportions, that the real goodness and beauty, which would be visible
and delightful to simpler optics, vanish into imperceptibility in the
infinity of their diminution.
_Mr. Forester._ I desire no phantasm of abstract perfection—no visionary
creation of a romantic philosophy: I seek no more than I know to have
existed—than, I doubt not, does exist, though in such lamentable rarity
that the calculations of probability make the search little better than
desperate. I would have a woman that can love and feel poetry, not only
in its harmony and decorations, which limit the admiration of ordinary
mortals, but in the deep sources of love, and liberty, and truth, which
are its only legitimate springs, and without which, well-turned periods
and glittering images are nothing more nor less than the vilest and most
mischievous tinsel. She should be musical, but she should have music in
her soul as well as her fingers: her voice and her touch should have no
one point in common with that mechanical squalling and jingling which
are commonly dignified with the insulted name of music: they should be
modes of the harmony of her mind.
_Mr. Fax._ I do not very well understand that; but I think I have a
glimpse of your meaning. Pray proceed.
_Mr. Forester._ She should have charity—not penny charity——
_Mr. Fax._ I hope not.
_Mr. Forester._ But a liberal discriminating practical philanthropy,
that can select with justice the objects of its kindness, and give that
kindness a form of permanence equally delightful and useful to its
object and to society, by increasing the aggregate mass of intelligence
and happiness.
_Mr. Fax._ Go on.
_Mr. Forester._ She should have no taste for what are called public
pleasures. Her pleasures should be bounded in the circle of her family,
and a few, a very few congenial friends, her books, her music, her
flowers—she should delight in flowers—the uninterrupted cheerfulness of
domestic concord, the delightful effusions of unlimited confidence. The
rocks, and woods, and mountains, boundaries of the valley of her
dwelling, she should be content to look on as the boundaries of the
world.
_Mr. Fax._ Anything more?
_Mr. Forester._ She should have a clear perception of the beauty of
truth. Every species of falsehood, even in sportiveness, should be
abhorrent to her. The simplicity of her thoughts should shine through
the ingenuousness of her words. Her testimony should convey as
irresistible conviction as the voice of the personified nature of
things. And this ingenuousness should comprise, in its fullest extent,
that perfect conformity of feelings and opinions which ought to be the
most common, but is unfortunately the most rare, of the qualities of the
female mind.
_Mr. Fax._ You say nothing of beauty.
_Mr. Forester._ As to what is usually called beauty, mere symmetry of
form and features, it would be an object with me in purchasing a statue,
but none whatever in choosing a wife. Let her countenance be the mirror
of such qualities as I have described, and she cannot be otherwise than
beautiful. I think with the Athenians, that beauty and goodness are
inseparable. I need not remind you of the perpetual καλος κἀγαθος.
_Mr. Fax._ You have said nothing of the principal, and, indeed, almost
the only usual consideration in marriage—fortune.
_Mr. Forester._ I am rich enough myself to dispense with such
considerations. Even were I not so, I doubt if worldly wisdom would ever
influence me to bend my knee with the multitude at the shrine of the
omnipotence of money. Nothing is more uncertain, more transient, more
perishable, than riches. How many prudent marriages of interest and
convenience were broken to atoms by the French revolution! Do you think
there was one couple, among all those calculating characters, that acted
in those trying times like Louvet and his Lodoiska?[30] But without
looking to periods of public convulsion, in no state of society is any
individual secure against the changes of fortune. What becomes of those
ill-assorted unions, which have no basis but money, when, as is very
often the case, the money departs, and the persons remain? The qualities
of the heart and of the mind are alone out of the power of accident; and
by these, and these only, shall I be guided in the choice of the
companion of my life.
_Mr. Fax._ Are there no other indispensable qualities that you have
omitted in your enumeration?
_Mr. Forester._ None, I think, but such as are implied in those I have
mentioned, and must necessarily be co-existent with them; an endearing
sensibility, an agreeable cheerfulness, and that serenity of temper
which is truly the balm of being, and the absence of which, in the
intercourse of domestic life, obliterates all the radiance of beauty,
all the splendour of talent, and all the dignity of virtue.
_Mr. Fax._ I presume, then, you seriously purpose to marry, when you can
find such a woman as this you have described?
_Mr. Forester._ Seriously I do.
_Mr. Fax._ And not till then?
_Mr. Forester._ Certainly not.
_Mr. Fax._ Then your present heir presumptive has nothing to fear for
his reversion.
CHAPTER XII
LOVE AND POVERTY
‘We shall presently,’ said Mr. Fax, as they pursued their walk, ‘come in
sight of a cottage, which I remarked two years ago: a deplorable
habitation! A picture of its exterior and interior suspended in some
public place, in every town in the kingdom, with a brief commentary
subjoined, would operate _in terrorem_ in favour of the best interests
of political economy, by placing before the eyes of the rising
generation the lamentable consequences of imprudent marriage, and the
necessary result of attachment, of which romance is the foundation and
marriage the superstructure, without the only cement which will make it
wind and water tight—money.’
_Mr. Forester._ Nothing but money! The resemblance Fluellen found
between Macedon and Monmouth, because both began with an M, holds
equally true of money and marriage: but there seems to be a much
stronger connection in the latter case; for marriage is but a body, of
which money is the soul.
_Mr. Fax._ It is so. It must be so. The constitution of society
imperiously commands it to be so. The world of reality is not the world
of romance. When a lover talks of lips of coral, teeth of pearl, tresses
of gold, and eyes of diamonds, he knows all the while that he is lying
by wholesale; and that no baker in England would give him credit for a
penny roll on all this display of his Utopian treasury. All the aerial
castles that are founded in the contempt of worldly prudence have not
half the solidity of the cloud-built towers that surround the setting of
the autumnal sun.
_Mr. Forester._ I maintain, on the contrary, that, _let all possible
calamities be accumulated on two affectionate and congenial spirits,
they will find more true happiness in weeping together than they would
have found in all the riches of the world, poisoned by the disunion of
hearts_.[31]
_Mr. Fax._ The disunion of hearts is an evil of another kind. It is not
a comparison of evils I wish to institute. That two rich people fettered
by the indissoluble bond of marriage, and hating each other cordially,
are two as miserable animals as any on the face of the earth, is
certain; but that two poor ones, let them love each other ever so
fondly, starving together in a garret, are therefore in a less
positively wretched condition, is an inference which no logic, I think,
can deduce. For the picture you must draw in your mind’s eye is not that
of a neatly-dressed, young, healthy-looking couple, weeping in each
other’s arms in a clean, however homely cottage, in a fit of tender
sympathy; but you must surround them with all the squalid accompaniments
of poverty, rags, and famine, the contempt of the world, the dereliction
of friends, half a dozen hungry squalling children, all clothed perhaps
in the cutting up of an old blanket, duns in presence, bailiffs in
prospect, and the long perspective of hopelessness closed by the
workhouse or the gaol.
_Mr. Forester._ You imagine an extreme case, which something more than
the original want of fortune seems requisite to produce.
_Mr. Fax._ I have heard you declaim very bitterly against those who
maintain the necessary connection between misfortune and imprudence.
_Mr. Forester._ Certainly. To assert that the unfortunate must
necessarily have been imprudent, is to furnish an excuse to the
cold-hearted and illiberal selfishness of a state of society, which
needs no motive superadded to its own miserable narrow-mindedness, to
produce the almost total extinction of benevolence and sympathy. Good
and evil fortune depend so much on the combination of external
circumstances, that the utmost skill and industry cannot command
success; neither is the result of the most imprudent actions always
fatal:
Our indiscretions sometimes serve us well,
When our deep plots do pall.[32]
_Mr. Fax._ Sometimes, no doubt; but not so often as to equalise the
probable results of indiscretion and prudence. ‘Where there is
prudence,’ says Juvenal, ‘fortune is powerless’; and this doctrine,
though liable to exceptions, is replete with general truth. We have a
nice balance to adjust. To check the benevolence of the rich, by
persuading them that all misfortune is the result of imprudence, is a
great evil; but it would be a much greater evil to persuade the poor
that indiscretion may have a happier result than prudence; for where
this appears to be true in one instance, it is manifestly false in a
thousand. It is certainly not enough to possess industry and talent;
there must be means for exerting them; and in a redundant population
these means are often wanting, even to the most skilful and the most
industrious: but though calamity sometimes seizes those who use their
best efforts to avoid her, yet she seldom disappoints the intentions of
those who leap headlong into her arms.
_Mr. Forester._ It seems, nevertheless, peculiarly hard that all the
blessings of life should be confined to the rich. If you banish the
smiles of love from the cottage of poverty, what remains to cheer its
dreariness? The poor man has no friends, no amusements, no means of
exercising benevolence, nothing to fill up the gloomy and desolate
vacancy of his heart, if you banish love from his dwelling. ‘There is
one alone, and there is not a second,’ says one of the greatest poets
and philosophers of antiquity: ‘there is one alone, and there is not a
second: yea, he hath neither child nor brother; yet is there no end of
all his labour: ... neither saith he, For whom do I labour and bereave
my soul of good?... Two are better than one ... for if they fall, the
one will lift up his fellow: but woe to him that is alone when he
falleth; for he hath not another to help him up.’[33] Society in poverty
is better than solitude in wealth: but solitude and poverty together it
is scarcely in human nature to tolerate.
_Mr. Fax._ This, if I remember rightly, is the cottage of which I was
speaking.
The cottage was ruined and uninhabited. The roof had fallen in. The
garden was choked with weeds. ‘What,’ said Mr. Fax, ‘can have become of
its unfortunate inhabitants?’
_Mr. Forester._ What were they?
_Mr. Fax._ A couple for whom nature had done much, and fortune nothing.
I took shelter in their cottage from a passing storm. The picture which
you called the imagination of an extreme case falls short of the reality
of what I witnessed here. It was the utmost degree of misery and
destitution compatible with the preservation of life. A casual observer
might have passed them by, as the most abject of the human race. But
their physiognomy showed better things. It was with the utmost
difficulty I could extract a word from either of them: but when I at
last succeeded I was astonished, in garments so mean and a dwelling so
deplorable, to discover feelings so generous and minds so enlightened.
The semblance of human sympathy seemed strange to them; little of it as
you may suppose could be discovered through my saturnine complexion, and
the habitual language of what you call my frosty philosophy. By degrees
I engaged their confidence, and he related to me his history, which I
will tell you, as nearly as I can remember, in his own words.
CHAPTER XIII
DESMOND
My name is Desmond. My father was a naval officer, who in the prime of
life was compelled by wounds to retire from the service on his half-pay
and a small additional pension. I was his only son, and he submitted to
the greatest personal privations to procure me a liberal education, in
the hope that by these means he should live to see me making my way in
the world: but he always accompanied his wishes for this consummation
with a hope that I should consider money as a means, and not as an end,
and that I should remember the only real treasures of human existence
were truth, health, and liberty. You will not wonder that, with such
principles, the father had been twenty years a lieutenant, and that the
son was looked on at College as a fellow that would come to nothing.
I profited little at the University, as you will easily suppose. The
system of education pursued there appeared to me the result of a
deep-laid conspiracy against the human understanding, a mighty effort of
political and ecclesiastical machiavelism, to turn the energies of
inquiring minds into channels, where they will either stagnate in
disgust, or waste themselves in nugatory labour. To discover or even to
illustrate a single moral truth, to shake the empire of a single
prejudice, to apply a single blow of the axe of philosophy to the
wide-spreading roots of superstition and political imposture, is to
render a real service to the best hopes of mankind; but all this is
diametrically opposed to the selfish interests of the hired misleaders
of society, the chosen few, as they are called, before whom the wretched
multitude grovel in the dust as before
The children of a race,
Mightier than they, and wiser, and by heaven
Beloved and favoured more.
Moral science, therefore, moral improvement, the doctrines of
benevolence, the amelioration of the general condition of mankind, will
not only never form a part of any public institution for the performance
of that ridiculous and mischievous farce called the _Finishing of
Education_; but every art of clerical chicanery and fraudulent
misrepresentation will be practised, to render odious the very names of
philosophy and philanthropy, and to extinguish, by ridicule and
persecution, that enthusiastic love of truth, which never fails to
conduct its votaries to conclusions very little compatible with the
views of those who have built, or intend to build, their own worldly
prosperity on the foundation of hypocrisy and servility in themselves,
and ignorance and credulity in others.
The study of morals and of mind occupied my exclusive attention. I had
little taste for the science of lines and numbers, and still less for
verbal criticism, the pinnacle of academical glory.
I delighted in the poets of Greece and Rome, but I thought that the
_igneus vigor et coelestis origo_ of their conceptions and expressions
was often utterly lost sight of in the microscopic inspection of
philological minutiae. I studied Greek, as the means of understanding
Homer and Aeschylus: I did not look on them as mere secondary
instruments to the attainment of a knowledge of their language. I had no
conception of the taste that could prefer Lycophron to Sophocles because
he had the singular advantage of being obscure; and should have been
utterly at a loss to account for such a phenomenon, if I had not seen
that the whole system of public education was purposely calculated to
make inferior minds recoil in disgust and terror from the vestibule of
knowledge, and superior minds consume their dangerous energies in the
_difficiles nugae_ and _labor ineptiarum_ of its adytum.
I did not _finish_, as it is called, my college _education_. My father’s
death compelled me to leave it before the expiration of the usual
period, at the end of which the same distinction is conferred on all
capacities, by the academical noometry, not of merit but of time. I
found myself almost destitute; but I felt the consciousness of talents,
that I doubted not would amply provide for me in that great centre of
intellect and energy, London. To London I accordingly went, and became a
boarder in the humble dwelling of a widow, who maintained herself and an
only daughter by the perilous and precarious income derived from
lodgers.
[Illustration: ‘_My dear sir, only take the trouble of sitting a few
hours in my shop._’]
My first application was to a bookseller in Bond Street, to whom I
offered the copyright of a treatise on the Elements of Morals. ‘My dear
sir,’ said he, with an air of supercilious politeness, ‘only take the
trouble of sitting a few hours in my shop, and if you detect any one of
my customers in the act of pronouncing the word _morals_, I will give
any price you please to name for your copyright.’ But, glancing over the
manuscript, ‘I perceive,’ said he, ‘there are some smart things here;
and though they are good for nothing where they are, they would cut a
pretty figure in a Review. My friend Mr. Vamp, the editor, is in want of
a hand for the moral department of his Review: I will give you a note to
him.’ I thanked him for his kindness, and, furnished with the note,
proceeded to the lodgings of Mr. Vamp, whom I found in an elegant first
floor, lounging over a large quarto, which he was marking with a pencil.
A number of books and pamphlets, and fragments of both curiously cut up,
were scattered on the table before him, together with a large pot of
paste and an enormous pair of scissors.
He received me with great hauteur, read the note, and said, ‘Mr.
Foolscap has told you we are in want of a hand, and he thinks you have a
turn in the moral line: I shall not be sorry if it prove so, for we have
been very ill provided in that way a long while; and though morals are
not much in demand among our patrons and customers, and will not do, by
any means, for a standing dish, they make, nevertheless, a very pretty
seasoning for our politics, in cases where they might otherwise be
rather unpalatable and hard of digestion. You see this pile of
pamphlets, these volumes of poetry, and this rascally quarto: all these,
though under very different titles, and the productions of very
different orders of mind, have, either openly or covertly, only one
object; and a most impertinent one it is. This object is twofold: first,
to prove the existence, to an immense extent, of what these writers
think proper to denominate political corruption; secondly, to convince
the public that this corruption ought to be extinguished. Now, we are
anxious to do away the effect of all these incendiary clamours. As to
the existence of corruption (it is a villainous word, by the bye—we call
it _persuasion in a tangible shape_): as to the existence, then, of
_persuasion in a tangible shape_, we do not wish to deny it; on the
contrary, we have no hesitation in affirming that it is _as notorious as
the sun at noonday_: but as to the inference that it ought to be
extinguished—that is the point against which we direct the full fire of
our critical artillery; we maintain that it ought to exist; and here is
the leading article of our next number, in which we confound in one mass
all these obnoxious publications, putting the weakest at the head of the
list, that if any of our readers should feel inclined to judge for
themselves (I must do them the credit to say I do not suspect many of
them of such a democratical propensity), they may be stopped _in
limine_, by finding very little temptation to proceed. The political
composition of this article is beautiful; it is the production of a
gentleman high in office, who is indebted to _persuasion in a tangible
shape_ for his present income of several thousands per annum; but it
wants, as I have hinted, a little moral seasoning; and there, as
ill-luck will have it, we are all thrown out. We have several reverend
gentlemen in our corps, but morals are unluckily quite out of their way.
We have, on some occasions, with their assistance, substituted theology
for morals; they manage this very cleverly, but I am sorry to say it
only takes among the old women; and though the latter are our best and
most numerous customers, yet we have some very obstinate and hard-headed
readers who will not, as I have observed, swallow our politics without a
little moral seasoning; and, as I told Mr. Foolscap, if we did not
contrive to pick up a spice of morals somewhere or other, all the
eloquence of _persuasion in a tangible shape_ would soon become of
little avail. Now, if you will undertake the seasoning of this article
in such a manner as to satisfy my employers, I will satisfy you: you
understand me.’
I observed that I hoped he would allow me the free exercise of my own
opinion; and that I should wish to season his article in such a manner
as to satisfy myself, which I candidly told him would not be in such a
manner as seemed likely to satisfy him.
On this he flew into a rage, and vowed vengeance against Mr. Foolscap
for having sent him a Jacobin. I strenuously disclaimed this
appellation; and being then quite a novice in the world, I actually
endeavoured to reason with him, as if the conviction of general right
and wrong could have any influence upon him; but he stopped me short, by
saying that till I could reason him out of his pension I might spare
myself the trouble of interfering with his opinions; as the logic from
which they were deduced had presented itself to him in a much more
_tangible shape_ than any abstract notions of truth and liberty. He had
thought, from Mr. Foolscap’s letter, that I had a talent for moral
theory, and that I was inclined to turn it to account; as for moral
practice, he had nothing to do with it, desired to know nothing about
it, and wished me a good-morning.
I was not yet discouraged, and made similar applications to the editors
and proprietors of several daily, weekly, monthly, and quarterly
publications, but I found everywhere the same indifference or aversion
to general principles, the same partial and perverted views: every one
was the organ of some division or subdivision of a faction; and had
entrenched himself in a narrow circle, within the pale of which all was
honour, consistency, integrity, generosity, and justice; while all
without it was villainy, hypocrisy, selfishness, corruption, and lies.
Not being inclined to imprison myself in any one of these magical rings,
I found all my interviews terminate like that with Mr. Vamp.
By the advice and introduction of a college acquaintance, I accepted the
situation of tutor in the family of Mr. Dross, a wealthy citizen, who
had acquired a large fortune by contracts with Government, in the
execution of which he had not forgotten to charge for his vote and
interest. His conscience, indeed, of all the commodities he dealt in,
was that which he had brought to the best market; though, among his more
fair-dealing, and consequently poorer neighbours, it was thought he had
made the ministry pay too dearly for so very rotten an article. They
seemed not to be aware that a corrupt administration estimates
conscience and Stilton cheese by the same criterion, and that its
rottenness was its recommendation.
Mr. Dross was a tun of man, with the soul of a hazel-nut: his wife was a
tun of woman, without any soul whatever. The principle that animated her
bulk was composed of three ingredients—arrogance, ignorance, and the
pride of money. They were, in every sense of the word, what the world
calls respectable people.
Mrs. Dross aspired to be _somebody_, aped the nobility, and gave
magnificent routs, which were attended by many noble personages, and by
all that portion of the fashionable world that will go anywhere for a
crowd and a supper.
Their idea of virtue consisted in having no debts, going regularly to
church, and feeding the parson; their idea of charity, in paying the
poor-rates, and putting down their names to public subscriptions: and
they had a profound contempt for every species of learning, which they
associated indissolubly with rags and famine, and with that neglect of
the main chance, which they regarded as the most deadly of all deadly
sins. But as they had several hopeful children, and as Mrs. Dross found
it was fashionable to have a governess and a _tutorer_, they had looked
out for two pieces of human furniture under these denominations, and my
capricious destiny led me to their splendid dwelling in the latter
capacity.
I found the governess, Miss Pliant, very admirably adapted to her
situation. She did not presume to have a will of her own. Suspended like
Mahomet’s coffin between the mistress and the housekeeper, despising the
one, and despised by the other, her mind seemed unconscious of its
vacancy, and her heart of its loneliness. She had neither feelings nor
principles, either of good or ill: perfectly selfish, perfectly
cold-hearted, and perfectly obsequious, she was contented with her
situation, because it seemed likely to lead to an advantageous
establishment; for if ever she thought of marriage, it was only in the
light of a system of bargain, in which youth and beauty were very well
disposed of when bartered for age and money. She was highly
accomplished: a very scientific musician, without any soul in her
performance; a most skilful copier of landscapes, without the least
taste for the beauties of nature; and a proficient in French grammar,
though she had read no book in that language but _Telemaque_, and hated
the names of Rousseau and Voltaire, because she had heard them called
rascals by her father, who had taken his opinion on trust from the
Reverend Mr. Simony, who had never read a page of either of them.
I very soon found that I was regarded as an upper servant—as a person of
more pretension, but less utility, than the footman. I was expected to
be really more servile, in mind especially. If I presumed to differ in
opinion from Mr. or Mrs. Dross, they looked at each other and at me with
the most profound astonishment, wondering at so much audacity in one of
their movables. I really envied the footman, living as he did among his
equals, where he might have his own opinion, as far as he was capable of
forming one, and express it without reserve or fear; while all my
thoughts were to be those of a mirror, and my motions those of an
automaton. I soon saw that I had but the choice of alternatives: either
to mould myself into a slave, liar, and hypocrite, or to take my leave
of Mr. Dross. I therefore embraced the latter, and determined from that
moment never again to live under the roof of a superior, if my own
dwelling were to be the most humble and abject of human habitations.
I returned to my old lodgings, and, after a short time, procured some
employment in the way of copying for a lawyer. My labour was assiduous,
and my remuneration scanty; but my habits were simple, my evenings were
free, and in the daughter of the widow with whom I lodged I found a
congenial mind: a desire for knowledge, an ardent love of truth, and a
capacity that made my voluntary office of instruction at once easy and
delightful.
The widow died embarrassed: her creditors seized her effects, and her
daughter was left destitute. I was her only friend: to every other human
being, not only her welfare, but even her existence, were matters of
total indifference. The course of necessity seemed to have thrown her on
my protection, and if I before loved her, I now regarded her as a
precious trust, confided to me by her evil fate. Call it what you
may—imprudence, madness, frenzy—we were married.
The lawyer who employed me had chosen his profession very injudiciously,
for he was an honest and benevolent man. He interested himself for me,
acquainted himself with my circumstances, and without informing me of
his motives, increased my remuneration; though, as I afterwards found,
he could very ill afford to do so. By this means we lived twelve months
in comfort, I may say, considering the simplicity of our habits, in
prosperity. The birth of our first child was an accession to our
domestic happiness. We had no pleasures beyond the limits of our humble
dwelling. Our circumstances and situation were much below the ordinary
level of those of well-educated people: we had, therefore, no society,
but we were happy in each other: our evenings were consecrated to our
favourite authors; and the din of the streets, the tumult of crowds and
carriages thronging to parties of pleasure and scenes of public
amusement, came to us like the roar of a stormy ocean on which we had
neither wish nor power to embark.
One evening we were surprised by an unexpected visitor; it was the
lawyer, my employer. ‘Desmond!’ said he, ‘I am a ruined man. For having
been too scrupulous to make beggars of others, I have a fair prospect of
becoming one myself. You are shocked and astonished. Do not grieve on my
account. I have neither wife nor children. Very trivial and very
remediable is the evil that can happen to me. “The valiant by himself,
what can he suffer?” You will think a lawyer has as little business with
poetry as he has with justice. Perhaps so. I have been too partial to
both.’
I was glad to see him so cheerful, and expressed a hope that his affairs
would take a better turn than he seemed to expect. ‘You shall know
more,’ said he, ‘in a few days; in the meantime, here are the arrears I
owe you.’
When he came again, he said: ‘My creditors are neither numerous nor
cruel. I have made over to them all my property, but they allow me to
retain possession of a small house in Westmoreland, with an annuity for
my life, sufficient to maintain me in competence. I could propose a wild
scheme to you if I thought you would not be offended.’
‘That,’ said I, ‘I certainly will not, propose what you may.’
‘Tell me,’ said he, ‘which do you think the most useful and
uncontaminating implement, the quill or the spade?’
‘The spade,’ said I, ‘generally speaking, unquestionably: the quill in
some most rare and solitary instances.’
‘In the hand of Homer and Plutarch, of Seneca and Tacitus, of
Shakespeare and Rousseau? I am not speaking of them, or of those who,
however humbly, reflect their excellencies. But in the hands of the
slaves of commerce, the minions of law, the venal advocates of
superstition, the sycophants of corruption, the turnspits of literature,
the paragraph-mongers of prostituted journals, the hireling compounders
of party-praise and censure, under the name of periodical criticism,
what say you to it?’
‘What can I say,’ said I, ‘but that it is the curse of society, and the
bane of the human mind?’
‘And yet,’ said he, ‘in some of these ways must you employ it, if you
wish to live by it. Literature is not the soil in which truth and
liberty can flourish, unless their cultivators be independent of the
world. Those who are not so, whatever be the promise of their beginning,
will end either in sycophants or beggars. As mere mechanical
instruments, in pursuits unconnected with literature, what say you to
the comparison?’
‘What Cincinnatus would have said,’ I answered.
‘I am glad,’ said he, ‘to hear it. You are not one of the multitude,
neither, I believe, am I. I embraced my profession, I assure you, from
very disinterested motives. I considered that, the greater the powers of
mischief with which that profession is armed, and, I am sorry to add,
the practice of mischief in the generality of its professors, the
greater might be the scope of philanthropy, in protecting weakness and
counteracting oppression. Thus I have passed my life in an attempt to
reconcile philanthropy and law. I had property sufficient to enable me
to try the experiment. The natural consequence is, my property has
vanished. I do not regret it, for I have done some good. But I can do no
more. My power is annulled. I must retire from the stage of life. If I
retire alone, I must have servants; I had much rather have friends. If
you will accompany me to Westmoreland, we will organise a little
republic of our own. Your wife shall be our housekeeper. We will
cultivate our garden. We shall want little more, and that my annuity
will amply supply. We will select a few books, and we will pronounce
eternal banishment on pen and ink.’
I could not help smiling at the earnestness with which he pronounced the
last clause. The change of a lawyer into a Roman republican appeared to
me as miraculous as any metamorphosis in Ovid. Not to weary you with
details, we carried this scheme into effect, and passed three years of
natural and healthy occupation, with perfect simplicity and perfect
content. They were the happiest of our lives. But at the end of this
period our old friend died. His annuity died with him. He left me his
heir, but his habitation and its furniture were all he had to leave. I
procured a tenant for the house, and we removed to this even yet more
humble dwelling. The difference of the rent, a very trifling sum indeed,
constituted our only income. The increase of our family, and the
consequent pressure of necessity, compelled us to sell the house. From
the same necessity we have become strict Pythagoreans. I do not complain
that we live hardly: it is almost wonderful that we live at all. The
produce of our little garden preserves us from famine: but this is all
it does. I consider myself a mere rustic, and very willingly engage in
agricultural labour, when the neighbouring farmers think proper to
employ me: but they feel no deficiency of abler hands. There are more
labourers than means of labour. In the cities it is the same. If all the
modes of human occupation in this kingdom, from the highest to the
lowest, were to require at once a double number of persons, there would
not remain one of them twelve hours unfilled.
With what views could I return to London? Of the throng continually
pressing onward, to spring into the vacancies of employment, the
foremost ranks are unfortunately composed of the selfish, the servile,
the intriguing; of those to whose ideas general justice is a chimaera,
liberty an empty name, and truth at best a verbal veil for the
sycophantic falsehood of a mercenary spirit. To what end could a pupil
of the ancient Romans mingle with such a multitude? To cringe, to lie,
to flatter? To bow to the insolence of wealth, the superciliousness of
rank, the contumely of patronage, that, while it exacts the most abject
mental prostration, in return for promises never meant to be performed,
despises the servility it fosters, and laughs at the credulity it
betrays?
The wheel of fortune is like a water-wheel, and human beings are like
the waters it disturbs. Many are thrown into the channels of action,
many are thrown back to be lost for ever in the stream. I am one of the
latter: but I shall not consider it disgraceful to me that I am so, till
I see that candour, simplicity, integrity, and intellectual power,
directed by benevolence and liberty, have a better claim to worldly
estimation, than either venal talent prostituted to the wages of
corruption, or ignorance, meanness, and imbecility, exalted by influence
and interest.
CHAPTER XIV
THE COTTAGE
_Mr. Fax (in continuation)._ ‘I cannot help thinking,’ said I, when
Desmond had done speaking, ‘that you have formed too hasty an estimate
of the world. Mr. Vamp and Mr. Dross are bad specimens of human nature:
but there are many good specimens of it in both those classes of men.
The world is, indeed, full of prejudices and superstitions, which
produce ample profit to their venal advocates, who consequently want
neither the will nor the power to calumniate and persecute the
enlightened and the virtuous. The rich, too, are usually arrogant and
exacting, and those feelings will never perish for want of sycophants to
nourish them. An ardent love of truth and liberty will, therefore,
always prove an almost insuperable barrier to any great degree of
worldly advancement. A celebrated divine, who turned his theological
morality to very excellent account, and died _en bonne odeur_, used to
say, _he could not afford to have a conscience, for it was the most
expensive luxury a man could indulge in_. So it certainly is: but,
though a conscientious man who has his own way to make in the world,
will very seldom flourish in the sunshine of prosperity, it is not,
therefore, necessary that he should sit quietly down and starve.’ He
said he would think of it, and if he could find any loophole in the
great feudal fortress of society, at which poverty and honesty could
creep in together, he would try to effect an entrance. I made more
particular inquiry into their circumstances, and they at length
communicated to me, but with manifest reluctance, that they were in
imminent danger of being deprived of their miserable furniture, and
turned out of their wretched habitation, by Lawrence Litigate, Esquire,
their landlord, for arrears of rent amounting to five pounds.
_Mr. Forester._ Which, of course, you paid?
_Mr. Fax._ I did so; but I do not see that it is of course.
Mr. Forester, Mr. Fax, and Sir Oran were still leaning over the gate of
the cottage, when a peasant came whistling along the road. ‘Pray, my
honest friend,’ said Mr. Fax, ‘can you inform me what has become of the
family which inhabited this cottage two years ago?’—‘Ye’ll voind them,’
said the peasant, ‘about a mile vurther an, just by the lake’s edge
like, wi’ two large elms by the door, and a vir tree.’ He resumed his
tune and his way.
The philosophical trio proceeded on their walk.
_Mr. Forester._ You have said little of his wife.
_Mr. Fax._ She was an interesting creature. With her the feelings of
misfortune had subsided into melancholy silence, while with him they
broke forth in misanthropical satire.
_Mr. Forester._ And their children?
_Mr. Fax._ They would have been fine children, if they had been better
clothed and fed.
_Mr. Forester._ Did they seem to repent their marriage?
_Mr. Fax._ Not for themselves. They appeared to have no wish but to live
and die together. For their children, indeed, I could easily perceive
they felt more grief than they expressed.
_Mr. Forester._ You have scarcely made out your case. Poverty had
certainly come in at the door, but Love does not seem to have flown out
at the window. You would not have prevailed on them to separate at the
price of living in palaces. The energy of intellect was not deadened;
the independence of spirit was not broken. The participation of love
communicates a luxury to sorrow, that all the splendour of selfishness
can never bestow. If, as has been said, a friend is more valuable than
the elements of fire and water, how much more valuable must be the one
only associate, the more than friend, to him whom in affliction and in
poverty all other friends have abandoned! If the sun shines equally on
the palace and the cottage, why should not love, the sun of the
intellectual world, shine equally on both? More needful, indeed, is its
genial light to the latter, where there is no worldly splendour to
diminish or divide its radiance.
[Illustration: _Sir Oran sat down in the artist’s seat._]
With a sudden turn of the road, a scene of magnificent beauty burst upon
their view: the still expanse of a lake, bordered with dark precipices
and fading woods, and mountains rising above them, height on height,
till the clouds rested on their summits. A picturesque tourist had
planted his travelling-chair under the corner of a rock, and was
intently occupied in sketching the scene. The process attracted Sir
Oran’s curiosity; he walked up to the tourist, who was too deeply
engaged to notice his approach, and peeped over his shoulder. Sir Oran,
after looking at the picture, then at the landscape, then at the
picture, then at the landscape again, at length suddenly expressed his
delight in a very loud and very singular shout, close in the painter’s
ear, that re-echoed from rock to rock. The tourist sprang up in violent
alarm, and seeing the extraordinary physiognomy of the personage at his
elbow, drew a sudden conclusion of evil intentions, and ran off with
great rapidity, leaving all his apparatus behind him. Sir Oran sat down
in the artist’s seat, took up the drawing utensils, placed the
unfinished drawing on his knee, and sat in an attitude of deep
contemplation, as if meditating on the means to be pursued for doing the
same thing himself.
The flying tourist encountered Messieurs Fax and Forester, who had
observed the transaction, and were laughing at it as heartily as
Democritus himself could have done. They tranquillised his
apprehensions, and led him back to the spot. Sir Oran, on a hint from
his friend Mr. Forester, rose, made the tourist a polite bow, and
restored to him his beloved portfolio. They then wished him a
good-morning, and left him in a state of nervous trepidation, which made
it very obvious that he would draw no more that day.
_Mr. Fax._ Can Sir Oran draw?
_Mr. Forester._ No; but I think he would easily acquire the art. It is
very probable that in the nation of the Orans, which I take to be _a
barbarous nation that has not yet learned the use of speech_,[34]
drawing, as a means of communicating ideas, may be in no contemptible
state of forwardness.[35]
_Mr. Fax._ He has, of course, seen many drawings since he has been among
civilised men; what so peculiarly delighted and surprised him in this?
_Mr. Forester._ I suspect this is the first opportunity he has had of
comparing the natural original with the artificial copy; and his delight
was excited by seeing the vast scene before him transferred so
accurately into so small a compass, and growing, as it were, into a
distinct identity under the hand of the artist.
They now arrived at the elms and the fir-tree, which the peasant had
pointed out as the landmarks of the dwelling of Desmond. They were
surprised to see a very pretty cottage, standing in the midst of a
luxuriant garden, one part of which sloped down to the edge of the lake.
Everything bore the air of comfort and competence. They almost doubted
if the peasant had been correct in his information. Three rosy children,
plainly but neatly dressed, were sitting on the edge of the shallow
water, watching with intense delight and interest the manœuvres of a
paper flotilla, which they had committed to the mercy of the waves.
_Mr. Fax._ What is the difference between these children and Xerxes on
the shores of Salamis?
_Mr. Forester._ None, but that where they have pure and unmingled
pleasure, his feelings began in selfish pride, and ended in slavish
fear; their amusement is natural and innocent; his was unnatural, cruel,
and destructive, and therefore more unworthy of a rational being.
_Better is a poor and wise child than a foolish king that will not be
admonished._
A female came from the cottage. Mr. Fax recognised Mrs. Desmond. He was
surprised at the change in her appearance. Health and content animated
her countenance. The simple neatness of her dress derived an appearance
of elegance from its interesting wearer; contrary to the fashionable
process, in which dress neither neat nor simple, but a heterogeneous
mixture of all the fripperies of Europe, gives what the world calls
elegance, where less partial nature has denied it. There are, in this
respect, two classes of human beings: Nature makes the first herself,
for the beauty of her own creation; her journeymen cut out the second
for tailors and mantua-makers to finish. The first, when apparelled, may
be called dressed people—the second, peopled dresses; the first bear the
same relation to their clothes as an oak bears to its foliage—the
second, the same as a wig-block bears to a wig; the first may be
compared to cocoa-nuts, in which the kernel is more valuable than the
shell—the second, to some varieties of the _Testaceous Mollusca_, where
a shell of infinite value covers a stupid fish that is good for nothing.
Mrs. Desmond recognised Mr. Fax. ‘O sir!’ said she, ‘I rejoice to see
you.’—‘And I rejoice,’ said Mr. Fax, ‘to see you as you now are; Fortune
has befriended you.’—‘You rendered us great service, sir, in our
wretched condition; but the benefit, of course, was transient. With the
next quarter-day Mr. Litigate, our landlord, resumed his persecutions;
and we should have been turned out of our wretched dwelling to perish in
the roads, had not some happy incident made Miss Melincourt acquainted
with our situation. To know what it was, and to make it what it is, were
the same thing to her. So suddenly, when the extremity of evil was
impending over us, to be placed in this little Paradise in
competence—nay, to our simple habits, in affluence, and in such a
manner, as if we were bestowing, not receiving favours——O sir, there
cannot be two Miss Melincourts! But will you not walk in and take some
refreshment?—we can offer you refreshment now. My husband is absent at
present, but he will very soon return.’
While she was speaking he arrived. Mr. Fax congratulated him. At his
earnest solicitation they entered the cottage, and were delighted with
the beautiful neatness that predominated in every part of it. The three
children ran in to see the strangers. Mr. Forester took up the little
girl, Mr. Fax a boy, and Sir Oran Haut-ton another. The latter took
alarm at the physiognomy of his new friend, and cried and kicked, and
struggled for release; but Sir Oran, producing a flute from his pocket,
struck up a lively air, which reconciled the child, who then sat very
quietly on his knee.
Some refreshment was placed before them, and Sir Oran testified, by a
copious draught, that he found much virtue in home-brewed ale.
‘There is a farm attached to this cottage,’ said Mr. Desmond; ‘and Miss
Melincourt, by having placed me in it, enabled me to maintain my family
in comfort and independence, and to educate them in a free, healthy, and
natural occupation. I have ever thought agriculture the noblest of human
pursuits; to the theory and practice of it I now devote my whole
attention, and I am not without hopes that the improvement of this part
of my benefactress’s estate will justify her generous confidence in a
friendless stranger; but what can repay her benevolence?’
‘I will answer for her,’ said Mr. Forester, ‘though she is as yet
personally unknown to me, that she loves benevolence for its own sake,
and is satisfied with its consummation.’
After a short conversation, and a promise soon to revisit the now happy
family, Mr. Forester, Mr. Fax, and Sir Oran Haut-ton resumed their walk.
Mr. Forester, at parting, put, unobserved, into the hand of the little
boy, a folded paper, telling him to give it to his father. It was a leaf
which he had torn from his pocket-book; he had enclosed in it a
bank-note, and had written on it with a pencil, ‘Do not refuse to a
stranger the happiness of reflecting that he has, however tardily and
slightly, co-operated with Miss Melincourt in a work of justice.’
CHAPTER XV
THE LIBRARY
Mr. Forester, Mr. Fax, and Sir Oran Haut-ton arrived at Melincourt
Castle. They were shown into a parlour, where they were left alone a few
minutes; when Mr. Hippy made his appearance, and recognising Sir Oran,
shook hands with him very cordially. Mr. Forester produced the letter he
had received from Mr. Ratstail, which Mr. Hippy having read, vented a
string of invectives against the impudent rascal, and explained the
mystery of the adventure, though he seemed to think it strange that Sir
Oran could not have explained it himself. Mr. Forester shook his head
significantly; and Mr. Hippy, affecting to understand the gesture,
exclaimed, ‘Ah! poor gentleman!’ He then invited them to stay to dinner.
‘I won’t be refused,’ said he; ‘I am lord and master of this castle at
present, and here you shall stay till to-morrow. Anthy will be delighted
to see her friend here’ (bowing to Sir Oran, who returned it with great
politeness), ‘and we will hold a council of war, how to deal with this
pair of puppies, Lawrence Litigate, Esquire, and Richard Ratstail,
Solicitor. I have several visitors here already: lords, baronets, and
squires, all Corydons, sighing for Anthy; but it seems _Love’s Labour
Lost_ with all of them. However, love and wine, you know! Anthy won’t
give them the first, so I drench them with the second: there will be
more bottles than hearts cracked in the business, for all Anthy’s
beauty. _Men die and worms eat them_, as usual, _but not for love_.
Mr. Forester inquired for Sir Telegraph Paxarett. ‘An excellent fellow
after dinner!’ exclaimed Mr. Hippy. ‘I never see him in the morning; nor
any one else, but my rascal, Harry Fell, and now and then Harry
Killquick. The moment breakfast is over, one goes one way, and another
another. Anthy locks herself up in the library.’
‘Locks herself up in the library!’ said Mr. Fax: ‘a young lady, a
beauty, and an heiress, in the nineteenth century, think of cultivating
her understanding!’
‘Strange, but true,’ said Mr. Hippy; ‘and here am I, a poor invalid,
left alone all the morning to prowl about the castle like a ghost; that
is, when I am well enough to move, which is not always the case. But the
library is opened at four, and the party assembles there before dinner;
and as it is now about the time, come with me, and I will introduce
you.’
They followed Mr. Hippy to the library, where they found Anthelia alone.
‘Anthy,’ said Mr. Hippy, after the forms of introduction, ‘do you know
you are accused of laying waste a pine-grove, and carrying it off by
cartloads, with force and arms?’
Anthelia read Mr. Ratstail’s letter. ‘This is a very strange piece of
folly,’ she said; ‘I hope it will not be a mischievous one.’ She then
renewed the expressions of her gratitude to Sir Oran, and bade him
welcome to Melincourt. Sir Oran bowed in silence.
‘Folly and mischief,’ said Mr. Fax, ‘are very nearly allied; and nowhere
more conspicuously than in the forms of the law.’
_Mr. Forester._ You have an admirable library, Miss Melincourt: and I
judge from the great number of Italian books, you are justly partial to
the poets of that exquisite language. The apartment itself seems
singularly adapted to the genius of their poetry, which combines the
magnificent simplicity of ancient Greece with the mysterious grandeur of
the feudal ages. Those windows of stained glass would recall to an
enthusiastic mind the attendant spirit of Tasso; and the waving of the
cedars beyond, when the wind makes music in their boughs, with the birds
singing in their shades and the softened dash of the torrent from the
dingle below, might with little aid from fancy be modulated into that
exquisite combination of melody which flowed from the enchanted wood at
the entrance of Rinaldo, and which Tasso has painted with a degree of
harmony not less magical than the music he describes. Italian poetry is
all fairyland: I know not any description of literature so congenial to
the tenderness and delicacy of the female mind, which, however opposite
may be the tendency of modern education, Nature has most pre-eminently
adapted to be ‘a mansion for all lovely forms: a dwelling-place for all
sweet sounds and harmonies.’[36] Of these, Italian poetry is a most
inexhaustible fountain; and for that reason I could wish it to be
generally acknowledged a point of the very first importance in female
education.
_Anthelia._ You have a better opinion of the understandings of women,
sir, than the generality of your lordly sex seems disposed to entertain.
_Mr. Forester._ The conduct of men, in this respect, is much like that
of a gardener who should plant a plot of ground with merely ornamental
flowers, and then pass sentence on the soil for not bearing substantial
fruit. If women are treated only as pretty dolls, and dressed in all the
fripperies of irrational education; if the vanity of personal adornment
and superficial accomplishments be made from their very earliest years
to suppress all mental aspirations, and to supersede all thoughts of
intellectual beauty, is it to be inferred that they are incapable of
better things? But such is the usual logic of tyranny, which first
places its extinguisher on the flame, and then argues that it cannot
burn.
_Mr. Fax._ Your remark is not totally just: for though custom, how
justly I will not say, banishes women from the fields of classical
literature, yet the study of Italian poetry, of which you think so
highly, is very much encouraged among them.
_Mr. Forester._ You should rather say it is not discouraged. They are
permitted to know it: but in very few instances is the permission
accompanied by any practical aid. The only points practically enforced
in female education are sound, colour, and form,—music, dress, drawing,
and dancing. The mind is left to take care of itself.
_Mr. Fax._ And has as much chance of doing so as a horse in a pound,
circumscribed in the narrowest limits, and studiously deprived of
nourishment.
_Anthelia._ The simile is, I fear, too just. To think is one of the most
unpardonable errors a woman can commit in the eyes of society. In our
sex a taste for intellectual pleasures is almost equivalent to taking
the veil; and though not absolutely a vow of perpetual celibacy, it has
almost always the same practical tendency. In that universal system of
superficial education which so studiously depresses the mind of women, a
female who aspires to mental improvement will scarcely find in her own
sex a congenial associate; and the other will regard her as an intruder
on its prescriptive authority, its legitimate and divine right over the
dominion of thought and reason: and the general consequence is, that she
remains insulated between both, in more than cloistered loneliness. Even
in its effect on herself, the ideal beauty which she studies will make
her fastidious, too fastidious, perhaps, to the world of realities, and
deprive her of the happiness that might be her portion, by fixing her
imagination on chimaeras of unattainable excellence.
_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 in hand with such a companion among the valleys
and fountains of Ida, and by the banks of the eddying Scamander;[37]
through the island of Calypso, and the gardens of Alcinous;[38] to the
rocks of the Scythian desert;[39] to the caverned shores of the solitary
Lemnos;[40] and to the fatal sands of Troezene[41] 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 new-comers.
_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.[42]
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. Feathernest, 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![43]
_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.’[44] 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 archiepiscopal 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 Achthar._ 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 shape, 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.
[Illustration: _Mr. Feathernest._]
_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._[45]
_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 adire
Corinthum_. While I 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 noonday_,
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,
that 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 again_,[46] is as much the cry of nature as the dream of
superstition.
_The Rev. Mr. Portpipe._ Man has fallen, certainly, by the fruit of the
tree of knowledge: which shows that human learning is vanity and a great
evil, and therefore very properly discountenanced by all bishops,
priests, and deacons.
_Mr. Fax._ The picture which you have drawn of poverty is not very
tempting; and you must acknowledge that it is most galling to the most
refined feelings. You must not, therefore, wonder that it is peculiarly
obnoxious to the practical notions of poets. If the radiance of gold and
silver gleam not through the foliage of the Pierian laurel, there is
something to be said in their excuse if they carry their chaplet to
those who will gild its leaves; and in that case they will find their
best customers and patrons among those who are ambitious of acquiring
panegyric by a more compendious method than the troublesome practice of
the virtues that deserve it.
_Mr. Forester._ You have quoted Juvenal, but you should have completed
the sentence: ‘If you see no glimpse of coin in the Pierian shade, you
will prefer the name and occupation of a barber or an auctioneer.’[47]
This is most just: if the pursuits of literature, conscientiously
conducted, condemn their votary to famine, let him live by more humble,
but at least by honest, and therefore honourable occupations: he may
still devote his leisure to his favourite pursuits. If he produce but a
single volume consecrated to moral truth, its effect must be good as far
as it goes; but if he purchase leisure and luxury by the prostitution of
talent to the cause of superstition and tyranny, every new exertion of
his powers is a new outrage to reason and virtue, and in precise
proportion to those powers is he a curse to his country and a traitor to
mankind.
_Mr. Feathernest._ A barber, sir!—a man of genius turn barber!
_Mr. O’Scarum._ Troth, sir, and I think it is better he should be in the
suds himself, than help to bring his country into that situation.
_Mr. Forester._ I can perceive, sir, in your exclamation the principle
that has caused so enormous a superabundance in the number of bad books
over that of good ones. The objects of the majority of men of talent
seem to be exclusively two: the first, to convince the world of their
transcendent abilities; the second, to convert that conviction into a
source of the greatest possible pecuniary benefit to themselves. But
there is no class of men more resolutely indifferent to the moral
tendency of the means by which their ends are accomplished. Yet this is
the most extensively pernicious of all modes of dishonesty; for that of
a private man can only injure the pockets of a few individuals (a great
evil, certainly, but light in comparison); while that of a public
writer, who has previously taught the multitude to respect his talents,
perverts what is much more valuable, the mental progress of thousands;
misleading, on the one hand, the shallow believers in his sincerity; and
on the other, stigmatising the whole literary character in the opinions
of all who see through the veil of his venality.
_Mr. Feathernest._ All this is no reason, sir, why a man of genius
should condescend to be a barber.
_Mr. Forester._ He condescends much more in being a sycophant. The
poorest barber in the poorest borough in England, who will not sell his
vote, is a much more honourable character in the estimate of moral
comparison than the most self-satisfied dealer in courtly poetry, whose
well-paid eulogiums of licentiousness and corruption were ever re-echoed
by the ‘most sweet voices’ of hireling gazetteers and pensioned
reviewers.
The summons to tea and coffee put a stop to the conversation.
CHAPTER XVII
MUSIC AND DISCORD
The evenings were beginning to give symptoms of winter, and a large fire
was blazing in the library. Mr. Forester took the opportunity of
stigmatising the use of sugar, and had the pleasure of observing that
the practice of Anthelia in this respect was the same as his own. He
mentioned his intention of giving an anti-saccharine festival at Redrose
Abbey, and invited all the party at Melincourt to attend it. He observed
that his aunt, Miss Evergreen, who would be there at the time, would
send an invitation in due form to the ladies, to remove all scruples on
the score of propriety; and added, that if he could hope for the
attendance of half as much moral feeling as he was sure there would be
of beauty and fashion, he should be satisfied that a great step would be
made towards accomplishing the object of the Anti-saccharine Society.
The Reverend Mr. Grovelgrub felt extremely indignant at Mr. Forester’s
notion ‘of every real enemy to slavery being bound by the strictest
moral duty to practical abstinence from the luxury which slavery
acquires’; but when he found that the notion was to be developed in the
shape of a festival, he determined to suspend his judgment till he had
digested the solid arguments that were to be brought forward on the
occasion.
Mr. O’Scarum was, as usual, very clamorous for music, and was seconded
by the unanimous wish of the company, with which Anthelia readily
complied, and sang as follows:
THE FLOWER OF LOVE
’Tis said the rose is Love’s own flower,
Its blush so bright, its thorns so many;
And winter on its bloom has power,
But has not on its sweetness any.
For though young Love’s ethereal rose
Will droop on Age’s wintry bosom,
Yet still its faded leaves disclose
The fragrance of their earliest blossom.
But ah! the fragrance lingering there
Is like the sweets that mournful duty
Bestows with sadly-soothing care,
To deck the grave of bloom and beauty.
For when its leaves are shrunk and dry,
Its blush extinct, to kindle never,
That fragrance is but Memory’s sigh,
That breathes of pleasures past for ever.
Why did not Love the amaranth choose,
That bears no thorns, and cannot perish?
Alas! no sweets its flowers diffuse,
And only sweets Love’s life can cherish.
But be the rose and amaranth twined,
And Love, their mingled powers assuming,
Shall round his brows a chaplet bind,
For ever sweet, for ever blooming.
‘I am afraid,’ said Mr. Derrydown, ‘the flower of modern love is neither
the rose nor the amaranth, but the _chrysanthemum_, or _gold-flower_. If
Miss Danaretta and Mr. O’Scarum will accompany me, we will sing a little
harmonised ballad, something in point, and rather more conformable to
the truth of things.’ Mr. O’Scarum and Miss Danaretta consented, and
they accordingly sang the following:—
BALLAD TERZETTO—THE LADY, THE KNIGHT, AND THE FRIAR
THE LADY
O cavalier! what dost thou here,
Thy tuneful vigils keeping;
While the northern star looks cold from far,
And half the world is sleeping?
THE KNIGHT
O lady! here, for seven long year,
Have I been nightly sighing,
Without the hope of a single tear
To pity me were I dying.
THE LADY
Should I take thee to have and to hold,
Who hast nor lands nor money?
Alas! ’tis only in flowers of gold
That married bees find honey.
THE KNIGHT
O lady fair! to my constant prayer
Fate proves at last propitious:
And bags of gold in my hand I bear,
And parchment scrolls delicious.
THE LADY
My maid the door shall open throw,
For we too long have tarried:
The friar keeps watch in the cellar below,
And we will at once be married.
THE FRIAR
My children! great is Fortune’s power;
And plain this truth appears,
That gold thrives more in a single hour
Than love in seven long years.
During this terzetto the Reverend Mr. Portpipe fell asleep, and
accompanied the performance with rather a deeper bass than was generally
deemed harmonious.
Sir Telegraph Paxarett took Mr. Forester aside, to consult him on the
subject of the journey to Onevote.
‘I have asked,’ said he, ‘my aunt and cousin, Mrs. and Miss Pinmoney, to
join the party, and have requested them to exert their influence with
Miss Melincourt to induce her to accompany them.’
‘That would make it a delightful expedition, indeed,’ said Mr. Forester,
‘if Miss Melincourt could be prevailed on to comply.’
‘_Nil desperandum_,’ said Sir Telegraph.
The Honourable Mrs. Pinmoney drew Anthelia into a corner, and developed
all her eloquence in enforcing the proposition. Miss Danaretta joined in
it with great earnestness; and they kept up the fire of their
importunity till they extorted from Anthelia a promise that she would
consider of it.
Mr. Forester took down a splendid edition of Tasso, printed by Bodoni at
Parma, and found it ornamented with Anthelia’s drawings. In the magic of
her pencil the wild and wonderful scenes of Tasso seemed to live under
his eyes: he could not forbear expressing to her the delight he
experienced from these new proofs of her sensibility and genius, and
entered into a conversation with her concerning her favourite poet, in
which the congeniality of their tastes and feelings became more and more
manifest to each other.
Mr. Feathernest and Mr. Derrydown got into a hot dispute over Chapman’s
_Homer_ and Jeremy Taylor’s _Holy Living_: Mr. Derrydown maintaining
that the ballad metre which Chapman had so judiciously chosen rendered
his volume the most divine poem in the world; Mr. Feathernest asserting
that Chapman’s verses were mere doggerel: which vile aspersion Mr.
Derrydown revenged by depreciating Mr. Feathernest’s favourite Jeremy.
Mr. Feathernest said he could expect no better judgment from a man who
was mad enough to prefer _Chevy Chase_ to _Paradise Lost_; and Mr.
Derrydown retorted, that it was idle to expect either taste or justice
from one who had thought fit to unite in himself two characters so
anomalous as those of a poet and a critic, in which duplex capacity he
had first deluged the world with torrents of execrable verses, and then
written anonymous criticisms to prove them divine. ‘Do you think, sir,’
he continued, ‘that it is possible for the same man to be both Homer and
Aristotle? No, sir; but it is very possible to be both Dennis and Colley
Cibber, as in the melancholy example before me.’
At this all the blood of the _genus irritabile_ boiled in Mr.
Feathernest’s veins, and uplifting the ponderous folio, he seemed
inclined to bury his antagonist under Jeremy’s _weight of words_, by
applying them in a _tangible shape_; but wisely recollecting that this
was not the time and place
To prove his doctrine orthodox
By apostolic blows and knocks,
he contented himself with a point-blank denial of the charge that he
wrote critiques on his own works, protesting that all the articles on
his poems were written either by his friend Mr. Mystic, of Cimmerian
Lodge, or by Mr. Vamp, the amiable editor of the _Legitimate Review_.
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Derrydown, ‘on the “_Tickle me, Mr. Hayley_” principle;
by which a miserable cabal of doggerel rhymesters and worn-out
paragraph-mongers of bankrupt gazettes ring the eternal changes of
panegyric on each other, and on everything else that is either rich
enough to buy their praise, or vile enough to deserve it: like a gang in
a country steeple, paid for being a public nuisance, and maintaining
that noise is melody.’
Mr. Feathernest on this became perfectly outrageous; and waving Jeremy
Taylor in the air, exclaimed, ‘_Oh that mine enemy had written a book!_
Horrible should be the vengeance of the _Legitimate Review_!’
Mr. Hippy now deemed it expedient to interpose for the restoration of
order, and entreated Anthelia to throw in a little musical harmony as a
sedative to the ebullitions of a poetical discord. At the sound of the
harp the antagonists turned away, the one flourishing his Chapman and
the other his Jeremy with looks of lofty defiance.
[Illustration: _He managed so skilfully that his Lordship became himself
the proposer of the scheme._]
CHAPTER XVIII
THE STRATAGEM
The Reverend Mr. Grovelgrub, who had acquired a great proficiency in the
art of hearing without seeming to listen, had overheard Mrs. Pinmoney’s
request to Anthelia; and, notwithstanding the young lady’s hesitation,
he very much feared she would ultimately comply. He had seen, much
against his will, a great congeniality in feelings and opinions between
her and Mr. Forester, and had noticed some unconscious external
manifestations of the interior mind on both sides, some outward and
visible signs of the inward and spiritual sentiment, which convinced him
that a more intimate acquaintance with each other would lead them to a
conclusion, which, for the reasons we have given in the ninth chapter,
he had no wish to see established. After long and mature deliberation,
he determined to rouse Lord Anophel to a sense of his danger, and spirit
him up to an immediate _coup-de-main_. He calculated that, as the young
Lord was a spoiled child, immoderately vain, passably foolish, and
totally unused to contradiction, he should have little difficulty in
moulding him to his views. His plan was, that Lord Anophel, with two or
three confidential fellows, should lie in ambush for Anthelia in one of
her solitary rambles, and convey her to a lonely castle of his
Lordship’s on the seacoast, with a view of keeping her in close custody,
till fair means or foul should induce her to regain her liberty in the
character of Lady Achthar. This was to be Lord Anophel’s view of the
subject; but the Reverend Mr. Grovelgrub had in the inner cave of his
perceptions a very promising image of a different result. As he would
have free access to Anthelia in her confinement, he intended to worm
himself into her favour, under the cover of friendship and sympathy,
with the most ardent professions of devotion to her cause and promises
of endeavours to effect her emancipation, involving the accomplishment
of this object in a multitude of imaginary difficulties, which it should
be his professed study to vanquish. He deemed it very probable that, by
a skilful adoperation of these means, and by moulding Lord Anophel, at
the same time, into a system of conduct as disagreeable as possible to
Anthelia, he might himself become the lord and master of the lands and
castle of Melincourt, when he would edify the country with the example
of his truly orthodox life, faring sumptuously every day, raising the
rents of his tenants, turning out all who were in arrear, and
occasionally treating the rest with discourses on temperance and
charity.
With these ideas in his head, he went in search of Lord Anophel, and
proceeding _pedetentim_, and opening the subject _peirastically_, he
managed so skilfully that his Lordship became himself the proposer of
the scheme, with which the Reverend Mr. Grovelgrub seemed unwillingly to
acquiesce.
Mr. Forester, Mr. Fax, and Sir Oran Haut-ton took leave of the party at
Melincourt Castle; the former having arranged with Sir Telegraph
Paxarett that he was to call for them at Redrose Abbey in the course of
three days, and reiterated his earnest hopes that Anthelia would be
persuaded to accompany Mrs. Pinmoney and her beautiful daughter in the
expedition to Onevote.
Lord Anophel Achthar and the Reverend Mr. Grovelgrub also took leave, as
a matter of policy, that their disappearance at the same time with
Anthelia might not excite surprise. They pretended a pressing temporary
engagement in a distant part of the country, and carried off with them
Mr. Feathernest the poet, whom, nevertheless, they did not deem it
prudent to let into the secret of their scheme.
[Illustration: _She thought there was something peculiar in his look._]
The next day Anthelia, still undecided on this subject, wandered alone
to the ruined bridge, to contemplate the scene of her former
misadventure. As she ascended the hill that bounded the valley of
Melincourt, a countryman crossed her path, and touching his hat passed
on. She thought there was something peculiar in his look, but had quite
forgotten him, when, on looking back as she descended on the other side,
she observed him making signs, as if to some one at a distance: she
could not, however, consider that they had any relation to her. The day
was clear and sunny; and when she entered the pine-grove, the gloom of
its tufted foliage, with the sunbeams chequering the dark-red soil,
formed a grateful contrast to the naked rocks and heathy mountains that
lay around it, in the full blaze of daylight. In many parts of the grove
was a luxuriant laurel underwood, glittering like silver in the partial
sunbeams that penetrated the interstices of the pines. Few scenes in
nature have a more mysterious solemnity than such a scene as this.
Anthelia paused a moment. She thought she heard a rustling in the
laurels, but all was again still. She proceeded; the rustling was
renewed. She felt alarmed, yet she knew not why, and reproached herself
for such idle and unaccustomed apprehensions. She paused again to
listen; the soft tones of a flute sounded from a distance: these gave
her confidence, and she again proceeded. She passed by the tuft of
laurels in which she had heard the rustling. Suddenly a mantle was
thrown over her. She was wrapped in darkness, and felt that she was
forcibly seized by several persons, who carried her rapidly along. She
screamed, but the mantle was immediately pressed on her mouth, and she
was hurried onward. After a time the party stopped: a tumult ensued: she
found herself at liberty, and threw the mantle from her head. She was on
a road at the verge of the pine-grove: a chaise-and-four was waiting.
Two men were running away in the distance: two others, muffled and
masked, were rolling on the ground, and roaring for mercy, while Sir
Oran Haut-ton was standing over them with a stick,[48] and treating them
as if he were a thresher and they were sheaves of corn. By her side was
Mr. Forester, who, taking her hand, assured her that she was in safety,
while at the same time he endeavoured to assuage Sir Oran’s wrath, that
he might raise and unmask the fallen foes. Sir Oran, however, proceeded
in his summary administration of natural justice till he had dispensed
what was to his notion a _quantum sufficit_ of the application: then
throwing his stick aside, he caught them both up, one under each arm,
and climbing with great dexterity a high and precipitous rock, left them
perched upon its summit, bringing away their masks in his hand, and
making them a profound bow at taking leave.[49]
Mr. Forester was anxious to follow them to their aerial seat, that he
might ascertain who they were, which Sir Oran’s precipitation had put it
out of his power to do; but Anthelia begged him to return with her
immediately to the Castle, assuring him that she thought them already
sufficiently punished, and had no apprehension that they would feel
tempted again to molest her.
Sir Oran now opened the chaise-door, and drew out the postboys by the
leg, who, at the beginning of the fray, had concealed themselves from
his fury under the seat. Mr. Forester succeeded in rescuing them from
Sir Oran, and endeavoured to extract from them information as to their
employers: but the boys declared that they knew nothing of them, the
chaise having been ordered by a strange man to be in waiting at that
place, and the hire paid in advance.
Anthelia, as she walked homeward, leaning on Mr. Forester’s arm,
inquired to what happy accident she was indebted for the timely
intervention of himself and Sir Oran Haut-ton. Mr. Forester informed
her, that having a great wish to visit the scene which had been the
means of introducing him to her acquaintance, he had made Sir Oran
understand his desire, and they had accordingly set out together,
leaving Mr. Fax at Redrose Abbey, deeply engaged in the solution of a
problem in political arithmetic.
[Illustration: _He caught them both up, one under each arm._]
CHAPTER XIX
THE EXCURSION
Anthelia found, from what Mr. Forester had said, that she had excited a
much greater interest in his mind than she had previously supposed; and
she did not dissemble to herself that the interest was reciprocal. The
occurrence of the morning, by taking the feeling of safety from her
solitary walks, and unhinging her long associations with the freedom and
security of her native mountains, gave her an inclination to depart for
a time at least from Melincourt Castle; and this inclination, combining
with the wish to see more of one who appeared to possess so much
intellectual superiority to the generality of mankind, rendered her very
flexible to Mrs. Pinmoney’s wishes, when that honourable lady renewed
her solicitations to her to join the expedition to Onevote. Anthelia,
however, desired that Mr. Hippy might be of the party, and that her
going in Sir Telegraph’s carriage should not be construed in any degree
into a reception of his addresses. The Honourable Mrs. Pinmoney,
delighted to carry her point, readily complied with the condition,
trusting to the influence of time and intimacy to promote her own wishes
and the happiness of her dear nephew.
Mr. Hippy was so overjoyed at the project, that, in the first
ebullitions of his transport, meeting Harry Fell on the landing-place,
with a packet of medicine from Dr. Killquick, he seized him by the arm,
and made him dance a _pas de deux_: the packet fell to the earth, and
Mr. Hippy, as he whirled old Harry round to the tune of _La Belle
Laitière_, danced over that which, but for this timely demolition, might
have given his heir an opportunity of dancing over him.
It was accordingly arranged that Sir Telegraph Paxarett, with the ladies
and Mr. Hippy, should call on the appointed day at Redrose Abbey for Mr.
Forester, Mr. Fax, and Sir Oran Haut-ton.
Mr. Derrydown and Mr. O’Scarum were inconsolable on the occasion,
notwithstanding Mr. Hippy’s assurance that they should very soon return,
and that the hospitality of Melincourt Castle should then be resumed
under his supreme jurisdiction. Mr. Derrydown determined to consume the
interval at Keswick, in the composition of dismal ballads; and Mr.
O’Scarum to proceed to Low-wood Inn, and drown his cares in claret with
Major O’Dogskin.
We shall pass over the interval till the arrival of the eventful day on
which Mr. Forester, from the windows of Redrose Abbey, watched the
approach of Sir Telegraph’s barouche. The party from Melincourt arrived,
as had been concerted, to breakfast; after which, they surveyed the
Abbey, and perambulated the grounds. Mr. Forester produced the Abbot’s
skull,[50] and took occasion to expatiate very largely on the diminution
of the size of mankind; illustrating his theory by quotations and
anecdotes from Homer,[51] Herodotus[52] Arrian, Plutarch, Philostratus,
Pausanias, and Solinus Polyhistor. He asked if it were possible that men
of such a stature as they have dwindled to in the present age could have
erected that stupendous monument of human strength, Stonehenge? in the
vicinity of which, he said, a body had been dug up, measuring fourteen
feet ten inches in length.[53]
The barouche bowled off from the Abbey gates, carrying four inside, and
eight out; videlicet, the Honourable Mrs. Pinmoney, Miss Danaretta, Mr.
Hippy, and Anthelia, inside; Sir Telegraph Paxarett and Sir Oran
Haut-ton on the box, the former with his whip, and the latter with his
French horn, in the characters of coachman and guard; Mr. Forester and
Mr. Fax in the front of the roof; and Sir Telegraph’s two grooms, with
Peter Gray and Harry Fell, behind. Sir Telegraph’s coachman, as the
inside of the carriage was occupied, had been left at Melincourt.
In addition to Sir Telegraph’s travelling library—(which consisted
of a single quarto volume, magnificently bound: videlicet, a Greek
Pindar, which Sir Telegraph always carried with him; not that he
ever read a page of it, but that he thought such a classical
inside passenger would be a perpetual vindication of his
tethrippharmatelasipedioploctypophilous pursuits), Anthelia and
Mr. Forester had taken with them a few of their favourite authors;
for, as the ancient and honourable borough of Onevote was situated
almost at the extremity of the kingdom, and as Sir Telegraph’s
diurnal stages were necessarily limited, they had both conjectured
that
the poet’s page, by one
Made vocal for the amusement of the rest,
might furnish an agreeable evening employment in the dearth of
conversation. Anthelia also, in compliance with the general desire, had
taken her lyre, by which the reader may understand, if he pleases, the
_harp-lute-guitar_; which, whatever be its merit as an instrument, has
so unfortunate an appellation, that we cannot think of dislocating our
pages with such a cacophonous compound.
They made but a short stage from Redrose Abbey, and stopped for the
first evening at Low-wood Inn, to the great joy of Mr. O’Scarum and
Major O’Dogskin. Mr. O’Scarum introduced the Major; and both offered
their services to assist Mr. Hippy and Sir Telegraph Paxarett in the
council they were holding with the landlady on the eventful subject of
dinner. This being arranged, and the hour and minute punctually
specified, it was proposed to employ the interval in a little excursion
on the lake. The party was distributed in two boats: Sir Telegraph’s
grooms rowing the one, and Peter Gray and Harry Fell the other. They
rowed to the middle of the lake, and rested on their oars. The sun sank
behind the summits of the western mountains: the clouds that, like other
mountains, rested motionless above them, crested with the towers and
battlements of aerial castles, changed by degrees from fleecy whiteness
to the deepest hues of crimson. A solitary cloud, resting on an eastern
pinnacle, became tinged with the reflected splendour of the west: the
clouds overhead spreading, like a uniform veil of network, through the
interstices of which the sky was visible, caught in their turn the
radiance, and reflected it on the lake, that lay in its calm expanse
like a mirror, imaging with such stillness and accuracy the forms and
colours of all around and above it, that it seemed as if the waters were
withdrawn by magic, and the boats floated in crimson light between the
mountains and the sky.
The whole party was silent, even the Honourable Mrs. Pinmoney, till Mr.
O’Scarum entreated Anthelia to sing ‘something neat and characteristic;
or a harmony now for three voices, would be the killing thing; eh!
Major?’—‘Indeed and it would,’ said Major O’Dogskin; ‘there’s something
very soft and pathetic in a cool evening on the water, to sit still
doing nothing at all but listening to pretty words and tender melodies.’
And lest the sincerity of his opinion should be questioned, he
accompanied it with an emphatical oath, to show that he was in earnest;
for which the Honourable Mrs. Pinmoney called him to order.
Major O’Dogskin explained.
Anthelia, accompanied by Miss Danaretta and Mr. O’Scarum, sang the
following
TERZETTO
1. Hark! o’er the silent waters stealing,
The dash of oars sounds soft and clear:
Through night’s deep veil, all forms concealing,
Nearer it comes, and yet more near.
2. See! where the long reflection glistens,
In yon lone tower her watch-light burns:
3. To hear our distant oars she listens,
And, listening, strikes the harp by turns.
1. The stars are bright, the skies unclouded;
No moonbeam shines; no breezes wake.
Is it my love, in darkness shrouded,
Whose dashing oar disturbs the lake?
2. O haste, sweet maid, the cords unrolling;
1. The holy hermit chides our stay!
2. 3. Hark! from his lonely islet tolling,
His midnight bell shall guide our way.
Sir Oran Haut-ton now produced his flute, and treated the company with a
solo. Another pause succeeded. The contemplative silence was broken by
Major O’Dogskin, who began to fidget about in the boat, and drawing his
watch from his fob held it up to Mr. Hippy, and asked him if he did not
think the partridges would be spoiled? ‘To be sure they will,’ said Mr.
Hippy, ‘unless we make the best of our way. Cold comfort this, after
all: sharp air and water;—give me a roaring fire and a six-bottle cooper
of claret.’
The oars were dashed into the water, and the fairy reflections of
clouds, rocks, woods, and mountains were mingled in the confusion of
chaos. The reader will naturally expect that, having two lovers on a
lake, we shall not lose the opportunity of throwing the lady into the
water, and making the gentleman fish her out; but whether that our
Thalia is too veridicous to permit this distortion of facts, or that we
think it the more original incident to return them to the shore as dry
as they left it, the reader must submit to the disappointment, and be
content to see the whole party comfortably seated, without let,
hindrance, or molestation, at a very excellent dinner, served up under
the judicious inspection of mine hostess of Low-wood.
The heroes and heroines of Homer used to eat and drink all day till the
setting sun;[54] and by dint of industry, contrived to finish that
important business by the usual period at which modern beaux and belles
begin it—who are, therefore, necessitated, like Penelope, to sit up all
night; not, indeed, to destroy the works of the day, for how can nothing
be annihilated? This does not apply to all our party, and we hope not to
many of our readers.
CHAPTER XX
THE SEA-SHORE
They stopped the next evening at a village on the sea-shore. The wind
rose in the night, but without rain. Mr. Forester was up before the sun,
and descending to the beach, found Anthelia there before him, sitting on
a rock, and listening to the dash of the waves, like a Nereid to
Triton’s shell.
_Mr. Forester._ You are an early riser, Miss Melincourt.
_Anthelia._ I always was so. The morning is the infancy of the day, and,
like the infancy of life, has health and bloom, and cheerfulness and
purity, in a degree unknown to the busy noon, which is the season of
care, or the languid evening, which is the harbinger of repose. Perhaps
the song of the nightingale is not in itself less cheerful than that of
the lark: it is the season of her song that invests it with the
character of melancholy.[55] It is the same with the associations of
infancy: it is all cheerfulness, all hope: its path is on the flowers of
an untried world. The daisy has more beauty in the eye of childhood than
the rose in that of maturer life. The spring is the infancy of the year:
its flowers are the flowers of promise and the darlings of poetry. The
autumn, too, has its flowers; but they are little loved, and little
praised: for the associations of autumn are not with ideas of
cheerfulness, but with yellow leaves and hollow winds, heralds of winter
and emblems of dissolution.
_Mr. Forester._ These reflections have more in them of the autumn than
of the morning. But the mornings of autumn participate in the character
of the season.
_Anthelia._ They do so; yet even in mists and storms the opening must be
always more cheerful than the closing day.
_Mr. Forester._ But this morning is fine and clear, and the wind blows
over the sea. Yet this, to me at least, is not a cheerful scene.
_Anthelia._ Nor to me. But our long habits of association with the sound
of the winds and the waters have given them to us a voice of melancholy
majesty: a voice not audible by those little children who are playing
yonder on the shore. To them all scenes are cheerful. It is the morning
of life: it is infancy that makes them so.
_Mr. Forester._ Fresh air and liberty are all that is necessary to the
happiness of children. In that blissful age ‘when nature’s self is new,’
the bloom of interest and beauty is found alike in every object of
perception—in the grass of the meadow, the moss on the rock, and the
seaweed on the sand. They find gems and treasures in shells and pebbles;
and the gardens of fairyland in the simplest flowers. They have no
melancholy associations with autumn or with evening. The falling leaves
are their playthings; and the setting sun only tells them that they must
go to rest as he does, and that he will light them to their sports in
the morning. It is this bloom of novelty, and the pure, unclouded,
unvitiated feelings with which it is contemplated, that throw such an
unearthly radiance on the scenes of our infancy, however humble in
themselves, and give a charm to their recollections which not even Tempe
can compensate. It is the force of first impressions. The first meadow
in which we gather cowslips, the first stream on which we sail, the
first home in which we awake to the sense of human sympathy, have all a
peculiar and exclusive charm, which we shall never find again in richer
meadows, mightier rivers, and more magnificent dwellings; nor even in
themselves, when we revisit them after the lapse of years, and the sad
realities of noon have dissipated the illusions of sunrise. It is the
same, too, with first love, whatever be the causes that render it
unsuccessful: the second choice may have just preponderance in the
balance of moral estimation; but the object of first affection, of all
the perceptions of our being, will be most divested of the attributes of
mortality. The magical associations of infancy are revived with double
power in the feelings of first love; but when they too have departed,
then, indeed, the light of the morning is gone.
[Illustration: _Their conversation was interrupted by the appearance of
Mr. Hippy._]
Pensa che questo di mai non raggiorna!
_Anthelia._ If this be so, let me never be the object of a second
choice: let me never love, or love but once.
_Mr. Forester._ The object of a second choice you cannot be with any one
who will deserve your love; for to have loved any other woman, would
show a heart too lightly captivated to be worthy of yours. The only mind
that can deserve to love you is one that would never have known love if
it never had known you.
Anthelia and Mr. Forester were both so unfashionably sincere, that they
would probably, in a very few minutes, have confessed to each other more
than they had till that morning, perhaps, confessed to themselves, but
that their conversation was interrupted by the appearance of Mr. Hippy
fuming for his breakfast, accompanied by Sir Telegraph cracking his
whip, and Sir Oran blowing the réveillée on his French horn.
‘So ho!’ exclaimed Sir Telegraph; ‘Achilles and Thetis, I protest,
consulting on the sea-shore.’
_Anthelia._ Do you mean to say, Sir Telegraph, that I am old enough to
be Mr. Forester’s mother?
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ No, no; that is no part of the comparison; but
we are the ambassadors of Agamemnon (videlicet, Mr. Fax, whom we left
very busily arranging the urns, not of lots by the bye, but of tea and
coffee); here is old Phoenix on one side of me, and Ajax on the other.
_Mr. Forester._ And you of course are the wise Ulysses.
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ There the simile fails again. _Comparatio non
urgenda_, as I think Heyne used to say, before I was laughed out of
reading at College.
_Mr. Forester._ You should have found me too, if you call me Achilles,
solacing my mind with music, φρενα τερπομενον φορμιγγι λιγειῃ; but, to
make amends for the deficiency, you have brought me a musical Ajax.
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ You have no reason to wish even for the golden
lyre of my old friend Pindar himself: you have been listening to the
music of the winds and the waters, and to what is more than music, the
voice of Miss Melincourt.
_Mr. Hippy._ And there is a very pretty concert waiting for you at the
inn—the tinkling of cups and spoons, and the divine song of the tea-urn.
CHAPTER XXI
THE CITY OF NOVOTE
On the evening of the tenth day the barouche rattled triumphantly into
the large and populous city of Novote, which was situated at a short
distance from the ancient and honourable borough of Onevote. The city
contained fifty thousand inhabitants, and had no representative in the
Honourable House, the deficiency being virtually supplied by the two
members for Onevote; who, having no affairs to attend to for the
borough, or rather the burgess, that did return them, were supposed to
have more leisure for those of the city which did not; a system somewhat
analogous to that which the learned author of _Hermes_ calls _a method
of supply by negation_.
Sir Oran signalised his own entrance by playing on his French horn, _See
the conquering hero comes!_ Bells were ringing, ale was flowing, mobs
were huzzaing, and it seemed as if the inhabitants of the large and
populous city were satisfied of the truth of the admirable doctrine,
that the positive representation of one individual is a virtual
representation of fifty thousand. They found afterwards that all this
festivity had been set in motion by Sir Oran’s brother candidate, Simon
Sarcastic, Esq., to whom we shall shortly introduce our readers.
The barouche stopped at the door of a magnificent inn, and the party was
welcomed with some scores of bows from the whole _corps d’hôtel_, with
the fat landlady in the van, and Boots in the rear. They were shown into
a splendid apartment, a glorious fire was kindled in a minute, and while
Mr. Hippy looked over the bill of fare, and followed mine hostess to
inspect the state of the larder, Sir Telegraph proceeded to _peel_, and
emerged from his four _benjamins_, like a butterfly from its chrysalis.
After dinner they formed, as usual, a semicircle round the fire, with
the table in front supported by Mr. Hippy and Sir Telegraph Paxarett.
‘Now this,’ said Sir Telegraph, rubbing his hands, ‘is what I call
devilish comfortable after a cold day’s drive—an excellent inn, a superb
fire, charming company, and better wine than has fallen to our lot since
we left Melincourt Castle.’
The waiter had picked up from the conversation at dinner that one of the
destined members for Onevote was in the company; and communicated this
intelligence to Mr. Sarcastic, who was taking his solitary bottle in
another apartment. Mr. Sarcastic sent his compliments to Sir Oran
Haut-ton, and hoped he would allow his future colleague the honour of
being admitted to join his party. Mr. Hippy, Mr. Forester, and Sir
Telegraph, undertook to answer for Sir Oran, who was silent on the
occasion: Mr. Sarcastic was introduced, and took his seat in the
semicircle.
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ Your future colleague, Mr. Sarcastic, is _a
man of few words_; but he will join in a bumper to your better
acquaintance. (_The collision of glasses ensued between Sir Oran and Mr.
Sarcastic._)
_Mr. Sarcastic._ I am proud of the opportunity of this introduction. The
day after to-morrow is fixed for the election. I have made some
preparations to give a little _éclat_ to the affair, and have begun by
intoxicating half the city of Novote, so that we shall have a great
crowd at the scene of election, whom I intend to harangue from the
hustings, on the great benefits and blessings of virtual representation.
_Mr. Forester._ I shall, perhaps, take the opportunity of addressing
them also, but with a different view of the subject.
_Mr. Sarcastic._ Perhaps our views of the subject are not radically
different, and the variety is in the mode of treatment. In my ordinary
intercourse with the world I reduce practice to theory; it is a habit, I
believe, peculiar to myself, and a source of inexhaustible amusement.
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ Fill and explain.
_Mr. Sarcastic._ Nothing, you well know, is so rare as the coincidence
of theory and practice. A man who ‘will go through fire and water to
serve a friend’ in words, will not give five guineas to save him from
famine. A poet will write Odes to Independence, and become the
obsequious parasite of any great man who will hire him. A burgess will
hold up one hand for purity of election, while the price of his own vote
is slily dropped into the other. I need not accumulate instances.
_Mr. Forester._ You would find it difficult, I fear, to adduce many to
the contrary.
_Mr. Sarcastic._ This then is my system. I ascertain the practice of
those I talk to, and present it to them as from myself, in the shape of
theory; the consequence of which is, that I am universally stigmatised
as a promulgator of rascally doctrines. Thus I said to Sir Oliver
Oilcake, ‘When I get into Parliament I intend to make the sale of my
vote as notorious as the sun at noonday. I will have no rule of right,
but my own pocket. I will support every measure of every administration,
even if they ruin half the nation for the purpose of restoring the Great
Lama, or of subjecting twenty millions of people to be hanged, drawn,
and quartered at the pleasure of the man-milliner of Mahomet’s mother. I
will have shiploads of turtle and rivers of Madeira for myself, if I
send the whole swinish multitude to draff and husks.’ Sir Oliver flew
into a rage, and swore he would hold no further intercourse with a man
who maintained such infamous principles.
_Mr. Hippy._ Pleasant enough, to show a man his own picture, and make
him damn the ugly rascal.
_Mr. Sarcastic._ I said to Miss Pennylove, whom I knew to be _laying
herself out for a good match_, ‘When my daughter becomes of marriageable
age, I shall commission Christie to put her up to auction, “the highest
bidder to be the buyer; and if any dispute arise between two or more
bidders, the lot to be put up again and resold.”’ Miss Pennylove
professed herself utterly amazed and indignant that any man, and a
father especially, should imagine a scheme so outrageous to the dignity
and delicacy of the female mind.
_The Honourable Mrs. Pinmoney and Miss Danaretta._ A most horrid idea
certainly.
_Mr. Sarcastic._ The fact, my dear ladies, the fact; how stands the
fact? Miss Pennylove afterwards married a man old enough to be her
grandfather, for no other reason but because he was rich; and broke the
heart of a very worthy friend of mine, to whom she had been previously
engaged, who had no fault but the folly of loving her, and was quite
rich enough for all purposes of matrimonial happiness. How the dignity
and delicacy of such a person could have been affected, if the
preliminary negotiation with her hobbling Strephon had been conducted
through the instrumentality of honest Christie’s hammer, I cannot
possibly imagine.
_Mr. Hippy._ Nor I, I must say. All the difference is in the form, and
not in the fact. It is a pity that form does not come into fashion; it
would save a world of trouble.
_Mr. Sarcastic._ I irreparably offended the Reverend Doctor Vorax by
telling him, that having a nephew, whom I wished to shine in the church,
I was on the look-out for a luminous butler, and a cook of solid
capacity, under whose joint tuition he might graduate. ‘Who knows,’ said
I, ‘but he may immortalise himself at the University, by giving his name
to a pudding?’—I lost the acquaintance of Mrs. Cullender, by saying to
her, when she had told me a piece of gossip as a very particular secret,
that there was nothing so agreeable to me as to be in possession of a
secret, for I made a point of telling it to all my acquaintance;
Intrusted under solemn vows,
Of Mum, and Silence, and the Rose,
To be retailed again in whispers,
For the easy credulous to disperse.[56]
Mrs. Cullender left me in great wrath, protesting she would never again
throw away _her_ confidence on so leaky a vessel.
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ Ha! ha! ha! Bravo! Come, a bumper to Mrs.
Cullender.
_Mr. Sarcastic._ With all my heart; and another if you please to Mr.
Christopher Corporate, the free, fat, and dependent burgess of Onevote,
of which ‘plural unit’ the Honourable Baronet and myself are to be the
joint representatives. (_Sir Oran Haut-ton bowed._)
_Mr. Hippy._ And a third, by all means, to his Grace the Duke of
Rottenburgh.
_Mr. Sarcastic._ And a fourth, to crown all, to _the blessings of
virtual representation_, which I shall endeavour to impress on as many
of the worthy citizens of Novote as shall think fit to be present, the
day after to-morrow, at the proceedings of the borough of Onevote.
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ And now for tea and coffee. Touch the bell for
the waiter.
The bottles and glasses vanished, and the beautiful array of urns and
cups succeeded. Sir Telegraph and Mr. Hippy seceded from the table, and
resigned their stations to Mrs. and Miss Pinmoney.
_Mr. Forester._ Your system is sufficiently amusing, but I much question
its utility. The object of moral censure is reformation, and its proper
vehicle is plain and fearless sincerity: VERBA ANIMI PROFERRE, ET VITAM
IMPENDERE VERO.
_Mr. Sarcastic._ I tried that in my youth, when I was troubled with the
_passion for reforming the world_;[57] of which I have been long cured
by the conviction of the inefficacy of moral theory with respect to
producing a practical change in the mass of mankind. Custom is the
pillar round which opinion twines, and interest is the tie that binds
it. It is not by reason that practical change can be effected, but by
making a puncture to the quick in the feelings of personal hope and
personal fear. The Reformation in England is one of the supposed
triumphs of reason. But if the passions of Henry the Eighth had not been
interested in that measure, he would as soon have built mosques as
pulled down abbeys; and you will observe that, in all cases, reformation
never goes as far as reason requires, but just as far as suits the
personal interest of those who conduct it. Place Temperance and Bacchus
side by side, in an assembly of jolly fellows, and endow the first with
the most powerful eloquence that mere reason can give, with the absolute
moral force of mathematical demonstration, Bacchus need not take the
trouble of refuting one of her arguments; he will only have to say,
‘Come, my boys, here’s _Damn Temperance_ in a bumper,’ and you may rely
on the toast being drunk with an unanimous three times three.
(_At the sound of the word_ bumper, _with which Captain Hawltaught had
made him very familiar, Sir Oran Haut-ton looked round for his glass,
but, finding it vanished, comforted himself with a dish of tea from the
fair hand of Miss Danaretta, which, as his friend Mr. Forester had
interdicted him from the use of sugar, he sweetened as well as he could
with a copious infusion of cream_.)[58]
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ As an Opposition orator in the Honourable
House will bring forward a long detail of unanswerable arguments,
without even expecting that they will have the slightest influence on
the vote of the majority.
_Mr. Sarcastic._ A reform of that honourable body, if ever it should
take place, will be one of the ‘_triumphs of reason_.’ But reason will
have little to do with it. All that reason can say on the subject has
been said for years, by men of all parties—while they were _out_; but
the moment they were _in_, the moment their own interest came in contact
with their own reason, the victory of interest was never for a moment
doubtful. While the great fountain of interest, rising in the caverns of
borough patronage and ministerial influence, flowed through the whole
body of the kingdom in channels of paper-money, and loans, and
contracts, and jobs, and places either found or made for the useful
dealers in secret services, so long the predominant interests of
corruption overpowered the true and permanent interests of the country;
but as those channels become dry, and they are becoming so with fearful
rapidity, the crew of every boat that is left aground are convinced, not
by reason—that they had long heard and despised—but by the unexpected
pressure of personal suffering, that they had been going on in the wrong
way. Thus the reaction of interest takes place; and when the
concentrated interests of thousands, combined by the same pressure of
personal suffering, shall have created an independent power, greater
than the power of the interest of corruption, then, and not till then,
the latter will give way, and this will be called the triumph of reason;
though, in truth, like all the changes in human society that have ever
taken place from the birthday of the world, it will be only the triumph
of one mode of interest over another; but as the triumph in this case
will be of the interest of the many over that of the few, it is
certainly a consummation devoutly to be wished.
_Mr. Forester._ If I should admit that ‘the hope of personal advantage,
and the dread of personal punishment,’ are the only springs that set the
mass of mankind in action, the inefficacy of reason, and the inutility
of moral theory, will by no means follow from the admission. The
progress of truth is slow, but its ultimate triumph is secure; though
its immediate effects may be rendered almost imperceptible by the power
of habit and interest. If the philosopher cannot reform his own times,
he may lay the foundation of amendment in those that follow. Give
currency to reason, improve the moral code of society, and the theory of
one generation will be the practice of the next. After a certain period
of life, and that no very advanced one, men in general become perfectly
unpersuadable to all practical purposes. Few philosophers, therefore, I
believe, expect to produce much change in the habits of their
contemporaries, as Plato proposed to banish from his republic all above
the age of ten, and give a good education to the rest.
_Mr. Sarcastic._ Or, as Heraclitus the Ephesian proposed to his
countrymen, that all above the age of fourteen should hang themselves,
before he would consent to give laws to the remainder.
CHAPTER XXII
THE BOROUGH OF ONEVOTE
The day of election arrived. Mr. Sarcastic’s rumoured preparations, and
the excellence of the ale which he had broached in the city of Novote,
had given a degree of _éclat_ to the election for the borough of
Onevote, which it had never before possessed; the representatives
usually sliding into their nomination with the same silence and decorum
with which a solitary spinster slides into her pew at Wednesday’s or
Friday’s prayers in a country church. The resemblance holds good also in
this respect, that, as the curate addresses the solitary maiden with the
appellation of _dearly beloved brethren_, so the representatives always
pluralised their solitary elector, by conferring on him the appellation
of _a respectable body of constituents_. Mr. Sarcastic, however, being
determined to amuse himself at the expense of this most ‘venerable
_feature_’ in our old constitution, as Lord C. calls a rotten borough,
had brought Mr. Christopher Corporate into his views by the adhibition
of _persuasion in a tangible shape_. It was generally known in Novote
that something would be going forward at Onevote, though nobody could
tell precisely what, except that a long train of brewer’s drays had left
the city for the borough, in grand procession, on the preceding day,
under the escort of a sworn band of special constables, who were to keep
guard over the ale all night. This detachment was soon followed by
another, under a similar escort, and with similar injunctions; and it
was understood that this second expedition of _frothy rhetoric_ was sent
forth under the auspices of Sir Oran Haut-ton, Baronet, the brother
candidate of Simon Sarcastic, Esquire, for the representation of the
ancient and honourable borough.
The borough of Onevote stood in the middle of a heath, and consisted of
a solitary farm, of which the land was so poor and untractable, that it
would not have been worth the while of any human being to cultivate it,
had not the Duke of Rottenburgh found it very well worth his to pay his
tenant for living there, to keep the honourable borough in existence.
Mr. Sarcastic left the city of Novote some hours before his new
acquaintance, to superintend his preparations, followed by crowds of
persons of all descriptions, pedestrians and equestrians; old ladies in
chariots, and young ladies on donkeys; the farmer on his hunter, and the
tailor on his hack; the grocer and his family six in a chaise; the
dancing-master in his tilbury; the banker in his tandem; mantua-makers
and servant-maids twenty-four in the waggon, fitted up for the occasion
with a canopy of evergreens; pastry-cooks, men-milliners, and journeymen
tailors, by the stage, running for that day only, six inside and
fourteen out; the sallow artisan emerging from the cellar or the
furnace, to freshen himself with the pure breezes of Onevote Heath; the
bumpkin in his laced boots and Sunday coat, trudging through the dust
with his cherry-cheeked lass on his elbow; the gentleman coachman on his
box, with his painted charmer by his side; the lean curate on his
half-starved Rosinante; the plump bishop setting an example of Christian
humility in his carriage and six; the doctor on his white horse, like
Death in the Revelation; and the lawyer on his black one, like the devil
in the Wild Huntsmen.
Almost in the rear of this motley cavalcade went the barouche of Sir
Telegraph Paxarett, and rolled up to the scene of action amidst the
shouts of the multitude.
The heath had very much the appearance of a race-ground; with booths and
stalls, the voices of pie-men and apple-women, the grinding of barrel
organs, the scraping of fiddles, the squeaking of ballad-singers, the
chirping of corkscrews, the vociferations of ale-drinkers, the cries of
the ‘last dying speeches of desperate malefactors,’ and of ‘The History
and Antiquities of the honourable Borough of Onevote, a full and
circumstantial account, all in half a sheet, for the price of one
halfpenny!’
The hustings were erected in proper form, and immediately opposite to
them was an enormous marquee with a small opening in front, in which was
seated the important person of Mr. Christopher Corporate, with a tankard
of ale and a pipe. The ladies remained in the barouche under the care of
Sir Telegraph and Mr. Hippy. Mr. Forester, Mr. Fax, and Sir Oran
Haut-ton joined Mr. Sarcastic on the hustings.
Mr. Sarcastic stepped forward amidst the shouts of the assembled crowd,
and addressed Mr. Christopher Corporate:
‘Free, fat, and dependent burgess of this ancient and honourable
borough! I stand forward an unworthy candidate, to be the representative
of so important a personage, who comprises in himself a three-hundredth
part of the whole elective capacity of this extensive empire. For if the
whole population be estimated at eleven millions, with what awe and
veneration must I look on one who is, as it were, the abstract and
quintessence of thirty-three thousand six hundred and sixty-six people!
The voice of Stentor was like the voice of fifty, and the voice of Harry
Gill[59] was like the voice of three; but what are these to the voice of
Mr. Christopher Corporate, which gives utterance in one breath to the
concentrated power of thirty-three thousand six hundred and sixty-six
voices? Of such an one it may indeed be said, that _he is himself an
host_, and that _none but himself can be his parallel_.
‘Most potent, grave, and reverend signor! it is usual on these occasions
to make a great vapouring about honour and conscience; but as those
words are now generally acknowledged to be utterly destitute of meaning,
I have too much respect for your understanding to say anything about
them. The _monied interest_, Mr. Corporate, for which you are as
illustrious _as the sun at noonday_, is the great point of connection
and sympathy between us; and no circumstances can throw a _wet blanket_
on the ardour of our reciprocal esteem, while the _fundamental feature_
of our mutual interests presents itself to us in so _tangible a
shape_.[60] How high a value I set upon your voice, you may judge by the
price I have paid for half of it; which, indeed, deeply lodged as my
feelings are in my pocket, I yet see no reason to regret, since you will
thus confer on mine a transmutable and marketable value which I trust by
proper management will leave me no loser by the bargain.’
[Illustration: ‘_We shall always be deeply attentive to your
interests._’]
‘Huzza!’ said Mr. Corporate.
‘People of the city of Novote!’ proceeded Mr. Sarcastic, ‘some of you, I
am informed, consider yourselves aggrieved, that while your large and
populous city has no share whatever in the formation of the Honourable
House, the _plural unity_ of Mr. Christopher Corporate should be
invested with the privilege of double representation. But, gentlemen,
representation is of two kinds, actual and virtual; an important
distinction, and of great political consequence.
‘The Honourable Baronet and myself, being the actual representatives of
the fat burgess of Onevote, shall be the virtual representatives of the
worthy citizens of Novote; and you may rely on it, gentlemen (_with his
hand on his heart_), we shall always be deeply attentive to your
interests, when they happen, as no doubt they sometimes will, to be
perfectly compatible with our own.
‘A member of Parliament, gentlemen, to speak to you in your own phrase,
is a sort of staple commodity, manufactured for home consumption. Much
has been said of the improvement of machinery in the present age, by
which one man may do the work of a dozen. If this be admirable, and
admirable it is acknowledged to be by all the civilised world, how much
more admirable is the improvement of political machinery, by which one
man does the work of thirty thousand! I am sure I need not say another
word to a great manufacturing population like the inhabitants of the
city of Novote, to convince them of the beauty and utility of this most
luminous arrangement.
‘The duty of a representative of the people, whether actual or virtual,
is simply _to tax_. Now this important branch of public business is much
more easily and expeditiously transacted by the means of virtual, than
it possibly could be by that of actual representation. For when the
minister draws up his scheme of ways and means, he will do it with much
more celerity and confidence, when he knows that the propitious
countenance of virtual representation will never cease to smile upon him
as long as he continues in place, than if he had to encounter the
doubtful aspect of actual representation, which might, perhaps, look
black on some of his favourite projects, thereby greatly impeding the
distribution of secret service money at home, and placing foreign
legitimacy in a very awkward predicament. The carriage of the state
would then be like a chariot in a forest, turning to the left for a
troublesome thorn, and to the right for a sturdy oak; whereas it now
rolls forward like the car of Juggernaut over the plain crushing
whatever offers to impede its way.
‘The constitution says that no man shall be taxed but by his own
consent; a very plausible theory, gentlemen, but not reducible to
practice. Who will apply a lancet to his own arm, and bleed himself?
Very few, you acknowledge. Who then, _a fortiori_, would apply a lancet
to his own pocket, and draw off what is dearer to him than his blood—his
money? Fewer still, of course; I humbly opine, none.—What then remains
but to appoint a royal college of state surgeons, who may operate on the
patient according to their views of his case? Taxation is political
phlebotomy: the Honourable House is, figuratively speaking, a royal
college of state surgeons. A good surgeon must have firm nerves and a
steady hand; and, perhaps, the less feeling the better. Now, it is
manifest that, as all feeling is founded on sympathy, the fewer
constituents a representative has, the less must be his sympathy with
the public, and the less, of course as is desirable, his feeling for his
patient—the people:—who, therefore, with so much _sang froid_, can
phlebotomise the nation, as the representative of half an elector?
‘Gentlemen, as long as a _full Gazette_ is pleasant to the _quidnunc_;
as long as an empty purse is delightful to the spendthrift; as long as
the cry of _Question_ is a satisfactory _answer_ to an argument, and to
outvote reason is to refute it; as long as the way to pay old debts is
to incur new ones of five times the amount; as long as the grand recipes
of political health and longevity are _bleeding_ and _hot water_—so long
must you rejoice in the privileges of Mr. Christopher Corporate, so long
must you acknowledge from the very bottom of your pockets the benefits
and blessings of _virtual representation_.’
This harangue was received with great applause, acclamations rent the
air, and ale flowed in torrents. Mr. Forester declined speaking, and the
party on the hustings proceeded to business. Sir Oran Haut-ton, Baronet,
and Simon Sarcastic, Esquire, were nominated in form. Mr. Christopher
Corporate held up both his hands, with his tankard in one, and his pipe
in the other; and neither poll nor scrutiny being demanded, the two
candidates were pronounced duly elected as representatives of the
ancient and honourable borough of Onevote.
[Illustration: ‘_Hail, plural unit!_’]
The shouts were renewed; the ale flowed rapidly; the pipe and tankard of
Mr. Corporate were replenished. Sir Oran Haut-ton, Baronet, M.P., bowed
gracefully to the people with his hand on his heart.
A cry was now raised of ‘Chair ’em! chair ’em!’ when Mr. Sarcastic again
stepped forward.
‘Gentlemen,’ said he, ‘a slight difficulty opposes itself to the honour
you would confer on us. The members should, according to form, be
chaired by their electors; and how can one elector, great man as he is,
chair two representatives? But to obviate this dilemma as well as
circumstances admit, I move that the “large body corporate of one” whom
the Honourable Baronet and myself have the honour to represent, do
resolve himself into a committee.’
He had no sooner spoken, than the marquee opened, and a number of bulky
personages, all in dress, aspect, size, and figure, very exact
resemblances of Mr. Christopher Corporate, each with his pipe and his
tankard, emerged into daylight, who, encircling their venerable
prototype, lifted their tankards high in air, and pronounced with
Stentorian symphony, ‘HAIL, PLURAL UNIT!’ Then, after a simultaneous
draught, throwing away their pipes and tankards, for which the mob
immediately scrambled, they raised on high two magnificent chairs, and
prepared to carry into effect the last ceremony of the election. The
party on the hustings descended. Mr. Sarcastic stepped into his chair;
and his part of the procession, headed by Mr. Christopher Corporate, and
surrounded by a multiform and many-coloured crowd, moved slowly off
towards the city of Novote, amidst the undistinguishable clamour of
multitudinous voices.
Sir Oran Haut-ton watched the progress of his precursor, as his chair
rolled and swayed over the sea of heads, like a boat with one mast on a
stormy ocean; and the more he watched the agitation of its movements,
the more his countenance gave indications of strong dislike to the
process; so that when his seat in the second chair was offered to him,
he with a very polite bow declined the honour. The party that was to
carry him, thinking that his repugnance arose entirely from diffidence,
proceeded with gentle force to overcome his scruples, when not precisely
penetrating their motives, and indignant at this attempt to violate the
freedom of the natural man, he seized a stick from a sturdy farmer at
his elbow, and began to lay about him with great vigour and effect.
Those who escaped being knocked down by the first sweep of his weapon
ran away with all their might, but were soon checked by the pressure of
the crowd, who, hearing the noise of conflict, and impatient to
ascertain the cause, bore down from all points upon a common centre, and
formed a circumferential pressure that effectually prohibited the egress
of those within; and they, in their turn, in their eagerness to escape
from Sir Oran (who like Artegall’s Iron Man, or like Ajax among the
Trojans, or like Rodomonte in Paris, or like Orlando among the soldiers
of Agramant, kept clearing for himself an ample space in the midst of
the encircling crowd), waged desperate conflict with those without; so
that from the equal and opposite action of the centripetal and
centrifugal forces, resulted a stationary combat, raging between the
circumferences of two concentric circles, with barbaric dissonance of
deadly feud, and infinite variety of oath and execration, till Sir Oran,
charging desperately along one of the radii, fought a free passage
through all opposition; and rushing to the barouche of Sir Telegraph
Paxarett, sprang to his old station on the box, from whence he shook his
sapling at the foe with looks of mortal defiance. Mr. Forester, who had
been forcibly parted from him at the commencement of the strife, had
been all anxiety on his account, mounted with great alacrity to his
station on the roof; the rest of the party was already seated; the
Honourable Mrs. Pinmoney, half-fainting with terror, earnestly entreated
Sir Telegraph to fly: Sir Telegraph cracked his whip, the horses sprang
forward like racers, the wheels went round like the wheels of a
firework. The tumult of battle, lessening as they receded, came wafted
to them on the wings of the wind; for the flame of discord having been
once kindled, was not extinguished by the departure of its first
flambeau—Sir Oran; but war raged wide and far, here in the thickest mass
of central fight, there in the light skirmishing of flying detachments.
The hustings were demolished, and the beams and planks turned into
offensive weapons: the booths were torn to pieces, and the canvas
converted into flags floating over the heads of magnanimous heroes that
rushed to revenge they knew not what, in deadly battle with they knew
not whom. The stalls and barrows were upset; and the pears, apples,
oranges, mutton-pies, and masses of gingerbread, flew like missiles of
fate in all directions. The _sanctum sanctorum_ of the ale was broken
into, and the guardians of the Hesperian liquor were put to ignominious
rout. Hats and wigs were hurled into the air, never to return to the
heads from which they had suffered violent divorce. The collision of
sticks, the ringing of empty ale-casks, the shrieks of women, and the
vociferations of combatants, mingled in one deepening and indescribable
tumult; till at length, everything else being levelled with the heath,
they turned the mingled torrent of their wrath on the cottage of Mr.
Corporate, to which they triumphantly set fire, and danced round the
blaze like a rabble of village boys round the effigy of the immortal
Guy. In a few minutes the ancient and honourable borough of Onevote was
reduced to ashes; but we have the satisfaction to state that it was
rebuilt a few days afterwards, at the joint expense of its two
representatives, and His Grace the Duke of Rottenburgh.
[Illustration: _Began to lay about him with great vigour and effect._]
CHAPTER XXIII
THE COUNCIL OF WAR
The compassionate reader will perhaps sympathise in our anxiety to take
one peep at Lord Anophel Achthar and the Reverend Mr. Grovelgrub, whom
we left perched on the summit of the rock where Sir Oran had placed
them, looking at each other as ruefully as Hudibras and Ralpho in their
‘wooden bastile,’ and falling by degrees into as knotty an argument, the
_quaeritur_ of which was, how to descend from their elevation—an exploit
which to them seemed replete with danger and difficulty. Lord Anophel,
having, for the first time in his life, been made acquainted with the
salutary effects of manual discipline, sate boiling with wrath and
revenge; while the Rev. Mr. Grovelgrub, who in his youthful days had
been beaten black and blue in the capacity of _fag_ (a practice which
reflects so much honour on our public seminaries), bore the infliction
with more humility.
_Lord Anophel Achthar_ (_rubbing his shoulder_). This is all your doing,
Grovelgrub—all your fault, curse me!
_The Rev. Mr. Grovelgrub._ Oh, my Lord! my intention was good, though
the catastrophe is ill. The race is not always to the swift, nor the
battle to the strong.
_Lord Anophel Achthar._ But the battle was to the strong in this
instance, Grovelgrub, curse me! though from the speed with which you
began to run off on the first alarm, it was no fault of yours that the
race was not to the swift.
_The Rev. Mr. Grovelgrub._ I must do your Lordship the justice to say,
that you too started with a degree of celerity highly creditable to your
capacity of natural locomotion; and if that ugly monster, the dumb
Baronet, had not knocked us both down in the incipiency of our
progression——
[Illustration: _Perched on the summit of the rock._]
_Lord Anophel Achthar._ We should have escaped as our two rascals did,
who shall bitterly rue their dereliction. But as to the dumb Baronet,
who has treated me with gross impertinence on various occasions, I shall
certainly call him out, to give me the satisfaction of a gentleman.
_The Rev. Mr. Grovelgrub._ Oh, my Lord.
Though with pistols ’tis the fashion
To satisfy your passion;
Yet where’s the satisfaction,
If you perish in the action?
_Lord Anophel Achthar._ One of us must perish, Grovelgrub, ‘pon honour.
Death or revenge! We’re blown, Grovelgrub. He took off our masks; and
though he can’t speak, he can write, no doubt, and read too, as I shall
try with a challenge.
_The Rev. Mr. Grovelgrub._ Can’t speak, my Lord, is by no means clear.
Won’t speak, perhaps; none are so dumb as those who won’t speak. Don’t
you think, my Lord, there was a sort of melancholy about him—a kind of
sullenness? Crossed in love, I suspect. People crossed in love, Saint
Chrysostom says, lose their voice.
_Lord Anophel Achthar._ Then I wish you were crossed in love,
Grovelgrub, with all my heart.
_The Rev. Mr. Grovelgrub._ Nay, my Lord, what so sweet in calamity as
the voice of the spiritual comforter? All shall be well yet, my Lord. I
have an infallible project hatching here; Miss Melincourt shall be
ensconced in Alga Castle, and then the day is our own.
_Lord Anophel Achthar._ Grovelgrub, you know the old receipt for stewing
a carp: ‘First, catch your carp.’
_The Rev. Mr. Grovelgrub._ Your Lordship is pleased to be facetious; but
if the carp be not caught, let me be devilled like a biscuit after the
second bottle, or a turkey’s leg at a twelfth night supper. The carp
shall be caught.
_Lord Anophel Achthar._ Well, Grovelgrub, only take notice that I’ll not
come again within ten miles of dummy.
_The Rev. Mr. Grovelgrub._ You may rely upon it, my Lord, I shall always
know my distance from the Honourable Baronet. But my plot is a good
plot, and cannot fail of success.
_Lord Anophel Achthar._ You are a very skilful contriver, to be sure;
this is your contrivance, our perch on the top of this rock. Now
contrive, if you can, some way of getting to the bottom of it.
_The Rev. Mr. Grovelgrub._ My Lord, there is a passage in Aeschylus very
applicable to our situation, where the chorus wishes to be in precisely
such a place.
_Lord Anophel Achthar._ Then I wish the chorus were here instead of us,
Grovelgrub, with all my soul.
_The Rev. Mr. Grovelgrub._ It is a very fine passage, my Lord, and worth
your attention: the rock is described as
λισσας αἰγιλιψ ἀπροσδεικτος
οἰοφρων ἐρημας γυπιας πετρα,
βαθυ πτωμα μαρτυρουσα μοι.[61]
That is, my Lord, a precipitous rock, inaccessible to the goat—not to be
pointed at (from having, as I take it, its head in the clouds), where
there is the loneliness of mind, and the solitude of desolation, where
the vulture has its nest, and the precipice testifies a deep and
headlong fall.
_Lord Anophel Achthar._ I’ll tell you what, Grovelgrub; if ever I catch
you quoting Aeschylus again, I’ll cashier you from your tutorship—that’s
positive.
_The Rev. Mr. Grovelgrub._ I am dumb, my Lord.
_Lord Anophel Achthar._ Think, I tell you, of some way of getting down.
_The Rev. Mr. Grovelgrub._ Nothing more easy, my Lord.
_Lord Anophel Achthar._ Plummet fashion, I suppose?
_The Rev. Mr. Grovelgrub._ Why, as your Lordship seems to hint, that
certainly is the most expeditious method; but not, I think, in all
points of view, the most advisable. On this side of the rock is a
_dumetum_: we can descend, I think, by the help of the roots and shoots.
O dear! I shall be like Virgil’s goat: I shall be seen from far to hang
from the bushy rock _dumosa pendere procul de rupe videbor_!
_Lord Anophel Achthar._—Confound your Greek and Latin! you know there is
nothing I hate so much; and I thought you did so too, or you have
_finished_ your _education_ to no purpose at college.
_The Rev. Mr. Grovelgrub._ I do, my Lord; I hate them mortally, more
than anything except philosophy and the dumb Baronet.
Lord Anophel Achthar proceeded to examine the side of the rock to which
the Reverend Mr. Grovelgrub had called his attention; and as it seemed
the most practicable mode of descent, it was resolved to submit to
necessity, and make a valorous effort to regain the valley; Lord
Anophel, however, insisting on the Reverend Mr. Grovelgrub leading the
way. The reverend gentleman seized with one hand the stem of a hazel,
with the other the branch of an ash; set one foot on the root of an oak,
and deliberately lowered the other in search of a resting-place; which
having found on a projecting point of stone, he cautiously disengaged
one hand and the upper foot, for which in turn he sought and found a
firm _appui_; and thus by little and little he vanished among the boughs
from the sight of Lord Anophel, who proceeded with great circumspection
to follow his example.
Lord Anophel had descended about one third of the elevation, comforting
his ear with the rustling of the boughs below, that announced the safe
progress of his reverend precursor; when suddenly, as he was shifting
his right hand, a treacherous twig in his left gave way, and he fell
with fearful lapse from bush to bush, till, striking violently on a
bough to which the unfortunate divine was appended, it broke beneath the
shock, and down they went, crashing through the bushes together. Lord
Anophel was soon wedged into the middle of a large holly, from which he
heard the intermitted sound of the boughs as they broke and were broken
by the fall of his companion; till at length they ceased, and fearful
silence succeeded. He then extricated himself from the holly as well as
he could, at the expense of a scratched face, and lowered himself down
without further accident. On reaching the bottom, he had the pleasure to
find the reverend gentleman in safety, sitting on a fragment of stone,
and rubbing his shin. ‘Come, Grovelgrub,’ said Lord Anophel, ‘let us
make the best of our way to the nearest inn.’—‘And pour oil and wine
into our wounds,’ pursued the reverend gentleman, ‘and over our Madeira
and walnuts lay a more hopeful scheme for our next campaign.’
CHAPTER XXIV
THE BAROUCHE
The morning after the election Sir Oran Haut-ton and his party took
leave of Mr. Sarcastic, Mr. Forester having previously obtained from him
a promise to be present at the anti-saccharine fête. The barouche left
the city of Novote, decorated with ribands; Sir Oran Haut-ton was loudly
cheered by the populace, and not least by those whom he had most
severely beaten; the secret of which was, that a double allowance of ale
had been distributed over-night, to wash away the effects of his
indiscretion; it having been ascertained by political economists, that a
practical appeal either to the palm or the palate will induce the
friends of _things as they are_ to submit to anything.
Autumn was now touching on the confines of winter, but the day was mild
and sunny. Sir Telegraph asked Mr. Forester if he did not think the mode
of locomotion very agreeable.
_Mr. Forester._ That I never denied; all I question is, the right of any
individual to indulge himself in it.
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ Surely a man has a right to do what he pleases
with his own money.
_Mr. Forester._ A legal right, certainly, not a moral one. The
possession of power does not justify its abuse. The quantity of money in
a nation, the quantity of food, and the number of animals that consume
that food, maintain a triangular harmony, of which, in all the
fluctuations of time and circumstance, the proportions are always the
same. You must consider, therefore, that for every horse you keep for
pleasure, you pass sentence of non-existence on two human beings.
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ Really, Forester, you are a very singular
fellow. I should not much mind what you say, if you had not such a
strange habit of practising what you preach; a thing quite
unprecedented, and, egad, preposterous. I cannot think where you got it:
I am sure you did not learn it at college.
_Mr. Fax._ In a political light, every object of perception may be
resolved into one of these three heads: the food consumed—the
consumers—and money. In this point of view all convertible property that
does not eat and drink is money. Diamonds are money. When a man changes
a bank-note for a diamond, he merely changes one sort of money for
another, differing only in the facility of circulation and the stability
of value. None of the produce of the earth is wasted by the permutation.
_Mr. Forester._ The most pernicious species of luxury, therefore, is
that which applies the fruits of the earth to any other purposes than
those of human subsistence. All luxury is indeed pernicious, because its
infallible tendency is to enervate the few and enslave the many; but
luxury, which, in addition to this evil tendency, destroys the fruits of
the earth in the wantonness of idle ostentation, and thereby prevents
the existence of so many human beings as the quantity of food so
destroyed would maintain, is marked by criminality of a much deeper dye.
_Mr. Fax._ At the same time you must consider that, in respect of
population, the great desideratum is not number, but quality. If the
whole surface of this country were divided into gardens, and in every
garden were a cottage, and in every cottage a family living entirely on
potatoes, the number of its human inhabitants would be much greater than
at present; but where would be the spirit of commercial enterprise, the
researches of science, the exalted pursuits of philosophical leisure,
the communication with distant lands, and all that variety of human life
and intercourse, which is now so beautiful and interesting? Above all,
where would be the refuge of such a population in times of the slightest
defalcation? Now, the waste of plenty is the resource of scarcity. The
canal that does not overflow in the season of rain will not be navigable
in the season of drought. The rich have been often ready, in days of
emergency, to lay their superfluities aside; but when the fruits of the
earth are applied in plentiful or even ordinary seasons, to the utmost
possibility of human subsistence, the days of deficiency in their
produce must be days of inevitable famine.
_Mr. Forester._ What then will you say of those who in times of actual
famine persevere in their old course, in the wanton waste of luxury?
_Mr. Fax._ Truly I have nothing to say for them but that they know not
what they do.
_Mr. Forester._ If, in any form of human society, any one human being
dies of hunger, while another wastes or consumes in the wantonness of
vanity as much as would have preserved his existence, I hold that second
man guilty of the death of the first.
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ Surely, Forester, you are not serious.
_Mr. Forester._ Indeed I am. What would you think of a family of four
persons, two of whom should not be contented with consuming their own
share of diurnal provision but, having adventitiously the pre-eminence
of physical power, should either throw the share of the two others into
the fire, or stew it down into a condiment for their own?
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ I should think it very abominable, certainly.
_Mr. Forester._ Yet what is human society but one great family? What is
moral duty, but that precise line of conduct which tends to promote the
greatest degree of general happiness? And is not this duty most
flagrantly violated, when one man appropriates to himself the
subsistence of twelve; while, perhaps in his immediate neighbourhood,
eleven of his fellow-beings are dying with hunger? I have seen such a
man walk with a demure face into church, as regularly as if the Sunday
bell had been a portion of his corporeal mechanism, to hear a bloated
and beneficed sensualist hold forth on the text of _Do as ye would be
done by_, or _Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these my
brethren, ye have done it unto me_: whereas, if he had wished his theory
to coincide with his practice he would have chosen for his text, _Behold
a man gluttonous, and a wine-bibber, a friend of publicans and
sinners_:[62] and when the duty of words was over, the auditor and his
ghostly adviser, issuing forth together, have committed poor Lazarus to
the care of Providence, and proceeded to feast in the lordly mansion,
like Dives that lived in purple.[63]
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ Well, Forester, there I escape your shaft; for
I have ‘forgotten what the inside of a church is made of,’ since they
made me go to chapel twice a day at college. But go on, and don’t spare
_me_.
_Mr. Fax._ Let us suppose that ten thousand quarters of wheat will
maintain ten thousand persons during any given portion of time: if the
ten thousand quarters be reduced to five, or if the ten thousand persons
be increased to twenty, the consequence will be immediate and general
distress: yet if the proportions be equally distributed, as in a ship on
short allowance, the general perception of necessity and justice will
preserve general patience and mutual goodwill; but let the first
supposition remain unaltered, let there be ten thousand quarters of
wheat, which shall be full allowance for ten thousand people; then, if
four thousand persons take to themselves the portion of eight thousand,
and leave to the remaining six thousand the portion of two (and this I
fear is even an inadequate picture of the common practice of the world),
these latter will be in a much worse condition on the last than on the
first supposition; while the habit of selfish prodigality deadening all
good feelings and extinguishing all sympathy on the one hand, and the
habit of debasement and suffering combining with the inevitable sense of
oppression and injustice on the other, will produce an action and
reaction of open, unblushing, cold-hearted pride, and servile,
inefficient, ill-disguised resentment, which no philanthropist can
contemplate without dismay.
_Mr. Forester._ What then will be the case if the same disproportionate
division continues by regular gradations through the remaining six
thousand, till the lowest thousand receive such a fractional pittance as
will scarcely keep life together? If any of these perish with hunger,
what are they but the victims of the first four thousand, who
appropriated more to themselves than either nature required or justice
allowed? This, whatever the temporisers with the world may say of it, I
have no hesitation in pronouncing to be wickedness of the most atrocious
kind; and this I make no doubt was the sense of the founder of the
Christian religion when he said, _It is easier for a camel to pass
through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of
heaven_.
_Mr. Fax._ You must beware of the chimaera of an agrarian law, the
revolutionary doctrine of an equality of possession; which can never be
possible in practice, till the whole constitution of human nature be
changed.
_Mr. Forester._ I am no revolutionist. I am no advocate for violent and
arbitrary changes in the state of society. I care not in what
proportions property is divided (though I think there are certain limits
which it ought never to pass, and approve the wisdom of the American
laws in restricting the fortune of a private citizen to twenty thousand
a year), provided the rich can be made to know that they are but the
stewards of the poor, that they are not to be the monopolisers of
solitary spoil, but the distributors of general possession; that they
are responsible for that distribution to every principle of general
justice, to every tie of moral obligation, to every feeling of human
sympathy; that they are bound to cultivate simple habits in themselves,
and to encourage most such arts of industry and peace as are most
compatible with the health and liberty of others.
_Mr. Fax._ On this principle, then, any species of luxury in the
artificial adornment of persons and dwellings, which condemns the
artificer to a life of pain and sickness in the alternations of the
furnace and the cellar, is more baleful and more criminal than even that
which, consuming in idle prodigality the fruits of the earth, destroys
altogether, in the proportion of its waste, so much of the possibility
of human existence: since it is better not to be than to be in misery.
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ That is some consolation for me, as it shows
me that there are others worse than myself; for I really thought you
were going between you to prove me one of the greatest rogues in
England. But seriously, Forester, you think the keeping of
pleasure-horses, for the reasons you have given, a selfish and criminal
species of luxury?
_Mr. Forester._ I am so far persuaded of it, that I keep none myself.
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ But are not these four very beautiful
creatures? Would you wish not to see them in existence, living as they
do a very happy and easy kind of life?
_Mr. Forester._ That I am disposed to question, when I compare the wild
horse, in his native deserts, in the full enjoyment of health and
liberty, and all the energies of his nature, with those docked, cropped,
curtailed, mutilated animals, pent more than half their lives in the
close confinement of a stable, never let out but to run in trammels,
subject, like their tyrant man, to an infinite variety of diseases, the
produce of civilisation and unnatural life, and tortured every now and
then by some villain of a farrier, who has no more feeling for them than
a West Indian planter has for his slaves; and when you consider, too,
the fate of the most cherished of the species, racers and hunters,
instruments and often victims of sports equally foolish and cruel, you
will acknowledge that the life of the civilised horse is not an enviable
destiny.
_Mr. Fax._ Horses are noble and useful animals; but as they must
necessarily exist in great numbers for almost every purpose of human
intercourse and business, it is desirable that none should be kept for
purposes of mere idleness and ostentation. A pleasure-horse is a sort of
four-footed sinecurist.
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ Not quite so mischievous as a two-footed one.
_Mr. Forester._ Perhaps not: but the latter has always a large retinue
of the former, and therefore the evil is doubled.
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ Upon my word, Forester, you will almost talk
me out of my barouche, and then what will become of me? What shall I do
to kill time?
_Mr. Forester._ Read ancient books, the only source of permanent
happiness left in this degenerate world.
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ Read ancient books! That may be very good
advice to some people: but you forget that I have been at college, and
_finished_ my _education_. By the bye I have one inside, a portable
advocate for my proceedings, no less a personage than old Pindar.
_Mr. Forester._ Pindar has written very fine odes on driving, as
Anacreon has done on drinking; but the first can no more be adduced to
prove the morality of the whip, than the second to demonstrate the
virtue of intemperance. Besides, as to the mental tendency and emulative
associations of the pursuit itself, no comparison can be instituted
between the charioteers of the Olympic games and those of our turnpike
roads; for the former were the emulators of heroes and demigods, and the
latter of grooms and mail coachmen.
_Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ Well, Forester, as I recall to mind the
various subjects against which I have heard you declaim, I will make you
a promise. When ecclesiastical dignitaries imitate the temperance and
humility of the founder of that religion by which they feed and
flourish: when the man in place acts on the principles which he
professed while he was out: when borough electors will not sell their
suffrage, nor their representatives their votes: when poets are not to
be hired for the maintenance of any opinion: when learned divines can
afford to have a conscience: when universities are not a hundred years
in knowledge behind all the rest of the world: when young ladies speak
as they think, and when those who shudder at a tale of the horrors of
slavery will deprive their own palates of a sweet taste, for the purpose
of contributing all in their power to its extinction:—why then,
Forester, I will lay down my barouche.
CHAPTER XXV
THE WALK
They were to pass, in their return, through an estate belonging to Mr.
Forester, for the purpose of taking up his aunt Miss Evergreen, who was
to accompany them to Redrose Abbey. On arriving at an inn on the nearest
point of the great road, Mr. Forester told Sir Telegraph that, from the
arrangements he had made, it was impossible for any carriage to enter
his estate, as he had taken every precaution for preserving the
simplicity of his tenants from the contagious exhibitions and examples
of luxury. ‘This road,’ said he, ‘is only accessible to pedestrians and
equestrians: I have no wish to exclude the visits of laudable curiosity,
but there is nothing I so much dread and deprecate as the intrusion of
those heartless fops, who take their fashionable autumnal tour, to gape
at rocks and waterfalls, for which they have neither eyes nor ears, and
to pervert the feelings and habits of the once simple dwellers of the
mountains.[64] Nature seems to have raised her mountain-barriers for the
purpose of rescuing a few favoured mortals from the vortex of that
torrent of physical and moral degeneracy which seems to threaten nothing
less than the extermination of the human species:[65] but in vain, while
the annual opening of its sluices lets out a side stream of the worst
specimens of what is called refined society, to inundate the mountain
valleys with the corruptions of metropolitan folly. Thus innocence, and
health, and simplicity of life and manners, are banished from their last
retirement, and nowhere more lamentably so than in the romantic scenery
of the northern lakes, where every wonder of nature is made an article
of trade, where the cataracts are locked up, and the echoes are sold: so
that even the rustic character of that ill-fated region is condemned to
participate in the moral stigma which must dwell indelibly on its
poetical name.’
The party alighted, and a consultation being held, it was resolved to
walk to the village in a body, the Honourable Mrs. Pinmoney lifting her
hands and eyes in profound astonishment at Mr. Forester’s old-fashioned
notions.
They followed a narrow winding path through rocky and sylvan hills.
They walked in straggling parties of ones, twos, and threes. Mr.
Forester and Anthelia went first. Sir Oran Haut-ton followed alone,
playing a pensive tune on his flute. Sir Telegraph Paxarett walked
between his aunt and cousin, the Honourable Mrs. Pinmoney and Miss
Danaretta. Mr. Hippy, in a melancholy vein, brought up the rear with
Mr. Fax. A very beautiful child which had sat on the old gentleman’s
knee, at the inn where they breakfasted, had thrown him, not for the
first time on a similar occasion, into a fit of dismal repentance that
he had not one of his own: he stalked along accordingly, with a most
ruefully lengthened aspect, uttering every now and then a deep-drawn
sigh. Mr. Fax in philosophic sympathy determined to console him, by
pointing out to him the true nature and tendency of the principle of
population, and the enormous evils resulting from the multiplication
of the human species: observing that the only true criterion of the
happiness of a nation was to be found in the number of its old maids
and bachelors, whom he venerated as the sources and symbols of
prosperity and peace. Poor Mr. Hippy walked on sighing and groaning,
deaf as the adder to the voice of the charmer: for, in spite of all
the eloquence of the antipopulationist, the image of the beautiful
child which he had danced on his knee continued to haunt his
imagination, and threatened him with the blue devils for the rest of
the day.
‘I see,’ said Sir Telegraph to Mrs. Pinmoney, ‘my hopes are at an end.
Forester is the happy man, though I am by no means sure that he knows it
himself.’
‘Impossible,’ said Mrs. Pinmoney; ‘Anthelia may be amused a little while
with his rhapsodies, but nothing more, believe me. The man is out of his
mind. Do you know, I heard him say the other day, “that not a shilling
of his property was his own, that it was a portion of the general
possession of human society, of which the distribution had devolved upon
him: and that for the mode of that distribution he was most rigidly
responsible to the principles of immutable justice.” If such a mode of
talking——’
‘And acting too,’ said Sir Telegraph; ‘for I assure you he quadrates his
practice as nearly as he can to his theory.’
‘Monstrous!’ said Mrs. Pinmoney, ‘what would our reverend friend, poor
dear Doctor Bosky, say to him? But if such a way of talking and acting
be the way to win a young heiress, I shall think the whole world is
turned topsy-turvy.’
‘Your remark would be just,’ said Sir Telegraph, ‘were that young
heiress any other than Anthelia Melincourt.’
‘Well,’ said Mrs. Pinmoney, ‘there are maidens in Scotland more lovely
by far——’
‘That I deny,’ said Sir Telegraph.
‘Who will gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar,’ proceeded Mrs.
Pinmoney.
‘That will not do,’ said Sir Telegraph: ‘I shall resign with the best
grace I can muster to a more favoured candidate, but I shall never think
of another choice.’
‘Twelve months hence,’ said Mrs. Pinmoney, ‘you will tell another tale.
In the meantime you will not die of despair as long as there is a good
turnpike road and a pipe of Madeira in England.’
‘You will find,’ said Mr. Forester to Anthelia, ‘in the little valley we
are about to enter, a few specimens of that simple and natural life
which approaches as nearly as the present state of things will admit to
my ideas of the habits and manners of the primaeval agriculturists, or
the fathers of the Roman republic. You will think perhaps of Fabricius
under his oak, of Curius in his cottage, of Regulus, when he solicited
recall from the command of an army, because the man whom he had
intrusted, in his absence, with the cultivation of his field and garden
had run away with his spade and rake, by which his wife and children
were left without support; and when the senate decreed that the
implements should be replaced, and a man provided at the public expense
to maintain the consul’s family, by cultivating his fields in his
absence. Then poverty was as honourable as it is now disgraceful: then
the same public respect was given to him who could most simplify his
habits and manners that is now paid to those who can make the most
shameless parade of wanton and selfish prodigality. Those days are past
for ever: but it is something in the present time to resuscitate their
memory, to call up even the shadow of the reflection of republican
Rome—_Rome the seat of glory and of virtue, if ever they had one on
earth_.[66]
‘You excite my curiosity very highly,’ said Anthelia, ‘for, from the
time when I read
——in those dear books that first
Woke in my heart the love of poesy,
How with the villagers Erminia dwelt,
And Calidore, for a fair shepherdess,
Forgot his guest to learn the shepherd’s lore;
how much have I regretted never to discover in the actual inhabitants of
the country the realisation of the pictures of Spenser and Tasso!’
‘The palaces,’ said Mr. Forester, ‘that everywhere rise around them to
shame the meanness of their humble dwellings, the great roads that
everywhere intersect their valleys, and bring them continually in
contact with the overflowing corruption of cities, the devastating
monopoly of large farms, that has almost swept the race of cottagers
from the face of the earth, sending the parents to the workhouse or the
army, and the children to perish like untimely blossoms in the blighting
imprisonment of manufactories, have combined to diminish the numbers and
deteriorate the character of the inhabitants of the country; but
whatever be the increasing ravages of the Triad of Mammon, avarice,
luxury, and disease, they will always be the last involved in the vortex
of progressive degeneracy, realising the beautiful fiction of ancient
poetry, that, when primaeval Justice departed from the earth, her last
steps were among the cultivators of the fields.’[67]
CHAPTER XXVI
THE COTTAGERS
The valley expanded into a spacious amphitheatre, with a beautiful
stream winding among pastoral meadows, which, as well as the surrounding
hills, were studded with cottages, each with its own trees, its little
garden, and its farm. Sir Telegraph was astonished to find so many human
dwellings in a space that, on the modern tactics of rural economy,
appeared only sufficient for three or four _moderate_ farms; and Mr. Fax
looked perfectly aghast to perceive the principle of population in such
a fearful state of activity. Mrs. and Miss Pinmoney expressed their
surprise at not seeing a single lordly mansion asserting its regal
pre-eminence over the dwellings of its miserable vassals; while the
voices of the children at play served only to condense the vapours that
obfuscated the imagination of poor Mr. Hippy. Anthelia, as their path
wound among the cottages, was more and more delighted with the neatness
and comfort of the dwellings, the exquisite order of the gardens, the
ingenuous air of happiness and liberty that characterised the simple
inhabitants, and the health and beauty of the little rosy children that
were sporting in the fields. Mr. Forester had been recognised from a
distance. The cottagers ran out in all directions to welcome him: the
valley and the hills seemed starting into life, as men, women, and
children poured down, as with one impulse, on the path of his approach,
while some hastened to the residence of Miss Evergreen, ambitious of
being the first to announce to her the arrival of her nephew. Miss
Evergreen came forward to meet the party, surrounded by a rustic crowd
of both sexes, and of every age, from the old man leaning on his stick,
to the little child that could just run alone, but had already learnt to
attach something magical to the sound of the name of Forester.
The first idea they entertained at the sight of his party was that he
was married, and had brought his bride to visit his little colony; and
Anthelia was somewhat disconcerted by the benedictions that were poured
upon her under this impression of the warm-hearted rustics.
They entered Miss Evergreen’s cottage, which was small, but in a style
of beautiful simplicity. Anthelia was much pleased with her countenance
and manners; for Miss Evergreen was an amiable and intelligent woman,
and was single, not from having wanted lovers, but from being of that
order of minds which can love but once.
Mr. Fax took occasion, during a temporary absence of Miss Evergreen from
the apartment in which they were taking refreshment, to say he was happy
to have seen so amiable a specimen of that injured and calumniated class
of human beings commonly called old maids, who were often so from
possessing in too high a degree the qualities most conducive to domestic
happiness; for it might naturally be imagined that the least refined and
delicate minds would be the soonest satisfied in the choice of a
partner, and the most ready to repair the loss of a first love by the
substitution of a second. This might have led to a discussion, but Miss
Evergreen’s re-entrance prevented it. They now strolled out among the
cottages in detached parties and in different directions. Mr. Fax
attached himself to Mr. Hippy and Miss Evergreen. Anthelia and Mr.
Forester went their own way. She was above the little affectation of
feeling her _dignity_ offended, as our female novel-writers express it,
by the notions which the peasants had formed respecting her. ‘You see,’
said Mr. Forester, ‘I have endeavoured as much as possible to recall the
images of better times, when the country was well peopled, from the
farms being small, and cultivated chiefly by cottagers who lived in what
was in Scotland called a _cottar town_.[68] Now you may go over vast
tracts of country without seeing anything like an _old English Cottage_,
to say nothing of the fearful difference which has been caused in the
interior of the few that remain by the pressure of exorbitant taxation,
of which the real, though not the nominal burden, always falls most
heavily on the labouring classes, backed by that _canker at the heart of
national prosperity_, the imaginary riches of paper-credit, of which the
means are delusion, the progress monopoly, and the ultimate effect the
extinction of the best portion of national population, a healthy and
industrious peasantry. Large farms bring more rent to the landlord, and
therefore landlords in general make no scruple to increase their rents
by depopulating their estates,[69] though Anthelia Melincourt will not
comprehend the mental principle in which such feelings originate.’
‘Is it possible,’ said Anthelia, ‘that you, so young as you are, can
have created such a scene as this?’
‘My father,’ said Mr. Forester, ‘began what I merely perpetuate. He
estimated his riches, not by the amount of rent his estate produced, but
the number of simple and happy beings it maintained. He divided it into
little farms of such a size as were sufficient, even in indifferent
seasons, to produce rather more than the necessities of their
cultivators required. So that all these cottagers are rich, according to
the definition of Socrates;[70] for they have at all times a little more
than they actually need, a subsidium for age or sickness, or any
accidental necessity.’
They entered several of the cottages, and found in them all the same
traces of comfort and content, and the same images of the better days of
England: the clean-tiled floor, the polished beechen table, the tea-cups
on the chimney, the dresser with its glittering dishes, the old woman
with her spinning-wheel by the fire, and the old man with his little
grandson in the garden, giving him his first lessons in the use of the
spade, the good wife busy in her domestic arrangements, and the pot
boiling on the fire for the return of her husband from his labour in the
field.
[Illustration: _‘My father,’ said Mr. Forester, ‘began what I merely
perpetuate.’_]
‘Is it not astonishing,’ said Mr. Forester, ‘that there should be any
who think, as I know many do, the number of cottagers on their land a
grievance, and desire to be quit of them,[71] and have no feeling of
remorse in allotting to one solitary family as much extent of cultivated
land as was ploughed by the whole Roman people in the days of
Cincinnatus?[72] The three great points of every political system are
the health, the morals, and the number of the people. Without health and
morals the people cannot be happy; but without numbers they cannot be a
great and powerful nation, nor even exist for any considerable time.[73]
And by numbers I do not mean the inhabitants of the cities, the sordid
and sickly victims of commerce, and the effeminate and enervated slaves
of luxury; but in estimating the power and the riches of a country, I
take my only criterion from its agricultural population.’
CHAPTER XXVII
THE ANTI-SACCHARINE FÊTE
Miss Evergreen accompanied them in their return, to preside at the
anti-saccharine fête. Mr. Hippy was turned out to make room for her in
the barouche, and took his seat on the roof with Messieurs Forester and
Fax. Anthelia no longer deemed it necessary to keep a guard over her
heart: the bud of mutual affection between herself and Mr. Forester,
both being, as they were, perfectly free and perfectly ingenuous, was
rapidly expanding into the full bloom of happiness: they dreamed not
that evil was near to check, if not to wither it.
The whole party was prevailed on by Miss Evergreen to be her guests at
Redrose Abbey till after the anti-saccharine fête, which very shortly
took place, and was attended by the principal members of the
Anti-saccharine Society, and by an illustrious assemblage from near and
from far: amongst the rest by our old acquaintance, Mr. Derrydown, Mr.
O’Scarum, Major O’Dogskin, Mr. Sarcastic, the Reverend Mr. Portpipe, and
Mr. Feathernest the poet, who brought with him his friend Mr. Vamp the
reviewer. Lord Anophel Achthar and the Reverend Mr. Grovelgrub deemed it
not expedient to join the party, but ensconced themselves in Alga
Castle, studying _michin malicho_, which means mischief.
The anti-saccharine fête commenced with a splendid dinner, as Mr.
Forester thought to make luxury on this occasion subservient to
morality, by showing what culinary art could effect without the
intervention of West Indian produce; and the preparers of the feast,
under the superintendence of Miss Evergreen, had succeeded so well, that
the company testified very general satisfaction, except that a worthy
Alderman and Baronet from London (who had been studying the picturesque
at Low-wood Inn, and had given several manifestations of exquisite taste
that had completely won the hearts of Mr. O’Scarum and Major O’Dogskin)
having just helped himself to a slice of venison, fell back aghast
against the back of his chair, and dropped the knife and fork from his
nerveless hands, on finding that currant-jelly was prohibited: but being
recovered by an application of the Honourable Mrs. Pinmoney’s
vinaigrette, he proceeded to revenge himself on a very fine pheasant,
which he washed down with floods of Madeira, being never at a loss for
some one to take wine with him, as he had the good fortune to sit
opposite to the Reverend Mr. Portpipe, who was _toujours prêt_ on the
occasion, and a _coup-d’œil_ between them arranged the whole preliminary
of the compotatory ceremonial.
After dinner Mr. Forester addressed the company. They had seen, he said,
that culinary luxury could be carried to a great degree of refinement
without the intervention of West Indian produce: and though he himself
deprecated luxury altogether, yet he would waive that point for the
present, and concede a certain degree of it to those who fancied they
could not do without it, if they would only in return make so very
slight a concession to philanthropy, to justice, to liberty, to every
feeling of human sympathy, as to abstain from an indulgence which was
obtained by the most atrocious violation of them all, an indulgence of
which the foundations were tyranny, robbery, and murder, and every form
of evil, anguish, and oppression, at which humanity shudders; all which
were comprehended in the single name of SLAVERY. ‘Sugar,’ said he, ‘is
economically superfluous, nay, worse than superfluous: in the middling
classes of life it is a formidable addition to the expenses of a large
family, and for no benefit, for no addition to the stock of domestic
comfort, which is often sacrificed in more essential points to this
frivolous and wanton indulgence. It is physically pernicious, as its
destruction of the teeth, and its effects on the health of children much
pampered with sweetmeats, sufficiently demonstrate. It is morally
atrocious, from being the primary cause of the most complicated
corporeal suffering and the most abject mental degradation that ever
outraged the form and polluted the spirit of man. It is politically
abominable, for covering with every variety of wretchedness some of the
fairest portions of the earth, which, if the inhabitants of free
countries could be persuaded _to abstain from sugar till it were sent to
them by free men_, might soon become the abodes of happiness and
liberty. Slaves cannot breathe in the air of England: ‘They touch our
country and their fetters fall.’ Who is there among you that is not
proud of this distinction?—Yet this is not enough: the produce of the
labour of slavery should be banished from our shores. Not anything, not
an atom of anything, should enter an Englishman’s dwelling, on which the
Genius of Liberty had not set his seal. What would become of slavery if
there were no consumers of its produce? Yet I have seen a party of
pretended philanthropists sitting round a tea-table, and while they
dropped the sugar into their cups repeat some tale of the sufferings of
a slave, and execrate the colonial planters, who are but their caterers
and stewards—the obsequious ministers of their unfeeling sensuality! O
my fair countrywomen! you who have such tender hearts, such affectionate
spirits, such amiable and delicate feelings, do you consider the mass of
mischief and cruelty to which you contribute, nay, of which you are
among the primary causes, when you indulge yourselves in so paltry, so
contemptible a gratification as results from the use of sugar? while to
abstain from it entirely is a privation so trivial, that it is most
wonderful to think that Justice and Charity should have such a boon to
beg from Beauty in the name of the blood and the tears of human beings.
Be not deterred by the idea that you will have few companions by the
better way: so much the rather should it be strictly followed by amiable
and benevolent minds.[74] Secure to yourselves at least the delightful
consciousness of reflecting that you are in no way whatever accomplices
in the cruelty and crime of slavery, and accomplices in it you certainly
are, nay, its very original springs, as long as you are receivers and
consumers of its iniquitous acquisitions.’
‘I will answer you, Mr. Forester,’ said Mr. Sarcastic, ‘for myself and
the rest of the company. You shock our feelings excessively by calling
us the primary causes of slavery; and there are very few among us who
have not shuddered at the tales of West Indian cruelty. I assure you we
are very liberal of theoretical sympathy; but as to practical abstinence
from the use of sugar, do you consider what it is you require? Do you
consider how very agreeable to us is the sensation of sweetness in our
palates? Do you suppose we would give up that sensation because human
creatures of the same flesh and blood as ourselves are oppressed and
enslaved, and flogged and tortured, to procure it for us? Do you
consider that Custom[75] is the great lord and master of our conduct?
And do you suppose that any feeling of pity, and sympathy, and charity,
and benevolence, and justice, will overcome the power of Custom, more
especially where any pleasure of sense is attached to his dominion? In
appealing to our pockets, indeed, you touched us to the quick: you aimed
your eloquence at our weak side—you hit us in the vulnerable point; but
if it should appear that in this particular we really might save our
money, yet being expended in a matter of personal and sensual
gratification, it is not to be supposed so completely lost and wasted as
it would be if it were given either to a friend or a stranger in
distress. I will admit, however, that you have touched our feelings a
little, but this disagreeable impression will soon wear off: with some
of us it will last as long as pity for a starving beggar, and with
others as long as grief for the death of a friend; and I find, on a very
accurate average calculation, that the duration of the former may be
considered to be at least three minutes, and that of the latter at most
ten days.
‘Mr. Sarcastic,’ said Anthelia, ‘you do not render justice to the
feelings of the company; nor is human nature so selfish and perverted as
you seem to consider it. Though there are undoubtedly many who sacrifice
the general happiness of humankind to their own selfish gratification,
yet even these, I am willing to believe, err not in cruelty but in
ignorance, from not seeing the consequences of their own actions; but it
is not by persuading them that all the world is as bad as themselves,
that you will give them clearer views and better feelings. Many are the
modes of evil—many the scenes of human suffering; but if the general
condition of man is ever to be ameliorated, it can only be through the
medium of BELIEF IN HUMAN VIRTUE.’
‘Well, Forester,’ said Sir Telegraph, ‘if you wish to increase the
numbers of the Anti-saccharine Society, set me down for one.’
‘Remember,’ said Mr. Forester, ‘by enrolling your name among us you
pledge yourself to perpetual abstinence from West Indian produce.’
‘I am aware of it,’ said Sir Telegraph, ‘and you shall find me zealous
in the cause.’
The fat Alderman cried out about the ruin of commerce, and Mr. Vamp was
very hot on the subject of the revenue. The question was warmly
canvassed, and many of the party who had not been quite persuaded by
what Mr. Forester had said in behalf of the anti-saccharine system, were
perfectly convinced in its favour when they had heard what Mr. Vamp and
the fat Alderman had to say against it; and the consequence was, that,
in spite of Mr. Sarcastic’s opinion of the general selfishness of
mankind, the numbers of the Anti-saccharine Society were very
considerably augmented.
‘You see,’ said Mr. Fax to Mr. Sarcastic, ‘the efficacy of associated
sympathies. It is but to give an impulse of cooperation to any good and
generous feeling, and its progressive accumulation, like that of an
Alpine avalanche, though but a snowball at the summit, becomes a
mountain in the valley.’
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE CHESS DANCE
The dinner was followed by a ball, for the opening of which Sir
Telegraph Paxarett, who officiated as master of the ceremonies, had
devised a fanciful scheme, and had procured for the purpose a number of
appropriate masquerade dresses. An extensive area in the middle of the
ballroom was chalked out into sixty-four squares of alternate white and
red, in lines of eight squares each. Sir Telegraph, while the rest of
the company was sipping, not without many wry faces, their
anti-saccharine tea, called out into another apartment the gentlemen
whom he had fixed on to perform in his little ballet; and Miss Evergreen
at the same time withdrew with the intended female performers. Sir
Telegraph now invested Mr. Hippy with the dignity of White King, Major
O’Dogskin with that of Black King, and the Reverend Mr. Portpipe with
that of White Bishop, which the latter hailed as a favourable omen, not
precisely comprehending what was going forward. As the reverend
gentleman was the only one of his cloth in the company, Sir Telegraph
was under the necessity of appointing three lay Bishops, whom he fixed
on in the persons of two country squires, Mr. Hermitage and Mr. Heeltap,
and of the fat Alderman already mentioned, Sir Gregory Greenmould. Sir
Telegraph himself, Mr. O’Scarum, Mr. Derrydown, and Mr. Sarcastic, were
the Knights: and the Rooks were Mr. Feathernest the poet; Mr.
Paperstamp, another variety of the same genus, chiefly remarkable for an
affected infantine lisp in his speech, and for always wearing waistcoats
of a duffel gray; Mr. Vamp the reviewer; and Mr. Killthedead, from
Frogmarsh Hall, a great compounder of narcotics, under the denomination
of BATTLES, for he never heard of a deadly field, especially if dotage
and superstition, to which he was very partial, gained the advantage
over generosity and talent, both of which he abhorred, but immediately
seizing his goosequill and foolscap,
He fought the BATTLE o’er again,
And twice he slew the slain.
[Illustration: _The company was sipping, not without many wry faces,
their anti-saccharine tea._]
Mr. Feathernest was a little nettled on being told that he was to be the
_King’s Rook_, but smoothed his wrinkled brow on being assured that no
_mauvaise plaisanterie_ was intended.
The Kings were accordingly crowned, and attired in regal robes. The
Reverend Mr. Portpipe and his three brother Bishops were arrayed in full
canonicals. The Knights were equipped in their white and black armour,
with sword, and dazzling helm, and nodding crest. The Rooks were
enveloped in a sort of mural robe, with a headpiece formed on the model
of that which occurs in the ancient figures of Cybele; and thus attired
they bore a very striking resemblance to the walking wall in Pyramus and
Thisbe.
The Kings now led the way to the ballroom, and the two beautiful Queens,
Miss Danaretta Contantina Pinmoney and Miss Celandina Paperstamp, each
with eight beautiful nymphs, arrayed for the mimic field in light
Amazonian dresses, white and black, did such instant execution among the
hearts of the young gentlemen present, that they might be said to have
‘fought and conquered ere a sword was drawn.’
They now proceeded to their stations on their respective squares: but
before we describe their manœuvres we will recapitulate the
TRIPUDII PERSONAE
WHITE
_King_ MR. HIPPY.
_Queen_ MISS DANARETTA CONTANTINA PINMONEY.
_King’s Bishop_ THE REVEREND MR. PORTPIPE.
_Queen’s Bishop_ SIR GREGORY GREENMOULD.
_King’s Knight_ MR. O’SCARUM.
_Queen’s Knight_ SIR TELEGRAPH PAXARETT.
_King’s Rook_ MR. FEATHERNEST.
_Queen’s Rook_ MR. PAPERSTAMP.
_Eight Nymphs._
BLACK
_King_ MAJOR O’DOGSKIN.
_Queen_ MISS CELANDINA PAPERSTAMP.
_King’s Bishop_ SQUIRE HERMITAGE.
_Queen’s Bishop_ SQUIRE HEELTAP.
_King’s Knight_ MR. SARCASTIC.
_Queen’s Knight_ MR. DERRYDOWN.
_King’s Rook_ MR. KILLTHEDEAD.
_Queen’s Rook_ MR. VAMP.
_Eight Nymphs._
Mr. Hippy took his station on a black square, near the centre of one of
the extreme lines, and Major O’Dogskin on an opposite white square of
the parallel extreme. The Queens, who were to command in chief, stood on
the left of the Kings: the Bishops were posted to the right and left of
their respective sovereigns; the Knights next to the Bishops; the
corners were occupied by the Rooks. The two lines in front of these
principal personages were occupied by the Nymphs;—a space of four lines
of eight squares each being left between the opposite parties for the
field of action.
The array was now complete, with the exception of the Reverend Mr.
Portpipe, who being called by Miss Danaretta to take his place at the
right hand of Mr. Hippy, and perceiving that he should be necessitated,
in his character of Bishop, to take a very active part in the diversion,
began to exclaim with great vehemence, NOLO EPISCOPARI! which is
probably the only occasion on which these words were ever used with
sincerity. But Mr. O’Scarum, in his capacity of White Knight, pounced on
the reluctant divine, and placing him between himself and Mr. Hippy,
stood by him with his sword drawn, as if to prevent his escape; then
clapping a sword into the hand of the reverend gentleman, exhorted him
to conduct himself in a manner becoming an efficient member of the true
church militant.
Lots were then cast for the privilege of attack; and the chance falling
on Miss Danaretta, the music struck up the tune of _The Triumph_, and
the whole of the white party began dancing, with their faces towards the
King, performing at the same time various manœuvres of the sword
exercise, with appropriate pantomimic gestures, expressive of their
entire devotion to His Majesty’s service, and their desire to be
immediately sent forward on active duty. In vain did the Reverend Mr.
Portpipe remonstrate with Mr. O’Scarum that his dancing days were over:
the inexorable Knight compelled him to caper and flourish his sword,
‘till the toil-drops fell from his brows like rain.’ Sir Gregory
Greenmould did his best on the occasion, and danced like an elephant in
black drapery; but Miss Danaretta and her eight lovely Nymphs rescued
the exertions of the male performers from too critical observation. King
Hippy received the proffered service of his army with truly royal
condescension. Miss Danaretta waved her sword with inimitable grace, and
made a sign to the damsel in front of the King to advance two squares.
The same manœuvres now took place on the black side; and Miss Celandina
sent forward the Nymph in front of Major O’Dogskin to obstruct the
further progress of the white damsel. The dancing now recommenced on the
white side, and Miss Danaretta ordered out the Reverend Mr. Portpipe to
occupy the fourth square in front of Squire Heeltap. The reverend
gentleman rolled forward with great alacrity, in the secret hope that he
should very soon be taken prisoner, and put _hors de combat_ for the
rest of the evening. Squire Hermitage was detached by Miss Celandina on
a similar service; and these two episcopal heroes being thus brought
together in the centre of the field, entered, like Glaucus and Diomede,
into a friendly parle, in the course of which the words Claret and
Burgundy were repeatedly overheard. The music frequently varied as in a
pantomime, according to circumstances: the manœuvres were always
directed by the waving of the sword of the Queen, and were always
preceded by the dancing of the whole party, in the manner we have
mentioned, which continued _ad libitum_, till she had decided on her
movement. The Nymph in front of Sir Gregory Greenmould advanced one
square. Mr. Sarcastic stepped forward to the third square of Squire
Hermitage. Miss Danaretta’s Nymph advanced two squares, and being
immediately taken prisoner by the Nymph of Major O’Dogskin, conceded her
place with a graceful bow, and retired from the field. The Nymph in
front of Sir Gregory Greenmould avenged the fate of her companion; and
Mr. Hippy’s Nymph withdrew in a similar manner. Squire Hermitage was
compelled to cut short his conversation with Mr. Portpipe, and retire to
the third square in front of Mr. Derrydown. Sir Telegraph skipped into
the place which Sir Gregory Greenmould’s Nymph had last forsaken. Mr.
Killthedead danced into the deserted quarters of Squire Hermitage, and
Major O’Dogskin swept round him with a minuet step into those of Mr.
Sarcastic. To carry on the detail would require more time than we can
spare, and, perhaps, more patience than our readers possess. The
Reverend Mr. Portpipe saw his party fall around him, one by one, and
survived against his will to the close of the contest. Miss Danaretta
and Miss Celandina moved like light over the squares, and Fortune
alternately smiled and frowned on their respective banners, till the
heavy mural artillery of Mr. Vamp being brought to bear on Mr.
Paperstamp, who fancied himself a tower of strength, the latter was
overthrown and carried off the field. Mr. Feathernest avenged his fate
on the embattled front of Mr. Killthedead, and fell himself beneath the
sword of Mr. Sarcastic. Squire Heeltap was taken off by the Reverend Mr.
Portpipe, who begged his courteous prisoner to walk to the sideboard and
bring him a glass of Madeira; for Homer, he said, was very orthodox in
his opinion that wine was a great refresher in the toils of war.[76]
The changeful scene concluded by Miss Danaretta, with the aid of Sir
Telegraph and the Reverend Mr. Portpipe, hemming Major O’Dogskin into a
corner, where he was reduced to an incapacity of locomotion; on which
the Major bowed and made the best of his way to the sideboard, followed
by the reverend gentleman, who, after joining the Major in a pacific
libation, threw himself into an arm-chair, and slept very comfortably
till the annunciation of supper.
Waltzes, quadrilles, and country dances followed in succession, and,
with the exception of the interval of supper, in which Miss Evergreen
developed all the treasures of anti-saccharine taste, were kept up with
great spirit till the rising of the sun.
Anthelia, who of course did not join in the former, expressed to Mr.
Forester her astonishment to see waltzing in Redrose Abbey. ‘I did not
dream of such a thing,’ said Mr. Forester; ‘but I left the whole
arrangement of the ball to Sir Telegraph, and I suppose he deemed it
incumbent on him to consult _the general taste of the young ladies_.
Even I, young as I am, can remember the time when there was no point of
resemblance between an English girl in a private ballroom and a French
_figurante_ in a theatrical _ballet_; but waltzing and Parisian drapery
have levelled the distinction, and the only criterion of the difference
is the place of the exhibition. Thus every succeeding year witnesses
some new inroad on the simple manners of our ancestors; some importation
of continental vice and folly; some unnatural fretwork of tinsel and
frippery on the old Doric column of the domestic virtues of England. An
Englishman in stays, and an Englishwoman waltzing in treble-flounced
short petticoats, are anomalies so monstrous, that till they actually
existed, they never entered the most ominous visions of the speculators
on progressive degeneracy. What would our Alfred, what would our third
Edward, what would our Milton, and Hampden, and Sidney, what would the
barons of Runnymead have thought, if the voice of prophecy had denounced
to them a period, when the perfection of accomplishment in the daughters
of England would be found in the dress, manner, and action of the
dancing girls of Paris?’
The supper, of course, did not pass off without songs; and among them
Anthelia sang the following, which recalled to Mr. Forester their
conversation on the sea-shore.
THE MORNING OF LOVE
O the spring-time of life is the season of blooming,
And the morning of love is the season of joy;
Ere noontide and summer, with radiance consuming,
Look down on their beauty, to parch and destroy.
O faint are the blossoms life’s pathway adorning,
When the first magic glory of hope is withdrawn;
For the flowers of the spring, and the light of the morning,
Have no summer budding, and no second dawn.
Through meadows all sunshine, and verdure, and flowers,
The stream of the valley in purity flies;
But mix’d with the tides, where some proud city lowers,
O where is the sweetness that dwelt on its rise?
The rose withers fast on the breast it first graces;
Its beauty is fled ere the day be half done:—
And life is that stream which its progress defaces,
And love is that flower which can bloom but for one.
CHAPTER XXIX
THE DISAPPEARANCE
The morning after the fête Anthelia and her party returned to
Melincourt. Before they departed she conversed a few minutes alone with
Mr. Forester in his library. What was said on this occasion we cannot
precisely report; but it seemed to be generally suspected that Mr.
Hippy’s authority would soon be at an end, and that the services of the
Reverend Mr. Portpipe would be required in the old chapel of Melincourt
Castle, which, we are sorry to say, had fallen for some years past very
much into disuse, being never opened but on occasions of birth,
marriage, and death in the family; and these occasions, as our readers
are aware, had not of late been very numerous.
The course of mutual love between Anthelia and Mr. Forester was as
smooth as the gliding of a skiff down a stream, through the flowery
meadows of June: and if matters were not quite definitely settled
between them, yet, as Mr. Forester was shortly to be a visitor at the
Castle, there was a very apparent probability that their intercourse
would terminate in that grand climax and finale of all romantic
adventure—marriage.
After the departure of the ladies, Mr. Forester observed with concern
that his friend Sir Oran’s natural melancholy was visibly increased, and
Mr. Fax was of opinion that he was smitten with the tender passion: but
whether for Miss Melincourt, Mrs. Pinmoney, or Miss Danaretta, it was
not so easy to determine. But Sir Oran grew more and more fond of
solitude, and passed the greater part of the day in the woods, though it
was now the reign of the gloomy November, which, however, accorded with
the moody temper of his spirit; and he often went without his breakfast,
though he always came home to dinner. His perpetual companion was his
flute, with which he made sad response to the wintry wind.
[Illustration: _Mr. Fax was of opinion that he was smitten._]
Mr. Forester and Mr. Fax were one morning consulting on the means to be
adopted for diverting Sir Oran’s melancholy, when Sir Telegraph Paxarett
drove up furiously to the door—sprang from the box—and rushed into the
apartment with the intelligence that Anthelia had disappeared. No one
had seen her since the hour of breakfast on the preceding day. Mr.
Hippy, Mr. Derrydown, Mr. O’Scarum, and Major O’Dogskin were scouring
the country in all directions in search of her.
Mr. Forester determined not to rest night or day till he had discovered
Anthelia. Sir Telegraph drove him, with Mr. Fax and Sir Oran, to the
nearest inn, where leaving Sir Telegraph to pursue another track, they
took a chaise-and-four, and posted over the country in all directions,
day after day, without finding any clue to her retreat. Mr. Forester had
no doubt that this adventure was connected with that which we have
detailed in the eighteenth chapter; but his ignorance of the actors on
that occasion prevented his deriving any light from the coincidence. At
length, having investigated in vain all the main and cross roads for
fifty miles round Melincourt, Mr. Fax was of opinion that she could not
have passed so far along any of them, being conveyed, as no doubt she
was, against her will, without leaving some trace of her course, which
their indefatigable inquiries must have discovered. He therefore advised
that they should discontinue their system of posting, and take a
thorough pedestrian perlustration of all the most bye and unfrequented
paths of the whole mountain-district, in some secluded part of which he
had a strong presentiment she would be found. This plan was adopted; but
the season was unfavourable to its expeditious accomplishment; and they
could sometimes make but little progress in a day, being often compelled
to turn aside from the wilder tracks, in search of a town or village,
for the purposes of refreshment or rest:—there being this remarkable
difference between the lovers of the days of chivalry and those of
modern times, that the former could pass a week or two in a desert or a
forest, without meat, drink, or shelter—a very useful art for all
travellers, whether lovers or not, which these degenerate days have
unfortunately lost.
They arrived in the evening of the first day of their pedestrianism at a
little inn among the mountains. They were informed they could have no
beds; and that the only parlour was occupied by two gentlemen, who meant
to sit up all night, and would, perhaps, have no objection to their
joining the party. A message being sent in, an affirmative answer was
very politely returned; and on entering the apartment they discovered
Mr. O’Scarum and Major O’Dogskin engaged in a deep discussion over a
large jug of wine.
‘Troth, now,’ said Mr. O’Scarum, ‘and this is a merry meeting, sure
enough, though it’s on a dismal occasion, for it’s Miss Melincourt
you’re looking for, as we are too, though you have most cause, Mr.
Forester; for I understand you are to be the happy man. Troth, and I did
not know so much when I came to your fête, or, perhaps, I should have
been for arguing the point of a prior claim (as far as my own consent
was concerned) over a bit of neat turf, twelve yards long; but Major
O’Dogskin tells me, that by getting muzzy, and so I did, sure enough, on
your old Madeira, and rare stuff it is, by my conscience, when Miss
Melincourt was in your house, I have sanctioned the matter, and there’s
an end of it: but, by my soul, I did not mean to have been cut out
quietly: and the Major says, too, you’re too good a fellow to be kilt,
and that’s true enough: so I’ll keep my ammunition for other friends;
and here’s to you and Miss Melincourt, and a happy meeting to you both,
and the devil take him that parts you, says Harum O’Scarum.’—‘And so
says Dermot O’Dogskin,’ said the Major. ‘And my friend O’Scarum and
myself will ride about till we get news of her, for we don’t mind a
little hardship.—You shall be wanting some dinner, joys, and there’s
nothing but fat bacon and potatoes; but we have made a shift with it,
and then here is the very creature itself, old sherry, my jewels! troth,
and how did we come home by it, think you? I know what it is to pass a
night in a little inn in the hills, and you don’t find Major O’Dogskin
turning out of the main road, without giving his man a couple of kegs of
wine just to balance the back of his saddle. Sherry’s a good traveller,
and will stand a little shaking; and what would one do without it in
such a place as this, where it is water in the desert, and manna in the
wilderness?’
Mr. Forester thanked them very warmly for their good wishes and active
exertions. The humble dinner of himself and his party was soon
despatched; after which, the Major placed the two little kegs on the
table and said, ‘They were both filled to-day; so, you see, there is no
lack of the good creature to keep us all alive till morning, and then we
shall part again in search of Miss Melincourt, the jewel! for there is
not such another on the face of the earth. Och!’ continued the Major, as
he poured the wine from one of the kegs into a brown jug; for the house
could not afford them a decanter, and some little ale tumblers supplied
the place of wine-glasses,—‘Och! the ould jug that never held anything
better than sour ale: how proud he must feel of being filled to the brim
with sparkling sherry, for the first and last time in the course of his
life!’
CHAPTER XXX
THE PAPER-MILL
Taking leave of Mr. O’Scarum and Major O’Dogskin, they continued their
wandering as choice or chance directed: sometimes penetrating into the
most sequestered valleys; sometimes returning into the principal roads,
and investigating the most populous districts. Passing through the town
of Gullgudgeon, they found an immense crowd assembled in a state of
extreme confusion, exhibiting every symptom of hurry, anxiety,
astonishment, and dismay. They stopped to inquire the cause of the
tumult, and found it to proceed from the sudden explosion of a
paper-mill, in other words, the stoppage of the country bank of
Messieurs Smokeshadow, Airbubble, Hopthetwig, and Company. Farmers,
bumpkins, artisans, mechanics, tradesmen of all descriptions, the
innkeeper, the lawyer, the doctor, and the parson; soldiers from the
adjoining barracks, and fishermen from the neighbouring coast, with
their shrill-voiced and masculine wives, rolled in one mass, like a
stormy wave, around a little shop, of which the shutters were closed,
with the word BANK in golden letters over the door, and a large board on
the central shutter, notifying that ‘Messieurs Smokeshadow, Airbubble,
Hopthetwig, and Company had found themselves under the disagreeable
necessity of suspending their payments’; in plain English, had found it
expedient to fly by night, leaving all the machinery of their mill, and
all the treasures of their mine, that is to say, several reams of paper,
half a dozen account-books, a desk, a joint-stool, and inkstand, a bunch
of quills, and a copper-plate, to satisfy the claims of the distracted
multitude, who were shoaling in from all quarters, with _promises to
pay_, of the said Smokeshadow, Airbubble, Hopthetwig, and Company, to
the amount of a hundred thousand pounds.
Mr. Fax addressed himself for an explanation of particulars to a plump
and portly divine, who was standing at a little distance from the rest
of the crowd, and whose countenance exhibited no symptoms of the rage,
grief, and despair which were depicted on the physiognomies of his
dearly beloved brethren of the town of Gullgudgeon.
‘You seem, sir,’ said Mr. Fax, ‘to bear the general calamity with
Christian resignation.’
‘I do, sir,’ said the reverend gentleman, ‘and for a very orthodox
reason—I have none of their notes—not I. I was obliged to take them now
and then against my will, but I always sent them off to town, and got
cash for them directly.’
‘You mean to say,’ said Mr. Forester, ‘you got a Threadneedle Street
note for them.’
‘To be sure, sir,’ said the divine, ‘and that is the same thing as cash.
There is a Jacobin rascal in this town, who says it is a bad sign when
the children die before the parent, and that a day of reckoning must
come sooner or later for the old lady as well as for her daughters; but
myself and my brother magistrates have taken measures for him, and shall
soon make the town of Gullgudgeon too hot to hold him, as sure as my
name is Peppertoast.’
‘You seriously think, sir,’ said Mr. Fax, ‘that his opinion is false?’
‘Sir,’ said the reverend gentleman, somewhat nettled, ‘I do not know
what right any one can have to ask a man of my cloth what he seriously
thinks, when all that the world has to do with is what he seriously
says.’
‘Then you seriously say it, sir?’ said Mr. Fax.
‘I do, sir,’ said the divine; ‘and for this very orthodox reason, that
the system of paper-money is inseparably interwoven with the present
order of things, and the present order of things I have made up my mind
to stick by, precisely as long as it lasts.’
‘_And no longer?_’ said Mr. Fax.
‘I am no fool, sir,’ said the divine.
‘But, sir,’ said Mr. Fax, ‘as you seem to have perceived the instability
of what is called (like _lucus a non lucendo_) the _firm_ of
Smokeshadow, Airbubble, Hopthetwig, and Company, why did not you warn
your flock of the impending danger?’
‘Sir,’ said the reverend gentleman, ‘I dined every week with one of the
partners.’
Mr. Forester took notice of an elderly woman who was sitting with a
small handful of dirty paper, weeping bitterly on the step of a door.
‘Forgive my intrusion,’ said he; ‘I need not ask you why you weep; the
cause is in your hand.’—‘Ah, sir!’ said the poor woman, who could hardly
speak for sobbing, ‘all the savings of twenty years taken from me in a
moment; and my poor boy, when he comes home from sea——’ She could say no
more: grief choked her utterance.
‘Good God!’ said Mr. Fax, ‘did you lay by your savings in country
paper?’
‘O sir!’ said the poor woman, ‘how was I to know that one piece of paper
was not as good as another? And everybody said that the firm of
Smokeshadow, Airbubble, Hopthetwig, and Company was as good as the Bank
of England.’ She then unfolded one of the _promises to pay_, and fell to
weeping more bitterly than ever. Mr. Forester comforted her as well as
he could; but he found the purchasing of one or two of her notes much
more efficacious than all the lessons of his philosophy.
‘This is all your fault,’ said a fisherman to his wife; ‘you would be
hoarding and hoarding, and stinting me of my drop of comfort when I came
in after a hard day’s work, tossed and beaten, and wet through with salt
water, and there’s what we’ve got by it.’
‘It was all your fault,’ retorted the wife; ‘when we had scraped
together twenty as pretty golden guineas as ever laid in a chest, you
would sell ’em, so you would, for twenty-seven pounds of Mr.
Smokeshadow’s paper; _and now you see the difference_.’
‘Here is an illustration,’ said Mr. Fax to Mr. Forester, ‘of the old
maxim of _experience teaching wisdom_, or, as Homer expresses it, ῥεχθεν
δε τε νηπιος ἐγνω.’
‘_We ought now to be convinced, if not before_,’ said Mr. Forester,
‘_that what Plato has said is strictly true, that there will be no end
of human misery till governors become philosophers or philosophers
governors_; and that all the evils which this country suffers, and, I
fear, will suffer to a much greater extent, from the bursting of this
fatal bubble of paper-money—this chimerical symbol of imaginary
riches—_are owing to the want of philosophy and true political wisdom in
our rulers, by which they might have seen things in their causes, not
felt them only in their effects, as even the most vulgar man does: and
by which foresight, all the mischiefs that are befalling us might have
been prevented_.’[77]
‘Very hard,’ said an old soldier, ‘very, very hard:—a poor five pounds,
laid up for a rainy day,—hardly got, and closely kept—very, very hard.’
‘Poor man!’ said Mr. Forester, who was interested in the soldier’s
physiognomy, ‘let me repair your loss. Here is better paper for you; but
get gold and silver for it as soon as you can.’
‘God bless your honour,’ said the soldier, ‘and send as much power as
goodwill to all such generous souls. Many is the worthy heart that this
day’s work will break, and here is more damage than one man can mend.
God bless your honour.’
A respectable-looking female approached the crowd, and addressing
herself to Mr. Fax, who seemed most at leisure to her, asked him what
chance there seemed to be for the creditors of Messieurs Smokeshadow,
Airbubble, Hopthetwig, and Company. ‘By what I can gather from the
people around me,’ said Mr. Fax, ‘none whatever.’ The lady was in great
distress at this intelligence, and said they were her bankers, and it
was the second misfortune of the kind that had happened to her. Mr. Fax
expressed his astonishment that she should have been twice the victim of
the system of paper-coinage, which seemed to contradict the old adage
about a burnt child; and said it was for his part astonishing to him how
any human being could be so deluded after the perils of the system had
been so clearly pointed out, and amongst other things, in a pamphlet of
his own on the Insubstantiality of Smoke. ‘Indeed,’ she said, ‘she had
something better to do than to trouble herself about politics, and
wondered he should insult her in her distress by talking of such stuff
to her.’
‘Was ever such infatuation?’ said Mr. Fax, as the lady turned away.
‘This is one of those persons who choose to walk blindfold on the edge
of a precipice, because it is too much trouble to see, and quarrel with
their best friends for requesting them to make use of their eyes. There
are many such, who think they have no business with politics; but they
find to their cost that politics will have business with them.’
‘A curse light on all kite-flyers!’ vociferated a sturdy farmer. ‘Od
rabbit me, here be a bundle o’ trash, measters! not worth a
voive-and-zixpenny dollar all together. This comes o’ peaper-mills. “I
promise to pay,” ecod! O the good old days o’ goulden guineas, when I
used to ride whoame vrom market wi’ a great heavy bag in my pocket; and
when I whopped it down on the old oak teable, it used to make zuch a
zound as did one’s heart good to hear it. No _promise to pay_ then. Now
a man may eat his whole vortin in a zandwich, or zet vire to it in a
vardin rushlight. Promise to pay!—the lying rascals, they never meant to
pay: they knew all the while they had no effects to pay; but zuch a
pretty, zmooth-spoken, palavering zet o’ fellers! why, Lord bless you!
they’d ha’ made you believe black was white! and though you could never
get anything of ’em but one o’ their own dirty bits o’ peaper in change
vor another, they made it out as clear as daylight that they were as
rich as zo many Jews. Ecod! and we were all vools enough to believe ’em,
and now mark the end o’t.’
‘Yes, father,’ said a young fop at his elbow, ‘all blown, curse me!’
‘Ees,’ said the farmer, ‘and thee beest blown, and thee mun zell thy
hunter, and turn to the plough-tail; and thy zisters mun churn butter,
and milk the cows, instead of jingling penny-vorties, and dancing at
race-balls wi’ squires. We mun be old English varmers again, and none o’
your voine high-flying promise-to-pay gentlevolks. There they be—spell
’em: _I promise to pay to Mr. Gregory Gas, or bearer, on demand, the zum
o’ voive pounds. Gullgudgeon Bank, April the virst. Vor Zmokeshadow,
Airbubble, Zelf, and Company, Henry Hopthetwig. Entered, William
Walkoff._ And there be their coat o’ arms: two blacksmiths blowing a
vorge, wi’ the chimney vor a crest, and a wreath o’ smoke coming out
o’t; and the motto, ‘YOU CAN’T CATCH A BOWLFUL.’ Od rabbit me! here be a
whole handvul of ’em, and I’ll zell ’em all vor a voive-and-zixpenny
dollar.’
The ‘Jacobin rascal,’ of whom the reverend gentleman had spoken,
happened to be at the farmer’s elbow. ‘I told you how it would be,’ said
he, ‘Master Sheepshead, many years ago; and I remember you wanted to put
me in the stocks for my trouble.’
‘Why, I believe I did, Mr. Lookout,’ said the farmer, with a very
penitent face; ‘but if you’ll call on me zome day we’ll drown old
grudges in a jug o’ ale, and light our poipes wi’ the promises o’
Measter Hopthetwig and his gang.’
‘Not with all of them I entreat you,’ said Mr. Lookout. ‘I hope you will
have one of them framed and glazed, and suspended over your chimney, as
a warning to your children, and your children’s children for ever,
against “_the blessed comforts of paper-money_.”’
‘Why, Lord love you, Measter Lookout,’ said the farmer, ‘we shall ha’
nothing but peaper-money still, you zee, only vrom another mill like.’
‘As to that, Master Sheepshead,’ replied Mr. Lookout, ‘I will only say
to you in your own phrase, MARK THE END O’T.’
‘Do you hear him?’ said the Rev. Mr. Peppertoast; ‘do you hear the
Jacobin rascal? Do you hear the libellous, seditious, factious,
levelling, revolutionary, republican, democratical, atheistical
villain?’
CHAPTER XXXI
CIMMERIAN LODGE
After a walk of some miles from the town of Gullgudgeon, where no
information was to be obtained of Anthelia, their path wound along
the shores of a lonely lake, embosomed in dark pine-groves and
precipitous rocks. As they passed near a small creek, they
observed a gentleman just stepping into a boat, who paused and
looked up at the sound of their approximation; and Mr. Fax
immediately recognised the poeticopolitical, rhapsodicoprosaical,
deisidaemoniacoparadoxographical, pseudolatreiological,
transcendental meteorosophist, Moley Mystic, Esquire, of Cimmerian
Lodge. This gentleman’s Christian name, according to his own
account, was improperly spelt with an _e_, and was in truth
nothing more nor less than
That Moly,
Which Hermes erst to wise Ulysses gave;
and which was, in the mind of Homer, _a pure anticipated cognition_ of
the system of Kantian metaphysics, or grand transcendental science of
the _luminous obscure_; for it had a _dark root_,[78] which was mystery;
and _a white flower_, which was abstract truth: _it was called Moly by
the gods_, who then kept it to themselves; and was _difficult to be dug
up by mortal men_, having, in fact, lain _perdu_ in subterranean
darkness till the immortal Kant dug for it _under the stone of doubt_,
and produced it to the astonished world as the _root of human science_.
Other persons, however, derived his first name differently; and
maintained that the _e_ in it showed it very clearly to be a corruption
of _Mole-eye_, it being the opinion of some naturalists that the _mole_
has _eyes_, which it can withdraw or project at pleasure, implying a
faculty of wilful blindness, most happily characteristic of a
transcendental metaphysician; since, according to the old proverb, _None
are so blind as those who won’t see_. But be that as it may, Moley
Mystic was his name, and Cimmerian Lodge was his dwelling.
Mr. Mystic invited Mr. Fax and his friends to step with him into the
boat, and cross over his lake, which he called the _Ocean of Deceitful
Form_, to the _Island of Pure Intelligence_, on which Cimmerian Lodge
was situated: promising to give them a great treat in looking over his
grounds, which he had laid out according to the _topography of the human
mind_; and to enlighten them, through the medium of ‘darkness visible,’
with an opticothaumaturgical process of transcendentalising a
_cylindrical mirror_, which should teach them the difference between
_objective_ and _subjective reality_.[79] Mr. Forester was unwilling to
remit his search, even for a few hours; but Mr. Fax observing that great
part of the day was gone, and that Cimmerian Lodge was very remote from
the human world; so that if they did not avail themselves of Mr.
Mystic’s hospitality, they should probably be reduced to the necessity
of passing the night among the rocks, _sub Jove frigido_, which he did
not think very inviting, Mr. Forester complied; and with Mr. Fax and Sir
Oran Haut-ton stepped into the boat. The reader who is deficient in
_taste for the bombast_, and is no _admirer of the obscure_, may as well
wait on the shore till they return. But we must not enter the regions of
mystery without an Orphic invocation.
ὙΠΝΕ ἀναξ, καλεω δε μολειν κεχαρηοτα ΜΥΣΤΑΙΣ·
και δε, μακαρ, λιτομαι, Tανυδιπτερε, οὐλε ὈΝΕΙΡΕ·
και ΝΕΦΕΛΑΣ καλεω, δροσοειμονας, ἠεροπλαγκτους·
ΝΥΚΤΑ τε πρεσβιστην, πολυηρατον ὈΡΓΙΟΦΑΝΤΑΙΣ,
ΝΥΚΤΕΡΙΟΥΣ τε ΘΕΟΥΣ, ὑπο κευθεδιν οἰκι έχοντας,
ἀντρῳ ἐν ἠεροεντι, παρα ΣΤΥΓΟΣ ἱερον ὑδωρ·
ΠΡΩΤΕΙ συν πολυβουλῳ, ὁν ὈΛΒΟΔΟΤΗΝ[80] καλεουσιν.
Ο sovereign Sleep! in whose papaverous glen
Dwell the dark Muses of Cimmerian men!
O Power of Dreams! whose dusky pinions shed
Primaeval chaos on the slumberer’s head!
Ye misty Clouds! amid whose folds sublime
Blind Faith invokes the Ghost of Feudal Time!
And thou, thick night! beneath whose mantle rove
The Phantom Powers of Subterranean Jove!
Arise, propitious to the mystic strain,
From Lethe’s flood, and Zeal’s Tartarian fane;
Where Freedom’s Shade, ‘mid Stygian vapours damp,
Sits, cold and pale, by Truth’s extinguished lamp;
While Cowls and Crowns portentous orgies hold,
And tuneful Proteus seals his eyes with gold!
They had scarcely left the shore when they were involved in a fog of
unprecedented density, so that they could not see one another; but they
heard the dash of Mr. Mystic’s oars, and were consoled by his assurances
that he could not miss his way in a state of the atmosphere so
consentaneous to his peculiar mode of vision; for that, though, in
navigating his little skiff on the _Ocean of Deceitful Form_, he had
very often wandered wide and far from the _Island of Pure Intelligence_,
yet this had always happened when he went with his eyes open, in broad
daylight; but that he had soon found the means of obviating this little
inconvenience, by always keeping his eyes close shut whenever the sun
had the impertinence to shine upon him.
He immediately added that he would take the opportunity of making a
remark perfectly in point: ‘that Experience was a Cyclops, with his eye
in the back of his head’; and when Mr. Fax remarked that he did not see
the connection, Mr. Mystic said he was very glad to hear it; for he
should be sorry if any one but himself could see the connection of his
ideas, as he arranged his thoughts _on a new principle_.
They went steadily on through the dense and heavy air, over waters that
slumbered like the Stygian pool; a chorus of frogs, that seemed as much
delighted with their own melody as if they had been an oligarchy of
poetical critics, regaling them all the way with the Aristophanic
symphony of BREK-EK-EK-EX! KO-AX! KO-AX![81] till the boat fixed its
keel in the _Island of Pure Intelligence_; and Mr. Mystic landed his
party, as Charon did Aeneas and the Sibyl, in a bed of weeds and
mud:[82] after floundering in which for some time, from losing their
guide in the fog, they were cheered by the sound of his voice from
above, and scrambling up the bank, found themselves on a hard and barren
rock; and, still following the sound of Mr. Mystic’s voice, arrived at
Cimmerian Lodge.
The fog had penetrated into all the apartments: there was fog in the
hall, fog in the parlour, fog on the staircases, fog in the bedrooms;
The fog was here, the fog was there,
The fog was all around.
It was a little rarefied in the kitchen, by virtue of the enormous fire;
so far, at least, that the red face of the cook shone through it, as
they passed the kitchen door, like the disk of the rising moon through
the vapours of an autumnal river: but to make amends for this, it was
condensed almost into solidity in the library, where the voice of their
invisible guide bade them welcome to the _adytum_ of the LUMINOUS
OBSCURE.
Mr. Mystic now produced what he called his _synthetical torch_, and
requested them to follow him, and look over his grounds. Mr. Fax said it
was perfectly useless to attempt it in such a state of the atmosphere;
but Mr. Mystic protested that it was the only state of the atmosphere in
which they could be seen to advantage; as daylight and sunshine utterly
destroyed their beauty.
They followed the ‘darkness visible’ of the _synthetical torch_, which,
according to Mr. Mystic, _shed around it the rays of transcendental
illumination_; and he continued to march before them, walking, and
talking, and pointing out innumerable images of singularly nubilous
beauty, though Mr. Forester and Mr. Fax both declared they could see
nothing but the fog and ‘_la pale lueur du magique flambeau_‘: till Mr.
Mystic observing that they were now in a _Spontaneity free from Time or
Space_, and at the point of _Absolute Limitation_, Mr. Fax said he was
very glad to hear it; for in that case they could go no farther. Mr.
Mystic observed that they must go farther; for they were entangled in a
maze, from which they would never be able to extricate themselves
without his assistance; and he must take the liberty to tell them that
_the categories of modality were connected into the idea of absolute
necessity_. As this was spoken in a high tone, they took it to be meant
for a reprimand; which carried the more weight as it was the less
understood. At length, after floundering on another half-hour, the fog
still thicker and thicker, and the torch still dimmer and dimmer, they
found themselves once more in Cimmerian Lodge.
[Illustration: _Mr. Mystic observed that they must go farther._]
Mr. Mystic asked them how they liked his grounds, and they both repeated
they had seen nothing of them: on which he flew into a rage and called
them _empirical psychologists_, and _slaves of definition, induction,
and analysis_, which he intended for terms of abuse, but which were not
taken for such by the persons to whom he addressed them.
Recovering his temper, he observed that it was nearly the hour of
dinner: and as they did not think it worth while to be angry with him,
they contented themselves with requesting that they might dine in the
kitchen, which seemed to be the only spot on the _Island of Pure
Intelligence_ in which there was a glimmer of light.
Mr. Mystic remarked that he thought this very bad taste, but that he
should have no objection if the cook would consent; who, he observed,
had paramount dominion over that important division of the _Island of
Pure Intelligence_. The cook, with a little murmuring, consented for
once to evacuate her citadel as soon as the dinner was on table;
entering, however, a protest, that this infringement on her privileges
should not be pleaded as a precedent.
Mr. Fax was afraid that Mr. Mystic would treat them as Lord Peter
treated his brothers; that he would put nothing on the table, and regale
them with a dissertation on the _pure idea of absolute substance_; but
in this he was agreeably disappointed; for the _anticipated cognition_
of a good dinner very soon smoked before them, in the _relation of
determinate coexistence_; and the _objective phenomenon_ of some
superexcellent Madeira quickly put the whole party in perfect good
humour. It appeared, indeed, to have a diffusive quality of occult and
mysterious virtue; for, with every glass they drank, the fog grew thin,
till by the time they had taken off four bottles among them, it had
totally disappeared.
Mr. Mystic now prevailed on them to follow him to the library, where
they found a blazing fire and a four-branched gas-lamp, shedding a much
brighter radiance than that of the _synthetical torch_. He said he had
been obliged to light this lamp, as it seemed they could not see by the
usual illumination of Cimmerian Lodge. The brilliancy of the gas-lights
he much disapproved; but he thought it would be very unbecoming in a
transcendental philosopher to employ any other material for a purpose to
which _smoke_ was applicable. Mr. Fax said he should have thought, on
the contrary, that _ex fumo dare lucem_ would have been, of all things,
the most repugnant to his principles; and Mr. Mystic replied that it had
not struck him so before, but that Mr. Fax’s view of the subject ‘was
exquisitely dusky and fuliginous’: this being his usual mode of
expressing approbation, instead of the common phraseology of _bright
thoughts_ and _luminous ideas_, which were equally abhorrent to him both
in theory and practice. However, he said, there the light was, for their
benefit, and not for his: and as other men’s light was his darkness, he
should put on a pair of spectacles of smoked glass, which no one could
see through but himself. Having put on his spectacles, he undrew a black
curtain, discovered a _cylindrical mirror_, and placed a sphere before
it with great solemnity. ‘This sphere,’ said he, ‘is an oblong spheroid
in the perception of the cylindrical mirror: as long as the mirror
thought that the object of his perception was the real external oblong
spheroid, he was a mere _empirical philosopher_; but he has grown wiser
since he has been in my library; and by reflecting very deeply on the
degree in which the manner of his construction might influence the forms
of his perception, has taken a very opaque and tenebricose view of how
much of the spheroidical perception belongs to the _object_, which is
the sphere, and how much to the _subject_, which is himself, in his
quality of _cylindrical mirror_. He has thus discovered the difference
between _objective_ and _subjective reality_: and this point of view is
_transcendentalism_.’
‘A very dusky and fuliginous speculation, indeed,’ said Mr. Fax,
complimenting Mr. Mystic in his own phrase.
Tea and coffee were brought in. ‘I divide my day,’ said Mr. Mystic, ‘_on
a new principle_: I am always poetical at breakfast, moral at luncheon,
metaphysical at dinner, and political at tea. Now you shall know my
opinion of the hopes of the world.—General discontent shall be the basis
of public resignation![83] The materials of political gloom will build
the steadfast frame of hope.[84] The main point is to get rid of
analytical reason, which is experimental and practical, and live only by
faith,[85] which is synthetical and oracular. The contradictory
interests of ten millions may neutralise each other.[86] But the spirit
of Antichrist is abroad:[87]—the people read!—nay, they think!! The
people read and think!!! The public, the public in general, the swinish
multitude, the many-headed monster, actually reads and thinks!!!![88]
Horrible in thought, but in fact most horrible! Science classifies
flowers. Can it make them bloom where it has placed them in its
classification![89] No. Therefore flowers ought not to be classified.
This is transcendental logic. Ha! in that cylindrical mirror I see three
shadowy forms:—dimly I see them through the smoked glass of my
spectacles. Who art thou?—MYSTERY!—I hail thee! Who art thou?—JARGON—I
love thee! Who art thou?—SUPERSTITION!—I worship thee! Hail,
transcendental TRIAD!’
Mr. Fax cut short the thread of his eloquence by saying he would trouble
him for the cream-jug.
[Illustration: _Sir Oran Haut-ton ascending the stairs with the great
rain-water tub._]
Mr. Mystic began again, and talked for three hours without intermission,
except that he paused a moment on the entrance of sandwiches and
Madeira. His visitors sipped his wine in silence till he had fairly
talked himself hoarse. Neither Mr. Fax nor Mr. Forester replied to his
paradoxes; for to what end, they thought, should they attempt to answer
what few would hear and none would understand?
It was now time to retire, and Mr. Mystic showed his guests to the doors
of their respective apartments, in each of which a gas-light was
burning, and ascended another flight of stairs to his own dormitory,
with a little twinkling taper in his hand. Mr. Forester and Mr. Fax
stayed a few minutes on the landing-place, to have a word of
consultation before they parted for the night. Mr. Mystic gained the
door of his apartment—turned the handle of the lock—and had just
advanced one step—when the whole interior of the chamber became suddenly
sheeted with fire: a tremendous explosion followed; and he was
precipitated to the foot of the stairs in _the smallest conceivable
fraction of the infinite divisibility of time_.
Mr. Forester picked him up, and found him not much hurt, only a little
singed, and very much frightened. But the whole interior of the
apartment continued to blaze. Mr. Forester and Sir Oran Haut-ton ran for
water: Mr. Fax rang the nearest bell: Mr. Mystic vociferated ‘Fire!’
with singular energy: the servants ran about half-undressed: pails,
buckets, and pitchers, were in active requisition; till Sir Oran
Haut-ton ascending the stairs with the great rain-water tub, containing
one hundred and eight gallons of water,[90] threw the whole contents on
the flames with one sweep of his powerful arm.
The fire being extinguished, it remained to ascertain its cause. It
appeared that the gas-tube in Mr. Mystic’s chamber had been left
unstopped, and the gas evolving without combustion (the apartment being
perfectly air-tight), had condensed into a mass, which, on the approach
of Mr. Mystic’s taper, instantly ignited, blowing the transcendentalist
downstairs, and setting fire to his curtains and furniture.
Mr. Mystic, as soon as he recovered from his panic, began to bewail the
catastrophe: not so much, he said, for itself, as because such an event
in Cimmerian Lodge was an infallible omen of evil—a type and symbol of
an approaching period of public light—when the smoke of metaphysical
mystery, and the vapours of ancient superstition, which he had done all
that in him lay to consolidate in the spirit of man, would explode at
the touch of analytical reason, leaving nothing but the plain common
sense matter-of-fact of moral and political truth—a day that he
earnestly hoped he might never live to see.
‘Certainly,’ said Mr. Forester, ‘it is a very bad omen for all who make
it their study to darken the human understanding, when one of the
pillars of their party _is blown up by his own smoke_; but the symbol,
as you call it, may operate as a warning to the apostles of
superstitious chimaera and political fraud, that it is very possible
_for smoke to be too thick_; and that, in condensing in the human mind
the vapours of ignorance and delusion, they are only compressing a body
of inflammable gas, of which the explosion will be fatal in precise
proportion to its density.’
CHAPTER XXXII
THE DESERTED MANSION
They rose, as usual, before daylight, that they might pursue their
perlustration; and, on descending, found Mr. Mystic awaiting them at a
table covered with a sumptuous apparatus of tea and coffee, a pyramid of
hot rolls, and a variety of cold provision. Cimmerian Lodge, he said,
was famous for its breed of tame geese, and he could recommend the cold
one on the table as one of his own training. The breakfast being
despatched, he rowed them over the _Ocean of Deceitful Form_ before the
sun rose to disturb his navigation.
After walking some miles, a ruined mansion at the end of an ancient
avenue of elms attracted their attention. As they made a point of
leaving no place unexamined, they walked up to it. There was an air of
melancholy grandeur in its loneliness and desolation which interested
them to know its history. The briers that choked the court, the weeds
that grew from the fissures of the walls and on the ledges of the
windows, the fractured glass, the half-fallen door, the silent and
motionless clock, the steps worn by the tread of other years, the total
silence of the scene of ancient hospitality, broken only by the voices
of the rooks whose nests were in the elms, all carried back the mind to
the years that were gone. There was a sun-dial in the centre of the
court: the sun shone on the brazen plate, and the shadow of the index
fell on the line of noon. ‘Nothing impresses me more,’ said Mr.
Forester, ‘in a ruin of this kind, than the contrast between the
sun-dial and the clock, which I have frequently observed. This contrast
I once made the basis of a little poem, which the similarity of
circumstances induces me to repeat to you though you are no votary of
the spirit of rhyme.’
THE SUN-DIAL
The ivy o’er the mouldering wall
Spreads like a tree, the growth of years:
The wild wind through the doorless hall
A melancholy music rears,
A solitary voice, that sighs,
O’er man’s forgotten pageantries.
Above the central gate, the clock,
Through clustering ivy dimly seen,
Seems, like the ghost of Time, to mock
The wrecks of power that once has been.
The hands are rusted on its face;
Even where they ceased, in years gone by,
To keep the flying moments’ pace:
Fixing, in Fancy’s thoughtful eye,
A point of ages passed away,
A speck of time, that owns no tie
With aught that lives and breathes to-day.
But ‘mid the rank and towering grass,
Where breezes wave, in mournful sport,
The weeds that choke the ruined court,
The careless hours, that circling pass,
Still trace upon the dialled brass
The shade of their unvarying way:
And evermore, with every ray
That breaks the clouds and gilds the air,
Time’s stealthy steps are imaged there:
Even as the long-revolving years
In self-reflecting circles flow,
From the first bud the hedgerow bears,
To wintry nature’s robe of snow.
The changeful forms of mortal things
Decay and pass; and art and power
Oppose in vain the doom that flings
Oblivion on their closing hour;
While still, to every woodland vale,
New blooms, new fruits, the seasons bring,
For other eyes and lips to hail
With looks and sounds of welcoming:
As where some stream light-eddying roves
By sunny meads and shadowy groves,
Wave following wave departs for ever,
But still flows on the eternal river.
[Illustration: _Mr. Forester made inquiries of him._]
An old man approached them, in whom they observed that look of healthy
and cheerful antiquity which showed that time only, and neither pain nor
sickness, had traced wrinkles on his cheek. Mr. Forester made inquiries
of him on the object he had most at heart: but the old man could give no
gleam of light to guide his steps. Mr. Fax then asked some questions
concerning the mansion before them.
‘Ah, zur!’ said the old man, ‘this be the zeat o’ Squire Openhand: but
he doan’t live here now; the house be growed too large vor’n, as one may
zay. I remember un playing about here on the grass-plot, when he was
half as high as the sun-dial poast, as if it was but yesterday. The days
that I ha’ zeed here! Rare doings there used to be wi’ the house vull o’
gentlevolks zometimes to be zure: but what he loiked best was, to zee a
merry-making of all his tenants, round the great oak that stands there
in the large vield by himzelf. He used to zay if there was anything he
could not abide it was the zight of a zorrowful feace; and he was always
prying about to voind one: and if he did voind one, Lord bless you! it
was not a zorrowful feace long, if it was anything that he could mend.
Zo he lived to the length of his line, as the zaying is; and when times
grew worse, it was a hard matter to draw in; howsomdever he did; and
when the tax-gatherers came every year vor more and more, and the
peaper-money flew about, buying up everything in the neighbourhood; and
every vifty pounds he got in peaper wasn’t worth, as he toald me, vorty
pounds o’ real money, why there was every year fewer horses in his
steable, and less wine on his board: and every now and then came a queer
zort o’ chap dropped out o’ the sky like—a vundholder he called un—and
bought a bit of ground vor a handvul o’ peaper, and built a cottage
horny, as they call it—there be one there on the hill-zide—and had
nothing to do wi’ the country people, nor the country people wi’ he:
nothing in the world to do, as we could zee, but to eat and drink, and
make little bits o’ shrubberies, o’ quashies, and brutuses, and zelies,
and cubies, and filigrees, and ruddydunderums, instead o’ the oak
plantations the old landlords used to plant; and the Squire could never
abide the zight o’ one o’ they gimcrack boxes; and all the while he was
nailing up a window or two every year, and his horses were going one
way, and his dogs another, and his old zervants were zent away, one by
one, wi’ heavy hearts, poor souls, and at last it came that he could not
get half his rents, and zome o’ his tenants went to the workhouse, and
others ran away, because o’ the poor-rates, and everything went to zixes
and zevens, and I used to meet the Squire in his walks, and think to
myzelf it was very hard that he who could not bear to zee a zorrowful
feace should have zuch a zorrowful one of his own; and he used to zay to
me whenever I met un: “All this comes o’ peaper-money, Measter
Hawthorn.” Zo the upshot was, he could not afford any longer to live in
his own great house, where his vorevathers had lived out o’ memory of
man, and went to zome outlandish place wi’ his vamily to live, as he
said, in much zuch a box as that gimcrack thing on the hill.’
‘You have told us a very melancholy story,’ said Mr. Forester; ‘but at
present, I fear, a very common one, and one of which, if the present
system continue, every succeeding year will multiply examples.’
‘Ah, zur!’ said the old man, ‘there was them as vorezeed it long ago,
and voretold it too, up in the great house in Lunnon, where they zettles
the affairs o’ the nation: a pretty of zettling it be, to my thinking,
to vill the country wi’ tax-gatherers and vundholders, and peaper-money
men, that turns all the old families out o’ the country, and zends their
tenants to the workhouse: but there was them as vorezeed and voretold it
too, but nobody minded ’em then: they begins to mind ’em now.’
‘But how do you manage in these times?’ said Mr. Forester.
‘I lives, measter,’ said the old man, ‘and pretty well too, vor myself.
I had a little vreehold varm o’ my own, that has been in my vamily zeven
hundred year, and we woan’t part wi’ it, I promise you, vor all the
tax-collectors and vundholders in England. But my zon was never none o’
your gentleman varmers, none a’ your reacing and hunting bucks, that
it’s a shame vor a honest varmer to be: he always zet his shoulder to
the wheel—alway a-vield by peep o’ day: zo now I be old, I’ve given up
the varm to him; and that I wouldn’t ha’ done to the best man in all the
county bezide: but he’s my son, and I loves un. Zo I walks about the
vields all day, and sits all the evening in the chimney-corner wi’ an
old neighbour or zo, and a jug o’ ale, and talks over old times, when
the Openhands, and zuch as they, could afford to live in the homes o’
their vorevathers. It be a bad state o’ things, my measters, and must
come to a bad end, zooner or later; but it’ll last my time.’
‘You are not in the last stage of a consumption, are you, honest
friend?’ said Mr. Fax.
‘Lord love you, no, measter,’ said the old farmer, rather frightened;
‘do I look zo?’
‘No,’ said Mr. Fax; ‘but you talked so.’
‘Ah! thee beest a wag, I zee,’ said the farmer. ‘Things be in a
conzumption zure enough, but they’ll last my time vor all that; and if
they doan’t it’s no fault o’ mine; and I’se no money in the vunds, nor
no sinecure pleace, zo I eats my beefsteak and drinks my ale, and lets
the world slide.’
CHAPTER XXXIII
THE PHANTASM
The course of their perambulations brought them into the vicinity of
Melincourt, and they stopped at the Castle to inquire if any
intelligence had been obtained of Anthelia. The gate was opened to them
by old Peter Gray, who informed them that himself and the female
domestics were at that time the only inmates of the Castle, as the other
male domestics had gone off at the same time with Mr. Hippy in search of
their young mistress; and the Honourable Mrs. Pinmoney and Miss
Danaretta were gone to London, because of the opera being open.
Mr. Forester inquired of the manner of Anthelia’s disappearance. Old
Peter informed him that she had gone into her library as usual after
breakfast, and when the hour of dinner arrived she was missing. The
central window was open, as well as the little postern door of the
shrubbery that led into the dingle, the whole vicinity of which they had
examined, and had found the recent print of horses’ feet on a narrow
green road that skirted the other side of the glen; these traces they
had followed till they had totally lost them in a place where the road
became hard and rocky, and divided into several branches: the pursuers
had then separated into parties of two and three, and each party had
followed a different branch of the road, but they had found no clue to
guide them, and had hitherto been unsuccessful. He should not himself,
he said, have remained inactive, but Mr. Hippy had insisted on his
staying to take care of the Castle. He then observed that, as it was
growing late, he should humbly advise their continuing where they were
till morning. To this they assented, and he led the way to the library.
Everything in the library remained precisely in the place in which
Anthelia left it. Her chair was near the table, and the materials of
drawing were before it. The gloom of the winter evening, which was now
closing in, was deepened through the stained glass of the windows. The
moment the door was thrown open, Mr. Forester started, and threw himself
forward into the apartment towards Anthelia’s chair; but before he
reached it, he stopped, placed his hand before his eyes, and, turning
round, leaned for support on the arm of Mr. Fax. He recovered himself in
a few minutes, and sate down by the table. Peter Gray, after kindling
the fire, and lighting the Argand lamp that hung from the centre of the
apartment, went to give directions on the subject of dinner.
Mr. Forester observed, from the appearance of the drawing materials,
that they had been hastily left, and he saw that the last subject on
which Anthelia had been employed was a sketch of Redrose Abbey. He sate
with his head leaning on his hand, and his eyes fixed on the drawing in
perfect silence. Mr. Fax thought it best not to disturb his meditations,
and took up a volume that was lying open on the table, the last that
Anthelia had been reading. It was a posthumous work of the virtuous and
unfortunate Condorcet, in which that most amiable and sublime
enthusiast, contemplating human nature in the light of his own exalted
spirit, had delineated a beautiful vision of the future destinies of
mankind.[91]
Sir Oran Haut-ton kept his eyes fixed on the door with looks of anxious
impatience, and showed manifest and increasing disappointment at every
re-entrance of Old Peter, who at length summoned them to dinner.
Mr. Fax was not surprised that Mr. Forester had no appetite, but that
Sir Oran had lost his appeared to him extremely curious. The latter grew
more and more uneasy, rose from table, took a candle in his hand, and
wandered from room to room, searching every closet and corner in the
Castle, to the infinite amazement of Old Peter Gray, who followed him
everywhere, and became convinced that the poor gentleman was crazed for
love of his young mistress, who, he made no doubt, was the object of his
search; and the conviction was strengthened by the perfect inattention
of Sir Oran to all his assurances that his dear young lady was not in
any of those places which he searched so scrupulously. Sir Oran at
length, having left no corner of the habitable part of the Castle
unexamined, returned to the dining-room, and throwing himself into a
chair began to shed tears in great abundance.
Mr. Fax made his two disconsolate friends drink several glasses of
Madeira, by way of raising their spirits, and then asked Mr. Forester
what it was that had so affected him on their first entering the
library.
_Mr. Forester._ It was the form of Anthelia, in the place where I first
saw her, in that chair by the table. The vision was momentary, but,
while it lasted, had all the distinctness of reality.
_Mr. Fax._ This is no uncommon effect of the association of ideas when
external objects present themselves to us after an interval of absence,
in their remembered arrangement, with only one form wanting, and that
the dearest among them, to perfect the resemblance between the present
sensation and the recollected idea. A vivid imagination, more especially
when the nerves are weakened by anxiety and fatigue, will, under such
circumstances, complete the imperfect scene, by replacing for a moment
the one deficient form among those accustomed objects which had long
formed its accompaniments in the contemplation of memory. This single
mental principle will explain the greater number of _credible_ tales of
apparitions, and at the same time give a very satisfactory reason why a
particular spirit is usually found haunting a particular place.
_Mr. Forester._ Thus Petrarch’s beautiful pictures of the Spirit of
Laura on the banks of the Sorga are assuredly something more than the
mere fancies of the closet, and must have originated in that system of
mental connection, which, under peculiar circumstances, gives ideas the
force of sensations. Anxiety and fatigue are certainly great promoters
of the state of mind most favourable to such impressions.
[Illustration: _Sir Oran, throwing himself into a chair, began to shed
tears in great abundance._]
_Mr. Fax._ It was under the influence of such excitements that Brutus
saw the spirit of Caesar; and in similar states of feeling the phantoms
of poetry are usually supposed to be visible: the ghost of Banquo, for
example, and that of Patroclus. But this only holds true of the poets
who paint from nature; for their artificial imitators, when they wish to
call a spirit from the vasty deep, are not always so attentive to the
mental circumstances of the persons to whom they present it. In the
early periods of society, when apparitions form a portion of the general
creed; when the life of man is wandering, precarious, and turbulent;
when the uncultured wildness of the heath and the forest harmonises with
the chimaeras of superstition; and when there is not, as in later times,
a rooted principle of reason and knowledge, to weaken such perceptions
in their origin, and destroy the seeming reality of their subsequent
recollection, impressions of this nature will be more frequent, and will
be as much invested with the character of external existence, as the
scenes to which they are attached by the connecting power of the mind.
They will always be found with their own appropriate character of time,
and place, and circumstance. The ghost of the warrior will be seen on
the eve of battle by him who keeps his lonely watch near the blaze of
the nightly fire, and the spirit of the huntress maid will appear to her
lover when he pauses on the sunny heath, or rests in the moonlit cave.
CHAPTER XXXIV
THE CHURCHYARD
The next morning Mr. Forester determined on following the mountain road
on the other side of the dingle, of which Peter Gray had spoken: but
wishing first to make some inquiries of the Reverend Mr. Portpipe, they
walked to his vicarage, which was in a village at some distance. Just as
they reached it, the reverend gentleman emerged in haste, and seeing Mr.
Forester and his friends, said he was very sorry that he could not
attend to them just then, as he had a great press of business to dispose
of; namely, a christening, a marriage, and a funeral; but he would knock
them off as fast as he could, after which he should be perfectly at
their service, hoped they would wait in the vicarage till his return,
and observed he had good ale and a few bottles of London Particular. He
then left them to despatch his affairs in the church.
They preferred waiting in the churchyard. ‘A christening, a marriage,
and a funeral!’ said Mr. Forester. ‘With what indifference he runs
through the whole drama of human life, raises the curtain on its
commencement, superintends the most important and eventful action of its
progress, and drops the curtain on its close!’
_Mr. Fax._ Custom has rendered them all alike indifferent to him. In
every human pursuit and profession the routine of ordinary business
renders the mind indifferent to all the forms and objects of which that
routine is composed. The sexton ‘sings at grave-making’; the undertaker
walks with a solemn face before the coffin, because a solemn face is
part of his trade; but his heart is as light as if there were no funeral
at his heels: he is quietly conning over the items of his bill, or
thinking of the party in which he is to pass his evening; and the
reverend gentleman who concludes the process, and consigns to its last
receptacle the shell of extinguished intelligence, has his thoughts on
the wing of the sports of the field or the jovial board of the Squire.
[Illustration: _A great press of business to dispose of._]
_Mr. Forester._ Your observation is just. It is this hardening power of
custom that gives steadiness to the hand of the surgeon, firmness to the
voice of the criminal judge, coolness to the soldier ‘in the imminent
deadly breach,’ self-possession to the sailor in the rage of the
equinoctial storm. It is under this influence that the lawyer deals out
writs and executions as carelessly as he deals out cards at his evening
whist; that the gaoler turns the key with the same stern indifference on
unfortunate innocence as on hardened villainy; that the venal senator
votes away by piecemeal the liberties of his country; and that the
statesman sketches over the bottle his series of deliberate schemes for
the extinction of human freedom, the enchaining of human reason, and the
waste of human life.
_Mr. Fax._ Contemplate any of these men only in the sphere of their
routine, and you will think them utterly destitute of all human
sympathy. Make them change places with each other, and you will see
symptoms of natural feelings. Custom cannot kill the better feelings of
human nature: it merely lays them asleep.
_Mr. Forester._ You must acknowledge, then, at least, that their sleep
is very sound.
_Mr. Fax._ In most cases certainly as sound as that of Epimenides, or of
the seven sleepers of Ephesus. But these did wake at last, and,
therefore, according to Aristotle, they had always the capacity of
waking.
_Mr. Forester._ You must allow me to wait for a similar proof before I
admit such a capacity in respect to the feelings of some of the
characters we have mentioned. Yet I am no sceptic in human virtue.
_Mr. Fax._ You have no reason to be, with so much evidence before your
eyes of the excellence of the past generation, and I do not suppose the
present is much worse than its predecessors. Read the epitaphs around
you, and see what models and mirrors of all the social virtues have left
the examples of their shining light to guide the steps of their
posterity.
_Mr. Forester._ I observe the usual profusion of dutiful sons,
affectionate husbands, faithful friends, kind neighbours, and honest
men. These are the luxuriant harvest of every churchyard. But is it not
strange that even the fertility of fiction should be so circumscribed in
the variety of monumental panegyric? Yet a few words comprehend the
summary of all the moral duties of ordinary life. Their degrees and
diversities are like the shades of colour, that shun for the most part
the power of language: at all events, the nice distinctions and
combinations that give individuality to historical character scarcely
come within the limits of sepulchral inscription, which merely serves to
testify the regret of the survivors for one whose society was dear, and
whose faults are forgotten. For there is a feeling in the human mind,
that, in looking back on former scenes of intercourse with those who are
passed for ever beyond the limits of injury and resentment, gradually
destroys all the bitterness and heightens all the pleasures of the
remembrance; as, when we revert in fancy to the days of our childhood,
we scarcely find a vestige of their tears, pains, and disappointments,
and perceive only their fields, their flowers, and their sunshine, and
the smiles of our little associates.
_Mr. Fax._ The history of common life seems as circumscribed as its
moral attributes: for the most extensive information I can collect from
these gravestones is, that the parties married, lived in trouble, and
died of a conflict between a disease and a physician. I observe a last
request, which I suppose was very speedily complied with—that of a
tender husband to his loving wife not to weep for him long. If it be as
you say, that the faults of the dead are soon forgotten, yet the memory
of their virtues is not much longer lived; and I have often thought that
these words of Rabelais would furnish an appropriate inscription for
ninety-nine gravestones out of every hundred:—_Sa mémoire expira avecque
le son des cloches qui carillonèrent à son enterrement._
CHAPTER XXXV
THE RUSTIC WEDDING
The bride and bridegroom, with half a dozen of their friends, now
entered the churchyard. The bride, a strong, healthy-looking country
girl, was clinging to the arm of her lover, not with the light and
scarcely perceptible touch with which Miss Simper complies with the
request of Mr. Giggle, ‘that she will do him the honour to take his
arm,’ but with a cordial and unsophisticated pressure that would have
made such an arm as Mr. Giggle’s black and blue. The bridegroom, with a
pair of chubby cheeks, which in colour precisely rivalled his new
scarlet waistcoat, and his mouth expanded into a broad grin that
exhibited the total range of his teeth, advanced in a sort of step that
was half a walk and half a dance, as if the preconceived notion of the
requisite solemnity of demeanour were struggling with the natural
impulses of the overflowing joy of his heart.
Mr. Fax looked with great commiseration on this bridal pair, and
determined to ascertain if they had a clear notion of the evils that
awaited them in consequence of the rash step they were about to take. He
therefore accosted them with an observation that the Reverend Mr.
Portpipe was not at leisure, but would be in a few minutes. ‘In the
meantime,’ said he, ‘I stand here as the representative of general
reason, to ask if you have duly weighed the consequences of your present
proceeding.’
_The Bridegroom._ General Reason! I be’s no soger man, and bean’t
countable to no General whatzomecomedever. We bean’t under martial law,
be we? Voine times indeed if General Reason be to interpose between a
poor man and his sweetheart.
_Mr. Fax._ That is precisely the case which calls most loudly for such
an interposition.
_The Bridegroom._ If General Reason waits till I or Zukey calls loudly
vor’n, he’ll wait long enough. Woan’t he, Zukey?
_The Bride._ Ees, zure, Robin.
_Mr. Fax._ General reason, my friend, I assure you, has nothing to do
with martial law, nor with any other mode of arbitrary power, but with
authority that has truth for its foundation, benevolence for its end,
and the whole universe for its sphere of action.
_The Bridegroom_ (_scratching his head_). There be a mort o’ voine
words, but I zuppose you means to zay as how this General Reason be a
Methody preacher; but I be’s true earthy-ducks church, and zo be Zukey:
bean’t you, Zukey?
_The Bride._ Ees, zure, Robin.
_The Bridegroom._ And we has nothing to do wi’ General Reason neither on
us. Has we, Zukey?
_The Bride._ No, zure, Robin.
_Mr. Fax._ Well, my friend, be that as it may, you are going to be
married?
_The Bridegroom._ Why, I think zo, zur, wi’ General Reason’s leave.
Bean’t we, Zukey?
_The Bride._ Ees, zure, Robin.
_Mr. Fax._ And are you fully aware, my honest friend, what marriage is?
_The Bridegroom._ Vor zartin I be: Zukey and I ha’ got it by heart out
o’ t’ Book o’ Common Prayer. Ha’n’t we, Zukey? (_This time Susan did not
think proper to answer._) It be ordained that zuch persons as hav’n’t
the gift of——(_Susan gave him such a sudden and violent pinch on the
arm, that his speech ended in a roar_). Od rabbit me! that wur a
twinger! I’ll have my revenge, howzomecomedever. (_And he imprinted a
very emphatical kiss on the lips of his blushing bride that greatly
scandalised Mr. Fax._)
_Mr. Fax._ Do you know, that in all likelihood, in the course of six
years, you will have as many children?
_The Bridegroom._ The more the merrier, zur. Bean’t it, Zukey? (_Susan
was mute again._)
_Mr. Fax._ I hope it may prove so, my friend; but I fear you will find
the more the sadder. What are your occupations?
_The Bridegroom._ Anan, zur?
[Illustration: ‘_Do you know, that in all likelihood, in the course of
six years, you will have as many children?_’]
_Mr. Fax._ What do you do to get your living?
_The Bridegroom._ Works vor Varmer Brownstout: zows and reaps, threshes,
and goes to market wi’ corn and cattle, turns to plough-tail when hap
chances, cleans and feeds horses, hedges and ditches, fells timber,
gathers in t’ orchard, brews ale, and drinks it, and gets vourteen
shill’n’s a week for my trouble. And Zukey here ha’ laid up a mint o’
money: she wur dairymaid at Varmer Cheesecurd’s, and ha’ gotten vour
pounds zeventeen shill’n’s and ninepence in t’ old chest wi’ three vlat
locks and a padlock. Ha’n’t you, Zukey?
_The Bride._ Ees, zure, Robin.
_Mr. Fax._ It does not appear to me, my worthy friend, that your
fourteen shillings a week, even with Mrs. Susan’s consolidated fund of
four pounds seventeen shillings and ninepence, will be altogether
adequate to the maintenance of such a family as you seem likely to have.
_The Bridegroom._ Why, sir, in t’ virst pleace I doan’t know what be
Zukey’s intentions in that respect——Od rabbit it, Zukey! doan’t pinch
zo——and in t’ next pleace, wi’ all due submission to you and General
Reason the Methody preacher, I takes it to be our look-out, and none o’
nobody’s else.
_Mr. Fax._ But it is somebody’s else, for this reason; that if you
cannot maintain your own children, the parish must do it for you.
_The Bridegroom._ Vor zartin—in a zort o’ way; and bad enough at best.
But I wants no more to do wi’ t’ parish than parish wi’ me.
_Mr. Fax._ I dare say you do not, at present. But, my good friend, when
the cares of a family come upon you, your independence of spirit will
give way to necessity; and if, by any accident, you are thrown out of
work, as in the present times many honest fellows are, what will you do
then?
_The Bridegroom._ Do the best I can, measter, az I always does, and
nobody can’t do no better.
_Mr. Fax._ Do you suppose, then, you are doing the best you can now, in
marrying, with such a doubtful prospect before you? How will you bring
up your children?
_The Bridegroom._ Why, in the vear o’ the Lord, to be zure.
_Mr. Fax._ Of course: but how will you bring them up to get their
living?
_The Bridegroom._ That’s as thereafter may happen. They woan’t starve,
I’se warrant ’em, if they teakes after their veyther. But I zees now who
General Reason be. He be one o’ your sinecure vundholder peaper-money
taxing men, as isn’t satisfied wi’ takin’ t’ bread out o’ t’ poor man’s
mouth, and zending his chilern to army and navy, and vactories, and
suchlike, but wants to take away his wife into t’ bargain.
_Mr. Fax._ There, my honest friend, you have fallen into a radical
mistake, which I shall try to elucidate for your benefit. It is owing to
poor people having more children than they can maintain, that those
children are obliged to go to the army and navy, and consequently that
statesmen and conquerors find so many ready instruments for the
oppression and destruction of the human species: it follows, therefore,
that if people would not marry till they could be certain of maintaining
all their children comfortably at home——
_The Bridegroom._ Lord love you, that be all mighty voine rigmarole; but
the short and the long be this: I can’t live without Zukey, nor Zukey
without I, can you, Zukey?
_The Bride._ No, zure, Robin.
_The Bridegroom._ Now there be a plain downright honest-hearted old
English girl; none o’ your quality madams, as zays one thing and means
another; and zo you may tell General Reason he may teake away chair and
teable, salt-box and trencher, bed and bedding, pig and pig-stye, but
neither he nor all his peaper-men together shall take away his own Zukey
vrom Robin Ruddyfeace; if they shall I’m doomed.
‘What profane wretch,’ said the Reverend Mr. Portpipe, emerging from the
church, ‘what profane wretch is swearing in the very gate of the
temple?’ and seeing by the bridegroom’s confusion that he was the
culprit, he reprimanded him severely, and declared he would not marry
him that day. The very thought of such a disappointment was too much for
poor Robin to bear, and, after one or two ineffectual efforts to speak,
he distorted his face into a most rueful expression, and struck up such
a roar of crying as completely electrified the Rev. Mr. Portpipe, whose
wrath, nevertheless, was not to be mollified by Robin’s grief and
contrition, but yielded at length to the intercessions of Mr. Forester.
Robin’s face cleared up in an instant, and the natural broad grin of his
ruddy countenance shone forth through his tears like the sun through a
shower. ‘You are such an honest and warm-hearted fellow,’ said Mr.
Forester, putting a bank-note into Robin’s hand, ‘that you must not
refuse me the pleasure of making this little addition to Mistress
Susan’s consolidated fund.’—‘Od rabbit me!’ said the bridegroom,
overcome with joy and surprise, ‘I doan’t know who thee beest, but thee
beesn’t General Reason, that’s vor zartin.’
The rustic party then followed the Reverend Mr. Portpipe into the
church. Robin, when he reached the porch, looked round over his shoulder
to Mr. Fax, and said with a very arch look, ‘My dutiful sarvice to
General Reason.’ And looking round a second time before he entered the
door, added: ‘and Zukey’s too.’
CHAPTER XXXVI
THE VICARAGE
When the Rev. Mr. Portpipe had despatched his ‘press of business,’ he
set before his guests in the old oak parlour of the vicarage a cold
turkey and ham, a capacious jug of ‘incomparable ale,’ and a bottle of
his London Particular; all which, on trial, were approved to be
excellent, and a second bottle of the latter was very soon required, and
produced with great alacrity. The reverend gentleman expressed much
anxiety in relation to the mysterious circumstance of the disappearance
of Anthelia, on whom he pronounced a very warm eulogium, saying she was
the flower of the mountains, the type of ideal beauty, the daughter of
music, the rosebud of sweetness, and the handmaid of charity. He
professed himself unable to throw the least light on the transaction,
but supposed she had been spirited away for some nefarious purpose. He
said that the mountain road had been explored without success in all its
ramifications, not only by Mr. Hippy and the visitors and domestics of
Melincourt, but by all the peasants and mountaineers of the
vicinity—that it led through a most desolate and inhospitable tract of
country, and he would advise them, if they persisted in their intention
of following it themselves, to partake of his poor hospitality till
morning, and set forward with the first dawn of daylight. Mr. Fax
seconded this proposal, and Mr. Forester complied.
They spent the evening in the old oak parlour, and conversed on various
subjects, during which a knotty point opposing itself to the solution of
an historical question, Mr. Forester expressed a wish to be allowed
access to the reverend gentleman’s library. The reverend gentleman
hummed awhile with great gravity and deliberation: then slowly rising
from his large arm-chair, he walked across the room to the farther
corner, where throwing open the door of a little closet, he said with
extreme complacency, ‘There is my library: Homer, Virgil, and Horace,
for old acquaintance sake, and the credit of my cloth: Tillotson,
Atterbury, and Jeremy Taylor, for materials of exhortation and
ingredients of sound doctrine: and for my own private amusement in an
occasional half-hour between my dinner and my nap, a translation of
Rabelais and _The Tale of a Tub_.’
_Mr. Fax._ A well-chosen collection.
_The Rev. Mr. Portpipe._—_Multum in parvo._ But there is something that
may amuse you: a little drawer of mineral specimens that have been
picked up in this vicinity, and a fossil or two. Among the latter is a
curious bone that was found in a hill just by, invested with stalactite.
_Mr. Forester._ The bone of a human thumb, unquestionably.
_The Rev. Mr. Portpipe._ Very probably.
_Mr. Forester._ Which, by its comparative proportion, must have belonged
to an individual about eleven feet six or seven inches in height: there
are no such men now.
_Mr. Fax._ Except, perhaps, among the Patagonians, whose existence is,
however, disputed.
_Mr. Forester._ It is disputed on no tenable ground, but that of the
narrow and bigoted vanity of civilised men, who, pent in the unhealthy
limits of towns and cities, where they dwindle from generation to
generation in a fearful rapidity of declension towards the abyss of the
infinitely little, in which they will finally vanish from the system of
nature, will not admit that there ever were, or are, or can be, better,
stronger, and healthier men than themselves. The Patagonians are a
vagrant nation, without house or home, and are, therefore, only
occasionally seen on the coast: but because some voyagers have not seen
them, I know not why we should impeach the evidence of those who have.
The testimony of a man of honour, like Mr. Byron, would alone have been
sufficient: but all his officers and men gave the same account. And
there are other testimonies: that, for instance, of M. de Guyot, who
brought from the coast of Patagonia a skeleton of one of these great
men, which measured between twelve and thirteen feet. This skeleton he
was bringing to Europe, but happening to be caught in a great storm, and
having on board a Spanish Bishop (the Archbishop of Lima), who was of
opinion that the storm was caused by the bones of this Pagan which they
had on board; and having persuaded the crew that this was the case, the
captain was obliged to throw the skeleton overboard. The Bishop died
soon after, and was thrown overboard in his turn. I could have wished
that he had been thrown overboard sooner, and then the bones of the
Patagonian would have arrived in Europe.[92]
_The Rev. Mr. Portpipe._ Your wish is orthodox, inasmuch as the Bishop
was himself a Pagan, and moreover an Inquisitor. And your doctrine of
large men is also orthodox, for the sons of Anak and the family of
Goliath did once exist, though now their race is extinct.
_Mr. Forester._ The multiplication of diseases, the diminution of
strength, and the contraction of the term of existence, keep pace with
the diminution of the stature of men. The mortality of a manufacturing
town, compared with that of a mountain village, is more than three to
one, which clearly shows the evil effects of the departure from natural
life, and of the coacervation of multitudes within the narrow precincts
of cities, where the breath of so many animals, and the exhalations from
the dead, the dying, and corrupted things of all kinds, make the air
little better than a slow poison, and so offensive as to be perceptible
to the sense of those who are not accustomed to it; for the wandering
Arabs will smell a town at the distance of several leagues. And in this
country the cottagers who are driven by the avarice of landlords and
great tenants to seek a subsistence in towns, are very soon destroyed by
the change.[93] And this hiving of human beings is not the only evil
effect of commerce, which tends also to keep up a constant circulation
of the elements of destruction, and to make the vices and diseases of
one country the vices and diseases of all.[94] Thus, with every
extension of our intercourse with distant lands, we bring home some new
seed of death; and how many we leave as vestiges of our visitation, let
the South Sea Islanders testify. Consider, too, the frightful
consequences of the consumption of spirituous liquors: a practice so
destructive, that if all the devils were again to be assembled in
Pandemonium to contrive the ruin of the human species, nothing so
mischievous could be devised by them;[95] but which it is considered
politic to encourage, according to our method of raising money on the
vices of the people.[96] When these and many other causes of destruction
are considered, it would be wonderful indeed if every new generation
were not, as all experience proves that it is, smaller, weaker, more
diseased, and more miserable than the preceding.
_Mr. Fax._ Do you find, in the progress of science and the rapid
diffusion of intellectual light, no counterpoise to this mass of
physical calamity, even admitting it to exist in the extent you suppose?
_Mr. Forester._ Without such a counterpoise the condition of human
nature would be desperate indeed. The intellectual, as I have often
observed to you, are nourished at the expense of the animal faculties.
_Mr. Fax._ You cannot, then, conceive the existence of _mens sana in
corpore sano_?
_Mr. Forester._ Scarcely in the present state of human degeneracy: at
best in a very limited sense.
_Mr. Fax._ Nevertheless you do, nay, you must acknowledge that the
intellectual, which is the better part of human nature, is in a progress
of rapid improvement, continually enlarging its views and multiplying
its acquisitions.
_Mr. Forester._ The collective stock of knowledge which is the common
property of scientific men necessarily increases, and will increase from
the circumstance of admitting the cooperation of numbers: but collective
knowledge is as distinct from individual mental power as it is
confessedly unconnected with wisdom and moral virtue, and independent of
political liberty. A man of modern times, with machines of complicated
powers, will lift a heavier mass than that which Hector hurled from his
unassisted arm against the Grecian gates; but take away his mechanism,
and what comparison is there between him and Hector? In the same way a
modern man of science _knows_ more than Pythagoras knew: but consider
them with relation only to _mental power_, and what comparison remains
between them? No more than between a modern poet and Homer—a comparison
which the most strenuous partisan of modern improvement will scarcely
venture to institute.
_Mr. Fax._ I will venture to oppose Shakespeare to him nevertheless.
_Mr. Forester._ That is, however, going back two centuries, to a state
of society very peculiar, and very fertile in genius. Shakespeare is the
great phenomenon of the modern world, but his men and women are beings
like ourselves; whereas those of Homer are of a nobler and mightier
race; and his poetry is worthy of his characters: it is the language of
the gods.
Mr. Forester rose, and approached the little closet, with the avowed
intention of taking down Homer. ‘Take care how you touch him,’ said the
Reverend Mr. Portpipe: ‘he is in a very dusty condition, for he has not
been disturbed these thirty years.’
CHAPTER XXXVI
THE MOUNTAINS
They followed the mountain road till they arrived at the spot where it
divided into several branches, one of which they selected on some
principle of preference, which we are not sagacious enough to penetrate.
They now proceeded by a gradual ascent of several miles along a rugged
passage of the hills, where the now flowerless heath was the only
vestige of vegetation; and the sound of the little streams that
everywhere gleamed beside their way, the only manifestation of the life
and motion of nature.
‘It is a subject worthy of consideration,’ said Mr. Fax, ‘how far scenes
like these are connected with the genius of liberty: how far the dweller
of the mountains, who is certainly surrounded by more sublime
excitements, has more loftiness of thought, and more freedom of spirit,
than the cultivator of the plains.’
_Mr. Forester._ A modern poet has observed, that the voices of the sea
and the mountains are the two voices of liberty: the words mountain
liberty have, indeed, become so intimately associated, that I never yet
found any one who even thought of questioning their necessary and
natural connection.
_Mr. Fax._ And yet I question it much; and in the present state of human
society I hold the universal inculcation of such a sentiment, in poetry
and romance, to be not only a most gross delusion, but an error replete
with the most pernicious practical consequences. For I have often seen a
young man of high and aspiring genius, full of noble enthusiasm for the
diffusion of truth and the general happiness of mankind, withdrawn from
all intercourse with polished and intellectual society, by the
distempered idea that he would nowhere find fit aliment for his high
cogitations, but among heaths, and rocks, and torrents.
_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 laureate, 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 process 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.
[Illustration: _Sir Bonus Mac Scrip retreated through the breach, and
concealed himself under the dining-table._]
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. Anyside 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 critico-poetical 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.[97]
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. Anyside 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[98]—(_Mr. Feathernest
and Mr. Paperstamp smiled and bowed_)—though they were for the most part
ill-read in history, and ignorant of human nature.[99]
_Mr. Feathernest and Mr. Paperstamp._ How, sir?
_Mr. Anyside 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,[100] 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.[101]
_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. Anyside 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. Anyside 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:[102] 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.
_Mr. Vamp, Mr. Feathernest, Mr. Paperstamp, Mr. Killthedead, and Mr.
Anyside Antijack._ The church is in danger! the church is in danger!
_Mr. Forester._ I am very well aware that the time has been when the
voice of reason could be drowned by clamour, and by rallying round the
banners of corruption and delusion a mass of blind and bigoted
prejudices, that had no real connection with the political question
which it was the object to cry down: but I see with pleasure that those
days are gone. The people read and think: their eyes are opened; they
know that all their grievances arise from the pressure of taxation far
beyond their means, from the fictitious circulation of paper-money, and
from the corrupt and venal state of popular representation. These facts
lie in a very small compass; and till you can reason them out of this
knowledge, you may vociferate ‘The church is in danger’ for ever,
without a single unpaid voice to join in the outcry.
_Mr. Feathernest._ My friend Mr. Mystic holds that it is a very bad
thing for the people to read: so it certainly is. Oh for the happy
ignorance of former ages! when the people were dolts, and knew
themselves to be so.[103] An ignorant man, judging from instinct, judges
much better than a man who reads, and is consequently misinformed.[104]
_Mr. Vamp._ Unless he reads the Legitimate Review.
_Mr. Paperstamp._ Darkness! darkness! Jack the Giantkiller’s coat of
darkness! That is your only wear.
_Mr. Anyside Antijack._ There was a time when we could lead the people
any way, and make them join with all their lungs in the yell of war:
then they were people of sound judgment, and of honest and honourable
feelings:[105] but when they pretend to feel the pressure of personal
suffering, and to read and think about its causes and remedies—such
impudence is intolerable.
_Mr. Fax._ Are they not the same people still? If they were capable of
judging then, are they not capable of judging now?
_Mr. Anyside Antijack._ By no means: they are only capable of judging
when they see with our eyes; then they see straight forward; when they
pretend to use their own, they squint.[106] They saw with our eyes in
the beginning of the Antijacobin war. They would have determined on that
war, if it had been decided by universal suffrage.[107]
_Mr. Fax._ Why was not the experiment tried?
_Mr. Anyside Antijack._ It was not convenient. But they were in a most
amiable ferment of intolerant loyalty.[108]
_Mr. Forester._ Of which the proof is to be found in the immortal
Gagging Bills, by which that intolerant loyalty was coerced.
_Mr. Anyside Antijack._ The Gagging Bills? Hem! ha! What shall we say to
that? (_To Mr. Vamp._)
_Mr. Vamp._ Say? The church is in danger!
_Mr. Feathernest, Mr. Paperstamp, Mr. Killthedead, and Mr. Anyside
Antijack._ The church is in danger! the church is in danger!
_Mr. Forester._ Why was a war undertaken to prevent revolution, if all
the people of this country were so well fortified in loyalty? Did they
go to war for the purpose of forcibly preventing themselves from
following a bad example against their own will? For this is what your
argument seems to imply?
_Mr. Fax._ That the people were in a certain degree of ferment is true:
but it required a great deal of management and delusion to turn that
ferment into the channel of foreign war.
_Mr. Anyside Antijack._ Well, sir, and there was no other way to avoid
domestic reform, which every man who desires is a ruffian, a scoundrel,
and an incendiary,[109] as much so as those two rascals Rousseau and
Voltaire, who were the trumpeters of Hebert and Marat.[110] Reform, sir,
is not to be thought of; we have been at war twenty-five years to
prevent it; and to have it, after all, would be very hard. We have got
the national debt instead of it: in my opinion a very pretty substitute.
_Mr. Derrydown_ sings—
And I’ll hang on thy neck, my love, my love,
And I’ll hang on thy neck for aye!
And closer and closer I’ll press thee, my love,
Until my _dying day_.
_Mr. Anyside Antijack._ I am happy to reflect that the silly question of
reform will have very few supporters in the Honourable House: but few as
they are, the number would be lessened if all who come into Parliament
by means which that question attempts to stigmatise would abstain from
voting upon it. Undoubtedly such practices are scandalous, as being
legally, and therefore morally wrong: but it is false that any evil to
the legislature arises from them.[111]
_Mr. Forester._ Perhaps not, sir; but very great evil arises through
them from the legislature to the people. Your admission, that they are
legally, and _therefore_ morally wrong, implies a very curious method of
deriving morality from law; but I suspect there is much immorality that
is perfectly legal, and much legality that is supremely immoral. But
these practices, you admit, are both legally and morally wrong; yet you
call it a silly question to propose their cessation; and you assert that
all who wish to abolish them, all who wish to abolish illegal and
immoral practices, are ruffians, scoundrels, and incendiaries.
_Mr. Killthedead._ Yes, and madmen moreover, and villains.[112] We are
all upon gunpowder! The insane and the desperate are scattering
firebrands![113] We shall all be blown up in a body: sinecures, rotten
boroughs, secret-service-men, and the whole _honourable band of
gentlemen pensioners_, will all be blown up in a body! _A stand! a
stand! it is time to make a stand against popular encroachment!_
_Mr. Vamp, Mr. Feathernest, and Mr. Paperstamp._ The church is in
danger!
_Mr. Anyside Antijack._ Here is the great blunderbuss that is to blow
the whole nation to atoms! the Spencean blunderbuss! (_Saying these
words he produced a popgun from his pocket_,[114] _and shot off a paper
pellet in the ear of Mr. Paperstamp_,
_Who in a kind of study sate
Denominated brown_;
_which made the latter spring up in sudden fright, to the irremediable
perdition of a decanter of ‘Sherris sack,’ over which Mr. Feathernest
lamented bitterly._)
_Mr. Forester._ I do not see what connection the Spencean theory, the
impracticable chimaera of an obscure herd of fanatics, has with the
great national question of parliamentary reform.
_Mr. Anyside Antijack._ Sir, you may laugh at this popgun, but you will
find it the mallet of Thor.[115] The Spenceans are far more respectable
than the parliamentary reformers, and have a more distinct and
intelligible system!!![116]
_Mr. Vamp._ Bravo! bravo! bravo! There is not another man in our corps
with brass enough to make such an assertion, but Mr. Anyside Antijack.
(_Reiterated shouts of Bravo! from Mr. Vamp, Mr. Feathernest, Mr.
Paperstamp, and Mr. Killthedead._)
_Mr. Killthedead._ Make out that, and our job is done.
_Mr. Anyside Antijack._ Make it out! Nonsense! I shall take it for
granted: I shall set up the Spencean plan as a more sensible plan than
that of the parliamentary reformers: then knock down the former, and
argue against the latter, _a fortiori_. (_The shouts of Bravo! here
became perfectly deafening, the critico-poetical corps being by this
time much more than half-seas-over._)
_Mr. Killthedead._—The members for rotten boroughs are the most
independent members in the Honourable House, and the representatives of
most constituents least so.[117]
_Mr. Fax._ How will you prove that?
_Mr. Killthedead._ By calling the former gentlemen, and the latter mob
representatives.[118]
_Mr. Vamp._ Nothing can be more logical.
_Mr. Fax._ Do you call that logic?
_Mr. Vamp._ Excellent logic. At least it will pass for such with our
readers.
_Mr. Anyside Antijack._ We, and those who think with us, are the only
wise and good men.[119]
_Mr. Forester._ May I take the liberty to inquire what you mean by a
wise and a good man?
_Mr. Anyside Antijack._ A wise man is he who looks after the one thing
needful; and a good man is he who has it. The acme of wisdom and
goodness in conjunction consists in appropriating as much as possible of
the public money; and saying to those from whose pockets it is taken, ‘I
am perfectly satisfied with things as they are. Let _well_ alone!’
_Mr. Paperstamp._ We shall make out a very good case; but you must not
forget to call the present public distress an awful dispensation:[120] a
little pious cant goes a great way towards turning the thoughts of men
from the dangerous and jacobinical propensity of looking into moral and
political causes for moral and political effects.
_Mr. Fax._ But the moral and political causes are now too obvious, and
too universally known, to be obscured by any such means. All the arts
and eloquence of corruption may be overthrown by the enumeration of
these simple words: boroughs, taxes, and paper-money.
_Mr. Anyside Antijack._ Paper-money! What, is the ghost of bullion
abroad?[121]
_Mr. Forester._ Yes! and till you can make the buried substance burst
the paper cerements of its sepulchre, its ghost will continue to walk
like the ghost of Caesar, saying to the desolated nation: ‘I am thy evil
spirit!’
_Mr. Anyside Antijack._ I must say, I am very sorry to find a gentleman
like you taking the part of the swinish multitude, who are only fit for
beasts of burden, to raise subsistence for their betters, pay taxes for
placemen, and recruit the army and navy for the benefit of legitimacy,
divine right, the Jesuits, the Pope, the Inquisition, and the Virgin
Mary’s petticoat.
_Mr. Paperstamp._ Hear! hear! hear! Hear the voice which the stream of
Tendency is uttering for elevation of our thought!
_Mr. Forester._ It was once said by a poet, whose fallen state none can
more bitterly lament than I do:
We shall exult if they who rule the land
Be men who hold its many blessings dear,
Wise, upright, valiant; not a venal band,
Who are to judge of danger which they fear,
And honour which they do not understand.
_Mr. Feathernest._ Poets, sir, are not amenable to censure, however
frequently their political opinions may exhibit marks of
inconsistency.[122] The Muse, as a French author says, is a mere
_étourdie_, a _folâtre_ who may play at her option on heath or on turf,
and transfer her song at pleasure from Hampden to Ferdinand, and from
Washington to Louis.
_Mr. Forester._ If a poet be contented to consider himself in the light
of a merry-andrew, be it so. But if he assume the garb of moral
austerity, and pour forth against corruption and oppression the language
of moral indignation, there would at least be some decency, if, when he
changes sides, he would let the world see that conversion and promotion
have not gone hand in hand.
_Mr. Feathernest._ What decency might be in that, I know not: but of
this I am very certain, that there would be no wisdom in it.
_Mr. Anyside Antijack._ No! no! there would be no wisdom in it.
_Mr. Feathernest._ Sir, I am a wise and a good man: mark that, sir; ay,
and an honourable man.
_Mr. Vamp._ ‘So are we all, all honourable men!’
_Mr. Anyside Antijack._ And we will stick by one another with heart and
hand——
_Mr. Killthedead._ To make a stand against popular encroachment——
_Mr. Feathernest._ To bring back the glorious ignorance of the feudal
ages——
_Mr. Paperstamp._ To rebuild the mystic temples of venerable
superstition——
_Mr. Vamp._ To extinguish, totally and finally, the light of the human
understanding——
_Mr. Anyside Antijack._ And to get all we can for our trouble!
_Mr. Feathernest._ So we will all say.
_Mr. Paperstamp._ And so we will all sing.
QUINTETTO
MR. FEATHERNEST, MR. VAMP, MR. KILLTHEDEAD, MR. PAPERSTAMP, AND MR.
ANYSIDE ANTIJACK
To the tune of ‘_Turning, turning, turning, as the wheel goes round_.’
RECITATIVE—MR. PAPERSTAMP
Jack Horner’s CHRISTMAS PIE my learned nurse
Interpreted to mean the _public purse_.
From thence a _plum_ he drew. O happy Horner!
Who would not be ensconced in thy snug corner?
THE FIVE
While round the public board all eagerly we linger,
For what we can get we will try, try, try:
And we’ll all have a finger, a finger, a finger,
We’ll all have a finger in the CHRISTMAS PIE.
MR. FEATHERNEST
By my own poetic laws, I’m a dealer in applause
For those who don’t deserve it, but will buy, buy, buy:
So round the court I linger, and thus I get a finger,
A finger, finger, finger in the CHRISTMAS PIE.
THE FIVE
And we’ll all have a finger, a finger, a finger,
We’ll all have a finger in the CHRISTMAS PIE.
MR. VAMP
My share of pie to win, I will dash through thick and thin,
And philosophy and liberty shall fly, fly, fly:
And truth and taste shall know, that their everlasting foe
Has a finger, finger, finger in the CHRISTMAS PIE.
THE FIVE
And we’ll all have a finger, a finger, a finger,
We’ll all have a finger in the CHRISTMAS PIE.
MR. KILLTHEDEAD
I’ll make my verses rattle with the din of war and battle,
For war doth increase sa-la-ry, ry, ry:
And I’ll shake the public ears with the triumph of Algiers,
And thus I’ll get a finger in the CHRISTMAS PIE.
THE FIVE
And we’ll all have a finger, a finger, a finger,
We’ll all have a finger in the CHRISTMAS PIE.
MR. PAPERSTAMP
And while you thrive by ranting, I’ll try my luck at canting,
And scribble verse and prose all so dry, dry, dry:
And Mystic’s patent smoke public intellect shall choke,
And we’ll all have a finger in the CHRISTMAS PIE.
THE FIVE
We’ll all have a finger, a finger, a finger,
We’ll all have a finger in the CHRISTMAS PIE.
MR. ANYSIDE ANTIJACK
My tailor is so clever, that my coat will turn for ever
And take any colour you can dye, dye, dye:
For my earthly wishes are among the loaves and fishes,
And to have my little finger in the CHRISTMAS PIE.
THE FIVE
And we’ll all have a finger, a finger, a finger,
We’ll all have a finger in the CHRISTMAS PIE.
CHAPTER XL
THE HOPES OF THE WORLD
The mountain-roads being now buried in snow, they were compelled, on
leaving Mainchance Villa, to follow the most broad and beaten track, and
they entered on a turnpike road which led in the direction of the sea.
‘I no longer wonder,’ said Mr. Fax, ‘that men in general are so much
disposed as I have found them to look with supreme contempt on the
literary character, seeing the abject servility and venality by which it
is so commonly debased.’[123]
_Mr. Forester._ What then becomes of the hopes of the world, which you
have admitted to consist entirely in the progress of the mind, allowing,
as you must allow, the incontrovertible fact of the physical
deterioration of the human race?
_Mr. Fax._ When I speak of the mind, I do not allude either to poetry or
to periodical criticism, nor, in any great degree, to physical science;
but I rest my hopes on the very same basis with Mr. Mystic’s fear—the
general diffusion of moral and political truth.
_Mr. Forester._ For poetry, its best days are gone. Homer, Shakspeare,
and Milton will return no more.
_Mr. Fax._ Lucretius we yet may hope for.
_Mr. Forester._ Not till superstition and prejudice have been shorn of a
much larger portion of their power. If Lucretius should arise among us
in the present day, exile or imprisonment would be his infallible
portion. We have yet many steps to make before we shall arrive at the
liberality and toleration of Tiberius![124] And as to physical science,
though it does in some measure weaken the dominion of mental error, yet
I fear, where it proves itself in one instance the friend of human
liberty, it will be found in ninety-nine the slave of corruption and
luxury.
_Mr. Fax._ In many cases science is both morally and politically
neutral, and its speculations have no connection whatever with the
business of life.
_Mr. Forester._ It is true; and such speculations are often called
sublime: though the sublimity of uselessness passes my comprehension.
But the neutrality is only apparent: for it has in these cases the real
practical effect, and a most pernicious one it is, of withdrawing some
of the highest and most valuable minds from the only path of real
utility, which I agree with you to be that of moral and political
knowledge, to pursuits of no more real importance than that of keeping a
dozen eggs at a time dancing one after another in the air.
_Mr. Fax._ If it be admitted, on the one hand, that the progress of
luxury has kept pace with that of physical science, it must be
acknowledged, on the other, that superstition has decayed in at least an
equal proportion; and I think it cannot be denied that the world is a
gainer by the exchange.
_Mr. Forester._ The decay of superstition is immeasurably beneficial;
but the growth of luxury is not, therefore, the less pernicious. It is
lamentable to reflect that _there is most indigence in the richest
countries_;[125] and that the increase of superfluous enjoyment in the
few is counterbalanced by the proportionate diminution of comfort in the
many. Splendid equipages and sumptuous dwellings are far from being
symbols of general prosperity. The palace of luxurious indolence is much
rather the symbol of a thousand hovels, by the labours and privations of
whose wretched inhabitants that baleful splendour is maintained.
Civilisation, vice, and folly grow old together. Corruption begins among
the higher orders, and from them descends to the people; so that in
every nation the ancient nobility is the first to exhibit symptoms of
corporeal and mental degeneracy, and to show themselves unfit both for
council and war. If you recapitulate the few titled names that will
adorn the history of the present times, you will find that almost all of
them are new creations. The corporeal decay of mankind I hold to be
undeniable: the increase of general knowledge I allow: but reason is of
slow growth; and if men in general only become more corrupt as they
become more learned, the progress of literature will oppose no adequate
counterpoise to that of avarice, luxury, and disease.
_Mr. Fax._ Certainly, the progress of reason is slow, but the ground
which it has once gained it never abandons. The interest of rulers, and
the prejudices of the people, are equally hostile to everything that
comes in the shape of innovation; but all that now wears the strongest
sanction of antiquity was once received with reluctance under the
semblance of novelty: and that reason, which in the present day can
scarcely obtain a footing from the want of precedents, will grow with
the growth of years, and become a precedent in its turn.[126]
_Mr. Forester._ Reason may be diffused in society, but it is only in
minds which _have courage enough to despise prejudice and virtue enough
to love truth only for itself_,[127] that its seeds will germinate into
wholesome and vigorous life. The love of truth is the most noble quality
of human intellect, the most delightful in the interchange of private
confidence, the most important in the direction of those speculations
which have public happiness for their aim. Yet of all qualities this is
the most rare: it is the Phoenix of the intellectual world. In private
intercourse, how very very few are they whose assertions carry
conviction! How much petty deception, paltry equivocation, hollow
profession, smiling malevolence, and polished hypocrisy combine to make
a desert and a solitude of what is called society! How much empty
pretence and simulated patriotism, and shameless venality, and
unblushing dereliction of principle, and clamorous recrimination, and
daring imposture, and secret cabal, and mutual undermining of
‘Honourable Friends,’ render utterly loathsome and disgusting the
theatre of public life! How much timid deference to vulgar prejudice,
how much misrepresentation of the motives of conscientious opponents,
how many appeals to unreflecting passion, how much assumption of
groundless hypothesis, how many attempts to darken the clearest light
and entangle the simplest clue, render not only nugatory, but
pernicious, the speculations of moral and political reason! Pernicious,
inasmuch as it is better for the benighted traveller to remain
stationary in darkness, than to follow an _ignis fatuus_ through the
fen! Falsehood is the great vice of the age: falsehood of heart,
falsehood of mind, falsehood of every form and mode of intellect and
intercourse: so that it is hardly possible _to find a man of worth and
goodness of whom to make a friend: but he who does find such an one will
have more enjoyment of friendship than in a better age; for he will be
doubly fond of him, and will love him as Hamlet does Horatio, and with
him retiring and getting, as it were, under the shelter of a wall, will
let the storm of life blow over him_.[128]
_Mr. Fax._ But that retirement must be consecrated to philosophical
labour, or, however delightful to the individuals, it will be treason to
the public cause. Be the world as bad as it may, it would necessarily be
much worse if the votaries of truth and the children of virtue were all
to withdraw from its vortex, and leave it to itself. If reason be
progressive, however slowly, the wise and good have sufficient
encouragement to persevere; and even if the doctrine of deterioration be
true, it is no less their duty to contribute all in their power to
retard its progress, by investigating its causes and remedies.
_Mr. Forester._ Undoubtedly. But the progress of theoretical knowledge
has a most fearful counterpoise in the accelerated depravation of
practical morality. The frantic love of money, which seems to govern our
contemporaries to a degree unprecedented in the history of man,
paralyses the energy of independence, darkens the light of reason, and
blights the blossoms of love.
_Mr. Fax._ The _amor sceleratus habendi_ is not peculiar either to our
times or to civilised life. _Money you must have, no matter from
whence_, is a sentence, if we may believe Euripides, as old as the
heroic age: and _the monk Rubruquis says of the Tartars, that, as
parents keep all their daughters till they can sell them, their maids
are sometimes very stale before they are married_.[129]
_Mr. Forester._ In that respect, then, I must acknowledge the Tartars
and we are much on a par. It is a collateral question well worth
considering, how far the security of property, which contributes so much
to the diffusion of knowledge and the permanence of happiness, is
favourable to the growth of individual virtue.
_Mr. Fax._ Security of property tranquillises the minds of men, and fits
them to shine rather in speculation than in action. In turbulent and
insecure states of society, when the fluctuations of power, or the
incursions of predatory neighbours, hang like the sword of Damocles over
the most flourishing possessions, friends are more dear to each other,
mutual services and sacrifices are more useful and more necessary, the
energies of heart and hand are continually called forth, and shining
examples of the self-oblivious virtues are produced in the same
proportion as mental speculation is unknown or disregarded: but our
admiration of these virtues must be tempered by the remark, that they
arise more from impulsive feeling than from reflective principle; and
that where life and fortune hold by such a precarious tenure, the first
may be risked, and the second abandoned, with much less effort than
would be required for inferior sacrifices in more secure and tranquil
times.
_Mr. Forester._ Alas, my friend! I would willingly see such virtues as
do honour to human nature, without being very solicitous as to the
comparative quantities of impulse and reflection in which they
originate. If the security of property and the diffusion of general
knowledge were attended with a corresponding increase of benevolence and
_individual mental power_, no philanthropist could look with despondency
on the prospects of the world: but I can discover no symptoms of either
the one or the other. Insatiable accumulators, overgrown capitalists,
fatteners on public spoil, I cannot but consider as excrescences on the
body politic, typical of disease and prophetic of decay: yet it is to
these and such as these that the poet tunes his harp, and the man of
science consecrates his labours: it is for them that an enormous portion
of the population is condemned to unhealthy manufactories, not less
deadly but more lingering than the pestilence: it is for them that the
world rings with lamentations, if the most trivial accident, the most
transient sickness, the most frivolous disappointment befall them: but
when the prisons swarm, when the workhouses overflow, when whole
parishes declare themselves bankrupt, when thousands perish by famine in
the wintry streets, where then is the poet, where is the man of science,
where is the _elegant_ philosopher? The poet is singing hymns to the
great ones of the world, the man of science is making discoveries for
the adornment of their dwellings or the enhancement of their culinary
luxuries, and the _elegant_ philosopher is much too refined a personage
to allow such vulgar subjects as the sufferings of the poor to interfere
with his sublime speculations. _They are married and cannot come!_
_Mr. Fax._ Ἐψαυσας ἀλγεινοτατας ἐμοι μεριμνας![130] Those _elegant_
philosophers are among the most fatal enemies to the advancement of
moral and political knowledge; laborious triflers, profound
investigators of nothing, everlasting talkers about taste and beauty,
who see in the starving beggar only the picturesqueness of his rags, and
in the ruined cottage only the harmonising tints of moss, mildew, and
stonecrop.
_Mr. Forester._ We talk of public feeling and national sympathy. Our
dictionaries may define those words and our lips may echo them, but we
must look for the realities among less enlightened nations. The Canadian
savages cannot imagine the possibility of any individual in a community
having a full meal while another has but half an one:[131] still less
could they imagine that one should have too much, while another had
nothing. Theirs is that bond of brotherhood which nature weaves and
civilisation breaks, and from which the older nations grow the farther
they recede.
_Mr. Fax._ It cannot be otherwise. The state you have described is
adapted only to a small community, and to the infancy of human society.
I shall make a very liberal concession to your views, if I admit it to
be possible that the middle stage of the progress of man is worse than
either the point from which he started or that at which he will arrive.
But it is my decided opinion that we have passed that middle stage, and
that every evil incident to the present condition of human society will
be removed by the diffusion of moral and political knowledge, and the
general increase of moral and political liberty. I contemplate with
great satisfaction the rapid decay of many hoary absurdities, which a
few transcendental hierophants of the venerable and the mysterious are
labouring in vain to revive. I look with well-grounded confidence to a
period when there will be neither slaves among the northern, nor monks
among the southern Americans. The sun of freedom has risen over that
great continent, with the certain promise of a glorious day. I form the
best hopes for my own country, in the mental improvement of the people,
whenever she shall breathe from the pressure of that preposterous system
of finance which sooner or later must fall by its own weight.
_Mr. Forester._ I apply to our system of finance a fiction of the
northern mythology. The ash of Yggdrasil overshadows the world:
Ratatosk, the squirrel, sports in the branches: Nidhogger, the serpent,
gnaws at the root.[132] The ash of Yggdrasil is the tree of national
prosperity: Ratatosk the squirrel is the careless and unreflecting
fundholder: Nidhogger the serpent is POLITICAL CORRUPTION, which will in
time consume the root, and spread the branches on the dust. What will
then become of the squirrel?
_Mr. Fax._ Ratatosk must look to himself: Nidhogger must be killed, and
the ash of Yggdrasil will rise like a vegetable Phoenix to flourish
again for ages.
Thus conversing, they arrived on the sea-shore, where we shall leave
them to pursue their way, while we investigate the fate of Anthelia.
[Illustration: _She immediately ran through the shrubbery._]
CHAPTER XLI
ALGA CASTLE
Anthelia had not ventured to resume her solitary rambles after her
return from Onevote; more especially as she anticipated the period when
she should revisit her favourite haunts in the society of one congenial
companion whose presence would heighten the magic of their interest, and
restore to them that feeling of security which her late adventure had
destroyed. But as she was sitting in her library on the morning of her
disappearance, she suddenly heard a faint and mournful cry, like the
voice of a child in distress. She rose, opened the window, and listened.
She heard the sounds more distinctly. They seemed to ascend from that
part of the dingle immediately beneath the shrubbery that fringed her
windows. It was certainly the cry of a child. She immediately ran
through the shrubbery and descended the rocky steps into the dingle,
where she found a little boy tied to the stem of a tree, crying and
sobbing as if his heart would break. Anthelia easily set him at liberty,
and his grief passed away like an April shower. She asked who had the
barbarity to treat him in such a manner. He said he could not tell—four
strange men on horseback had taken him up on the common where his father
lived, and brought him there and tied him to the tree, he could not tell
why. Anthelia took his hand and was leading him from the dingle,
intending to send him home by Peter Gray, when the men who had made the
little child their unconscious decoy broke from their ambush, seized
Anthelia, and taking effectual precautions to stifle her cries, placed
her on one of their horses, and travelled with great rapidity along
narrow and unfrequented ways, till they arrived at a solitary castle on
the sea-shore, where they conveyed her to a splendid suite of
apartments, and left her in solitude, locking, as they retired, the door
of the outer room.
She was utterly unable to comprehend the motive of so extraordinary a
proceeding, or to form any conjecture as to its probable result. An old
woman of a very unmeaning physiognomy shortly after entered, to tender
her services; but to all Anthelia’s questions she only replied with a
shake of the head, and a smile which she meant to be very consolatory.
The old woman retired, and shortly after reappeared with an elegant
dinner, which Anthelia dismissed untouched. ‘There is no harm intended
you, my sweet lady,’ said the old woman; ‘so pray don’t starve
yourself.’ Anthelia assured her she had no such intention, but had no
appetite at that time; but she drank a glass of wine at the old woman’s
earnest entreaty.
In the evening the mystery was elucidated by a visit from Lord Anophel
Achthar; who, falling on his knees before her, entreated her to allow
the violence of his passion to plead his pardon for a proceeding which
nothing but the imminent peril of seeing her in the arms of a rival
could have induced him to adopt. Anthelia replied that, if his object
were to obtain her affections, he had taken the most effectual method to
frustrate his own views; that if he thought by constraint and cruelty to
obtain her hand without her affections, he might be assured that he
would never succeed. Her heart, however, she candidly told him, was no
longer in her power to dispose of; and she hoped, after this frank
avowal, he would see the folly, if not the wickedness, of protracting
his persecution.
He now, still on his knees, broke out into a rhapsody about love, and
hope, and death, and despair, in which he developed the whole treasury
of his exuberant and overflowing folly. He then expatiated on his
expectations, and pointed out all the advantages of wealth and
consequence attached to the title of Marchioness of Agaric, and
concluded by saying that she must be aware so important and decisive a
measure had not been taken without the most grave and profound
deliberation, and that he never could suffer her to make her exit from
Alga Castle in any other character than that of Lady Achthar. He then
left her to meditate on his heroic resolution.
[Illustration: _He flattered himself that Anthelia would at length come
to a determination._]
The next day he repeated his visit—resumed his supplications—reiterated
his determination to persevere—and received from Anthelia the same
reply. She endeavoured to reason with him on the injustice and absurdity
of his proceedings; but he told her the Reverend Mr. Grovelgrub and Mr.
Feathernest the poet had taught him that all reasonings pretending to
point out absurdity and injustice were manifestly jacobinical, which he,
as one of the pillars of the state, was bound not to listen to.
He renewed his visits every day for a week, becoming with every new
visit less humble and more menacing, and consequently more disagreeable
to Anthelia, as the Reverend Mr. Grovelgrub, by whose instructions he
acted, secretly foresaw and designed. The latter now undertook to plead
his Lordship’s cause, and set in a clear point of view to Anthelia the
inflexibility of his Lordship’s resolutions, which, properly expounded,
could not fail to have due weight against the alternatives of protracted
solitude and hopeless resistance.
The reverend gentleman, however, had other views than those he held out
to Lord Anophel, and presented himself to Anthelia with an aspect of
great commiseration. He said he was an unwilling witness of his
Lordship’s unjust proceedings, which he had done all in his power to
prevent, and which had been carried into effect against his will. It was
his firm intention to set her at liberty as soon as he could devise the
means of doing so; but all the outlets of Alga Castle were so guarded
that he had not yet been able to devise any feasible scheme for her
escape; but it should be his sole study night and day to effect it.
Anthelia thanked him for his sympathy, and asked why he could not give
notice to her friends of her situation, which would accomplish the
purpose at once. He replied that Lord Anophel already mistrusted him,
and that if anything of the kind were done, however secretly he might
proceed, the suspicion would certainly fall upon him, and that he should
then be a ruined man, as all his worldly hopes rested on the Marquis of
Agaric. Anthelia offered to make him the utmost compensation for the
loss of the Marquis of Agaric’s favour; but he said that was impossible,
unless she could make him a bishop, as the Marquis of Agaric would do.
His plan, he said, must be to effect her liberation, without seeming to
be himself in any way whatever concerned in it; and though he would
willingly lose everything for her sake, yet he trusted she would not
think ill of him for wishing to wait a few days, that he might try to
devise the means of serving her without ruining himself.
He continued his daily visits of sympathy, sometimes amusing her with a
hopeful scheme, at others detailing with a rueful face the formidable
nature of some unexpected obstacle, hinting continually at his readiness
to sacrifice everything for her sake, lamenting the necessity of delay,
and assuring her that in the meanwhile no evil should happen to her. He
flattered himself that Anthelia, wearied out with the irksomeness of
confinement, and the continual alternations of hope and disappointment,
and contrasting the respectful tenderness of his manner with the
disagreeable system of behaviour to which he had fashioned Lord Anophel,
would at length come to a determination of removing all his difficulties
by offering him her hand and fortune as a compensation for his
anticipated bishopric. It was not, however, very long before Anthelia
penetrated his design; but as she did not deem it prudent to come to a
rupture with him at that time, she continued to listen to his daily
details of plans and impediments, and allowed him to take to himself all
the merit he seemed to assume for supplying her with music and books;
though he expressed himself very much shocked at her asking him for
Gibbon and Rousseau, whose works, he said, ought to be burned _in foro_
by the hands of _Carnifex_.
The windows of her apartment were at an immense elevation from the
beach, as that part of the castle-wall formed a continued line with the
black and precipitous side of the rock on which it stood. During the
greater portion of the hours of daylight she sate near the window with
her harp, gazing on the changeful aspects of the wintry sea, now
slumbering like a summer lake in the sunshine of a halcyon day—now
raging beneath the sway of the tempest, while the dancing snow-flakes
seemed to accumulate on the foam of the billows, and the spray was
hurled back like snow-dust from the rocks. The feelings these scenes
suggested she developed in the following stanzas, to which she adapted a
wild and impassioned air, and they became the favourite song of her
captivity.
[Illustration: _Gazing on the changeful aspects of the wintry sea._]
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.’
[Illustration: _Preparing to administer natural justice by throwing him
out at the window._]
_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; and 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.
[Illustration: _We shall leave them to run_ ad libitum.]
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, whom 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.
[Illustration: ‘_He would confess all._’]
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,[133] 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:[134] 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,[135]
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
_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_.
-----
Footnote 1:
The following is the motto of the title-page of the first
edition:—‘Nous nous moquons des Paladins! quand ces maximes
romanesques commencèrent à devenir ridicules, ce changement fut moins
l’ouvrage de la raison que celui des mauvaises mœurs.’—ROUSSEAU.
Footnote 2:
Written in 1817.—Published in 1818.
Footnote 3:
Hor. Epist. I. ii. 27–30.
Footnote 4:
Junius.
Footnote 5:
For Lucy Gray and Alice Fell, see Mr. Wordsworth’s Lyrical Ballads.
Footnote 6:
Coleridge’s ‘Friend.’
Footnote 7:
‘There is not any burden that some would gladlier post off to
another than the charge and care of their religion. There be of
Protestants and professors who live and die in as arrant and
implicit faith as any lay Papist of Loretto. A wealthy man, addicted
to his pleasure and to his profits, finds religion to be a traffic
so entangled and of so many peddling accounts, that, of all
mysteries, he cannot skill to keep a stock going upon that trade.
What should he do? Fain would he have the name to be religious: fain
would he bear up with his neighbours in that. What does he,
therefore, but resolves to give over toiling, and to find himself
out some factor, to whose care and credit he may commit the whole
management of his religious affairs; some divine of note and
estimation that must be. To him he adheres, resigns the whole
warehouse of his religion, with all the locks and keys, into his
custody, and, indeed, makes the very person of that man his
religion, esteems his associating with him a sufficient evidence and
commendatory of his own piety. So that a man may say, his religion
is now no more within himself, but is become a dividual movable, and
goes and comes near him according as that good man frequents the
house. He entertains him, gives him gifts, feasts him, lodges him:
his religion comes home at night, prays, is liberally supped, and
sumptuously laid to sleep, rises, is saluted, and after the malmsey,
or some well-spiced brewage, and better breakfasted than he whose
morning appetite would have gladly fed on green figs between Bethany
and Jerusalem, his religion walks abroad at eight, and leaves his
kind entertainer in the shop, trading all day without his
religion.’—MILTON’S _Speech for the Liberty of Unlicensed Printing_.
Footnote 8:
‘I think I have established his humanity by proof that ought to
satisfy every one who gives credit to human testimony.’—_Ancient
Metaphysics_, vol. iii. p. 40.
‘I have brought myself to a perfect conviction that the oran outang is
a human creature as much as any of us.’—_Ibid._
‘Nihil humani ei deesse diceres praeter loquelam.’—BONTIUS.
‘The fact truly is, that the man is easily distinguishable in him; nor
are there any differences betwixt him and us, but what may be
accounted for in so satisfactory a manner that it would be
extraordinary and unnatural if they were not to be found. His body,
which is of the same shape as ours, is bigger and stronger than
ours, ... according to that general law of nature above observed
(_that all animals thrive best in their natural state_). His mind is
such as that of a man must be, uncultivated by arts and sciences, and
living wild in the woods.... One thing, at least, is certain: that if
ever men were in that state which I call natural, it must have been in
such a country and climate as Africa, where they could live without
art upon the natural fruits of the earth. “Such countries,” Linnaeus
says, “are the native country of man; there he lives naturally; in
other countries, _non nisi coacte_, that is, by force of art.” If this
be so, then the short history of man is, that the race, having begun
in those fine climates, and having, as is natural, multiplied there so
much that the spontaneous productions of the earth could not support
them, they migrated into other countries, where they were obliged to
invent arts for their subsistence; and with such arts, language, in
process of time, would necessarily come.... That my facts and
arguments are so convincing as to leave no doubt of the humanity of
the oran outang, I will not take upon me to say; but thus much I will
venture to affirm, that I have said enough to make the philosopher
consider it as problematical, and a subject deserving to be inquired
into. _For, as to the vulgar, I can never expect that they should
acknowledge any relation to those inhabitants of the woods of Angola_;
but that they should continue, through a false pride, to think highly
derogatory from human nature what the philosopher, on the contrary,
will think the greatest praise of man, that from the savage state in
which the oran outang is, he should, by his own sagacity and industry,
have arrived at the state in which we now see him.’—_Origin and
Progress of Language_, book ii. chap. 5.
Footnote 9:
‘L’Oran Outang, ou l’homme des bois, est un être particulier à la zone
torride de notre hémisphère: le Pline de la nation qui l’a rangé dans
la classe de singes ne me paroît pas conséquent; car il résulte des
principaux traits de sa description que c’est un homme
dégénère.’—_Philosophie de la Nature._
Footnote 10:
‘The dispositions and affections of his mind are mild, gentle, and
humane.’—_Origin and Progress of Language_, book ii. chap. 4.
‘The oran outang whom Buffon himself saw was of a sweet
temper.’—_Ibid._
Footnote 11:
‘But though I hold the oran outang to be of our species, it must not
be supposed that I think the monkey or ape, with or without a tail,
participates of our nature: on the contrary, I maintain that, however
much his form may resemble man’s, yet he is, as Linnaeus says, of the
Troglodyte, _nec nostri generis nec sanguinis_. For as the mind, or
internal principle, is the chief part of every animal, it is by it
principally that the ancients have distinguished the several species.
Now it is laid down by Mr. Buffon, and I believe it to be a fact that
cannot be contested, that neither monkey, ape, nor baboon, have
anything mild or gentle, tractable or docile, benevolent or humane in
their dispositions; but, on the contrary, are malicious and
untractable, to be governed only by force and fear, and without any
_gravity or composure in their gait or behaviour, such as the oran
outang has_.’—_Origin and Progress of Language_, book ii. chap. 4.
Footnote 12:
‘He is capable of the greatest affection, not only to his brother oran
outangs, but to such among us as use him kindly. And it is a fact well
attested to me by a gentleman who was an eye-witness of it, that an
oran outang on board his ship conceived such an affection for the
cook, that when upon some occasion he left the ship to go ashore, the
gentleman saw the oran outang shed tears in great abundance.’—_Ibid._
book ii. chap. 4.
Footnote 13:
‘One of them was taken, and brought with some negro slaves to the
capital of the kingdom of Malemba. He was a young one, but six feet
and a half tall. Before he came to this city he had been kept some
months in company with the negro slaves, and during that time was tame
and gentle, and took his victuals very quietly; but when he was
brought into the town, such crowds of people came about him to gaze at
him, that he could not bear it, but grew sullen, abstained from food,
and died in four or five days.’—_Ibid._ book ii. chap. 4.
Footnote 14:
‘He has the capacity of being a musician, and has actually learned to
play upon the pipe and harp: a fact attested, not by a common
traveller, but by a man of science, Mr. Peiresc, and who relates it,
not as a hearsay, but as a fact consisting with his own knowledge. And
this is the more to be attended to, as it shows that the oran outang
has a perception of numbers, measure, and melody, which has always
been accounted peculiar to our species. But the learning to speak, as
well as the learning music, must depend upon particular circumstances;
and men living as the oran outangs do, upon the natural fruits of the
earth, with few or no arts, are not in a situation that is proper for
the invention of language. The oran outangs who played upon the pipe
had certainly not invented this art in the woods, but they had learned
it from the negroes or the Europeans; and that they had not at the
same time learned to speak, may be accounted for in one or other of
two ways: either the same pains had not been taken to teach them
articulation; or, secondly, music is more natural to man, and more
easily acquired than speech.’—_Origin and Progress of Language_, book
ii. chap. 5.
Footnote 15:
‘Ces animaux,’ dit M. de la Brosse, ‘ont l’instinct de s’asseoir à
table comme les hommes; ils mangent de tout sans distinction; ils se
servent du couteau, de la cuillère, et de la fourchette, pour prendre
et couper ce qu’on sert sur l’assiette: _ils boivent du vin et
d’autres liqueurs_: nous les portâmes à bord; quand ils étoient à
table ils se faisoient entendre des mousses lorsqu’ils avoient besoin
de quelque chose.’—BUFFON.
Footnote 16:
‘If I can believe the newspapers, there was an oran outang of the
great kind, that was some time ago shipped aboard a French East India
ship. I hope he has had a safe voyage to Europe, and that his
education will be taken care of.’—_Ancient Metaphysics_, vol. iii. p.
40.
Footnote 17:
_Origin and Progress of Language_, book ii. chap. 4.
Footnote 18:
‘Homo nocturnus, Troglodytes, silvestris, orang outang Bontii. Corpus
album, incessu erectum.... Loquitur sibilo, cogitat, ratiocinatur,
credit sui causa factam tellurem, se aliquando iterum fore
imperantem.’—LINNAEUS.
Footnote 19:
‘Il n’a point de queue: ses bras, ses mains, ses doigts, ses ongles,
sont pareils aux nôtres: il marche toujours debout: il a des traits
approchans de ceux de l’homme, des oreilles de la même forme, des
cheveux sur la tête, de la barbe au menton, et du poil ni plus ni
moins que l’homme en a dans l’état de nature. Aussi les habitans de
son pays, les Indiens policés, n’ont pas hésité de l’associer à
l’espèce humaine, par le nom d’oran outang, _homme sauvage_. Si l’on
ne faisoit attention qu’à la figure, on pourroit regarder l’oran
outang comme le premier des singes ou le dernier des hommes, parce
qu’à l’exception de l’âme, il ne lui manque rien de tout ce que nous
avons, et parce qu’il diffère moins de l’homme pour le corps qu’il ne
diffère des autres animaux auxquels on a donné le même nom de
singe.—S’il y avoit un degré par lequel on pût descendre de la nature
humaine à celle des animaux, si l’essence de cette nature consistoit
en entier dans la forme du corps et dépendoit de son organisation,
l’oran outang se trouveroit plus près de l’homme que d’aucun animal:
assis au second rang des êtres, s’il ne pouvoit commander en premier,
il feroit au moins sentir aux autres sa supériorité, et s’efforceroit
à ne pas obéir: si l’imitation qui semble copier de si près la pensée
en étoit le vrai signe ou l’un des résultats, il se trouveroit encore
à une plus grande distance des animaux et plus voisin de
l’homme.’—BUFFON.
‘On est tout étonné, d’après tous ces aveux, que M. de Buffon ne fasse
de l’oran outang qu’une espèce de magot, essentiellement circonscrit
dans les bornes de l’animalité: il falloit, ou infirmer les rélations
des voyageurs, ou s’en tenir à leurs résultats.—Quand on lit dans ce
naturaliste l’histoire du Nègre blanc, on voit que ce bipède diffère
de nous bien plus que l’oran outang, soit par l’organisation, soit par
l’intelligence, et cependant on ne balance pas à le mettre dans la
classe des hommes.’—_Philosophie de la Nature._
Footnote 20:
‘Les jugemens précipités, et qui ne sont point le fruit d’une raison
éclairée, sont sujets à donner dans l’excès. Nos voyageurs font sans
façon des bêtes, sous les noms de pongos, de mandrills, d’oran
outangs, de ces mêmes êtres, dont, sous le nom de satyres, de faunes,
de sylvains, les anciens faisoient des divinités. Peut-être, après des
recherches plus exactes, trouvera-t-on que ce sont des
hommes.’—ROUSSEAU, _Discours sur l’Inégalité_, note 8.
‘Il est presque démontré que les faunes, les satyres, les sylvains,
les ægipans, et toute cette foule de demi-dieux, difformes et
libertins, à qui les filles des Phocion et des Paul Émile s’avisèrent
de rendre hommage, ne furent dans l’origine que des oran outangs. Dans
la suite, les poëtes chargèrent le portrait de l’homme des bois, en
lui donnant des pieds de chèvre, une queue et des cornes; mais le type
primordial resta, et le philosophe l’apperçoit dans les monumens les
plus défigurés par l’imagination d’Ovide et le ciseau de Phidias. Les
anciens, très embarrassés de trouver la filiation de leurs sylvains,
et de leurs satyres, se tirèrent d’affaire en leur donnant des dieux
pour pères: les dieux étoient d’un grand secours aux philosophes des
temps reculés, pour résoudre les problèmes d’histoire naturelle; ils
leur servoient comme les cycles et les épicycles dans le système
planétaire de Ptolomée: avec des cycles et des dieux on répond à tout,
quoiqu’on ne satisfasse personne.’—_Philosophie de la Nature._
Footnote 21:
Orphica, Hymn. XI. (X _Gesn._)
Footnote 22:
The words in italics are from the _Ancient Metaphysics_, vol. iii. pp.
41, 42. Lord Monboddo adds: ‘I hold it to be impossible to convince
any philosopher, or any man of common sense, who has bestowed any time
to consider the mechanism of speech, that such various actions and
configurations of the organs of speech as are necessary for
articulation can be natural to man. Whoever thinks this possible,
should go and see, as I have done, Mr. Braidwood of Edinburgh, or the
Abbé de l’Epée in Paris, teach the dumb to speak; and when he has
observed all the different actions of the organs, which those
professors are obliged to mark distinctly to their pupils with a great
deal of pains and labour, so far from thinking articulation natural to
man, he will rather wonder how, by any teaching or imitation, he
should attain to the ready performance of such various and complicated
operations.’
‘Quoique l’organe de la parole soit naturel à l’homme, la parole
elle-même ne lui est pourtant pas naturelle.’—ROUSSEAU, _Discours sur
l’Inégalité_, note 8.
‘The oran outang, so accurately dissected by Tyson, had exactly the
same organs of voice that a man has.’—_Ancient Metaphysics_, vol. iii.
p. 44.
‘I have been told that the oran outang who is to be seen in Sir Ashton
Lever’s collection, had learned before he died to articulate some
words.’—_Ibid._ p. 40.
Footnote 23:
‘I desire any philosopher to tell me the specific difference between
an oran outang sitting at table, and behaving as M. de la Brosse or M.
Buffon himself has described him, and one of our dumb persons; and in
general I believe it will be very difficult, or rather impossible, for
a man who is accustomed to divide things according to specific marks,
not individual differences, to draw the line betwixt the oran outang
and the dumb persons among us: they have both their organs of
pronunciation, and both show signs of intelligence by their
actions.’—_Origin and Progress of Language_, book ii. chap. 4.
Footnote 24:
_Ancient Metaphysics_, vol. iv. p. 55.
Footnote 25:
‘Toute la terre est couverte de nations, dont nous ne connoissons que
les noms, et nous nous mêlons de juger le genre humain! Supposons un
Montesquieu, un Buffon, un Diderot, un Duclos, un d’Alembert, un
Condillac, ou des hommes de cette trempe, voyageant pour instruire
leurs compatriotes, observant et décrivant comme ils sçavent faire, la
Turquie, l’Égypte, la Barbarie, l’Empire de Maroc, la Guinée, le pays
des Caffres, l’intérieur de l’Afrique et ses côtes orientales, les
Malabares, le Mogol, les rives du Gange, les royaumes de Siam, de Pégu
et d’Ava, la Chine, la Tartarie, et sur-tout le Japon; puis dans
l’autre hémisphère le Méxique, le Pérou, le Chili, les Terres
Magellaniques, sans oublier les Patagons vrais ou faux, le Tucuman, le
Paraguai, s’il étoit possible, le Brésil, enfin les Caraïbes, la
Floride, et toutes les contrées sauvages, voyage le plus important de
tous, et celui qu’il faudroit faire avec le plus de soin; supposons
que ces nouveaux Hercules, de retour de ces courses mémorables,
fissent à loisir l’histoire naturelle, morale, et politique de ce
qu’ils auroient vus, nous verrions nous-mêmes sortir un monde nouveau
de dessous leur plume, et nous apprendrions ainsi à connoître le
nôtre: je dis que quand de pareils observateurs affirmeront d’un tel
animal que c’est un homme, et d’un autre que c’est une bête, il faudra
les en croire: mais ce seroit une grande simplicité de s’en rapporter
là-dessus à des voyageurs grossiers, sur lesquels on seroit
quelquefois tenté de faire la même question qu’ils se mêlent de
résoudre sur d’autres animaux.’—ROUSSEAU, _Discours sur l’Inégalité_,
note 8.
Footnote 26:
ΑΝΩΦΕΛον ΑΧΘος ΑΡουρας. _Terrae pondus inutile._
Footnote 27:
_Agaricus_, in Botany, a genus of plants of the class Cryptogamia,
comprehending the mushroom, and a copious variety of toadstools.
Footnote 28:
ἐγγυς γαρ νυκτος τε και ἡματος εἰσι κελευθοι.
Footnote 29:
‘Ils sont si robustes, dit le traducteur de l’Histoire des Voyages,
que dix hommes ne suffiroient pas pour les arrêter.’—ROUSSEAU.
‘The oran outang is prodigiously strong.’—_Ancient Metaphysics_, vol.
iv. p. 51; vol. v. p. 4.
‘I have heard the natives say, he can throw down a palm-tree, by his
amazing strength, to come at the wine.’—_Letter of a Bristol Merchant
in a note to the Origin and Progress of Language_, book ii. chap. 4.
Footnote 30:
See Louvet’s _Récit de mes Périls_.
Footnote 31:
Rousseau, _Émile_, liv. 5.
Footnote 32:
‘L’issue aucthorise souvent une tres-inepte conduitte. Nostre
entremise n’est quasy qu’une routine, et plus communement
consideration d’usage et d’exemple que de raison.... L’heur et le
malheur sont à mon gré deux souveraines puissances. C’est imprudence
d’estimer que l’humaine prudence puisse remplir le roolle de la
fortune. Et vaine est l’entreprinse de celuy qui presume d’embrasser
et causes et consequences, et meiner par la main le progrez de son
faict.... Qu’on reguarde qui sont les plus puissans aux villes, et
qui font mieulx leurs besongnes, on trouvera ordinairement que ce
sont les moins habiles.... Nous attribuons les effects de leur bonne
fortune à leur prudence.... Parquoy je dy bien, en toutes façons,
que les evenements sont maigres tesmoings de nostre prix et
capacité.’—MONTAIGNE, liv. iii. chap. 8.
Footnote 33:
Ecclesiastes, chap. iv.
Footnote 34:
_Origin and Progress of Language_, book ii. chap. 4.
Footnote 35:
‘I have endeavoured to support the ancient definition of man, and to
show that it belongs to the oran outang, though he have not the use of
speech. And indeed it appears surprising to me that any man,
pretending to be a philosopher, should not be satisfied with the
expression of intelligence in the most useful way for the purposes of
life; I mean by actions; but should require likewise the expression of
them, by those signs of arbitrary institution we call _words_, before
they will allow an animal to deserve the name of _man_. Suppose that,
upon inquiry, it should be found that the oran outangs have not only
invented the art of building huts, and of attacking and defending with
sticks, _but also have contrived a way of communicating to the absent,
and recording their ideas by the method of painting or drawing_, as is
practised by many barbarous nations (and the supposition is not at all
impossible, or even improbable); and suppose they should have
contrived some form of government, and should elect kings or rulers,
which is possible, and, according to the information of the Bristol
merchant above mentioned, is reported to be actually the case, what
would Mr. Buffon then say? Must they still be accounted brutes,
because they have not yet fallen upon the method of communication by
articulate sounds?’—_Origin and Progress of Language_, book ii. chap.
4.
Footnote 36:
Wordsworth’s ‘Tintern Abbey.’
Footnote 37:
The _Iliad_.
Footnote 38:
The _Odyssey_.
Footnote 39:
The _Prometheus_ of Aeschylus.
Footnote 40:
The _Philoctetes_ of Sophocles.
Footnote 41:
The _Hippolytus_ of Euripides.
Footnote 42:
‘Je l’ai vu présenter sa main pour reconduire les gens qui venoient le
visiter; se promener gravement avec eux et comme de compagnie,
etc.’—BUFFON. _H. N. de l’Oran Outang._
Footnote 43:
Fletcher’s ‘Sea Voyage.’
Footnote 44:
Anima certe, quia spiritus est, in sicco habitare non potest.
Footnote 45:
_Edinburgh Review_, No. liii. p. 10.
Footnote 46:
See the preface to the third volume of the _Ancient Metaphysics_. See
also Rousseau’s _Discourse on Inequality_ and that on the _Arts and
Sciences_.
Footnote 47:
nam si Pieria quadrans tibi nullus in umbra
ostendatur, ames nomen victumque Machaerae,
et vendas potius commissa quod auctio vendit, etc.—JUV.
Footnote 48:
‘They use an artificial weapon for attack and defence, viz. a stick,
which no animal merely brute is known to do.’—_Origin and Progress of
Language_, book ii. chap. 4.
Footnote 49:
‘There is a story of one of them, which seems to show they have a
sense of justice as well as honour. For a negro having shot a female
of this kind, that was feeding among his Indian corn, the male, whom
our author calls the husband of this female, pursued the negro into
his house, of which having forced open the door, he seized the negro
and dragged him out of the house to the place where his wife lay dead
or wounded, and the people of the neighbourhood could not rescue the
negro, nor force the oran to quit his hold of him, till they shot him
likewise.’—_Origin and Progress of Language_, book ii. chap. 4.
Footnote 50:
See Chap. IV.
Footnote 51:
‘Homer has said nothing, positively, of the size of any of his heroes,
but only comparatively, as I shall presently observe: nor is this to
be wondered at; for I know no historian, ancient or modern, that says
anything of the size of the men of his own nation, except
comparatively with that of other nations. But in that fine episode of
his, called by the ancient critics the Τειχοσκοπια or _Prospect from
the Walls_, he has given us a very accurate description of the persons
of several of the Greek heroes; which I am persuaded he had from very
good information. In this description he tells us that Ulysses was
shorter than Agamemnon by the head, shorter than Menelaus by the head
and shoulders, and that Ajax was taller than any of the Greeks by the
head and shoulders; consequently, Ulysses was shorter than Ajax by two
heads and shoulders, which we cannot reckon less than four feet. Now,
if we suppose heroes to have been no bigger than we, then Ajax must
have been a man about six feet and a half, or at most seven feet; and
if so Ulysses must have been most contemptibly short, not more than
three feet, which is certainly not the truth, but a most absurd and
ridiculous fiction, such as we cannot suppose in Homer: whereas, if we
allow Ajax to have been twelve or thirteen feet high, and, much more,
if we suppose him to have been eleven cubits, as Philostratus makes
him, Ulysses, though four feet short of him, would have been of a good
size, and, with the extraordinary breadth which Homer observes he had,
may have been as strong a man as Ajax.’—_Ancient Metaphysics_, vol.
iii. p. 146.
Footnote 52:
‘It was only in after-ages, when the size of men was greatly
decreased, that the bodies of those heroes, if they happened to be
discovered, were, as was natural, admired and exactly measured. Such a
thing happened in Laconia, where the body of Orestes was discovered,
and found to be of length seven cubits, that is, ten feet and a half.
The story is most pleasantly told by Herodotus, and is to this effect:
The Lacedemonians were engaged in a war with the Tegeatae, a people of
Arcadia, in which they were unsuccessful. They consulted the oracle at
Delphi, what they should do in order to be more successful. The oracle
answered ‘That they must bring to Sparta the bones of Orestes, the son
of Agamemnon.’ But these bones they could not find, and therefore they
sent again to the oracle to inquire where Orestes lay buried. The god
answered in hexameter verse, but so obscurely and enigmatically that
they could not understand what he meant. They went about inquiring
everywhere for the bones of Orestes, till at last a wise man among
them, called by Herodotus _Liches_, found them out, partly by good
fortune, and partly by good understanding; for, happening to come one
day to a smith’s shop in the country of the Tegeatae, with whom at
that time there was a truce and intercourse betwixt the two nations,
he looked at the operations of the smith, and seemed to admire them
very much; which the smith observing, stopped his work, and,
“Stranger,” says he, “you that seem to admire so much the working of
iron would have wondered much more if you had seen what I saw lately;
for, as I was digging for a well in this court here, I fell upon a
coffin that was seven cubits long; but _believing that there never
were at any time bigger men than the present_, I opened the coffin,
and found there a dead body as long as the coffin, which having
measured I again buried.” Hearing this, the Spartan conjectured that
the words of the oracle would apply to a smith’s shop, and to the
operations there performed; but taking care not to make this discovery
to the smith, he prevailed on him, with much difficulty, to give him a
lease of the court; which having obtained, he opened the coffin, and
carried the bones to Sparta. After which, says our author, the
Spartans were upon every occasion superior in fight to the
Tegeatae.’—_Ancient Metaphysics_, vol. iii. p. 146.
‘The most of our philosophers at present are, I believe, of the
opinion of the smith in Herodotus, who might be excused for having
that opinion at a time when perhaps no other heroic body had been
discovered. But in later times, I believe there was not the most
vulgar man in Greece, who did not believe that those heroes were very
much superior, both in mind and body, to the men of after-times.
Indeed, they were not considered as mere men, but as something betwixt
gods and men, and had _heroic_ honours paid them, which were next to
the _divine_. On the stage they were represented as of extraordinary
size, both as to length and breadth; for the actor was not only raised
upon very high shoes, which they called _cothurns_, but he was put
into a case that swelled his size prodigiously (and I have somewhere
read a very ridiculous story of one of them, who, coming upon the
stage, fell and broke his case, so that all the trash with which it
was stuffed, came out and was scattered upon the stage in the view of
the whole people). This accounts for the high style of ancient
tragedy, in which the heroes speak a language so uncommon, that, if I
considered them as men nowise superior to us, I should think it little
better than fustian, and should be apt to apply to it what Falstaff
says to Pistol: “Pr’ythee, Pistol, speak like a man of this world.”
And I apply the same observation to Homer’s poems. If I considered his
heroes as no more than men of this world, I should consider the things
he relates of them as quite ridiculous; but believing them to be men
very much superior to us, I read Homer with the highest admiration,
not only as a poet, but as the historian of the noblest race of men
that ever existed. Thus, by having right notions of the superiority of
men in former times, we both improve our philosophy of man and our
taste in poetry.’—_Ancient Metaphysics_, vol. iii. p. 150.
Footnote 53:
‘But though we should give no credit to those ancient authors, there
are monuments still extant, one particularly to be seen in our own
island, which I think ought to convince every man that the men of
ancient times were much superior to us, at least in the powers of the
body. The monument I mean is well known by the name of Stonehenge, and
there are several of the same kind to be seen in Denmark and Germany.
I desire to know where are the arms now, that, with so little help of
machinery as they must have had, could have raised and set up on end
such a number of prodigious stones, and put others on the top of them,
likewise of very great size? Such works are said by the peasants in
Germany to be the works of giants, and I think they must have been
giants compared with us. And, indeed, the men who erected Stonehenge
could not, I imagine, be of size inferior to that man whose body was
found in a quarry near to Salisbury, within a mile of which Stonehenge
stands. The body of that man was fourteen feet ten inches. The fact is
attested by an eye-witness, one Elyote, who writes, I believe, the
first English-Latin Dictionary that ever was published. It is printed
in London in 1542, in folio, and has, under the word _Gigas_, the
following passage: “About thirty years past and somewhat more, I
myself beynge with my father Syr Rycharde Elyote at a monastery of
regular canons, called Juy Churche, two myles from the citie of
Sarisburye, beholde the bones of a deade man founde deep in the
grounde, where they dygged stone, which being joined togyther, was in
length xiiii feet and ten ynches, there beynge mette; whereof one of
the teethe my father hadde, whych was of the quantytie of a great
walnutte. This have I wrytten, because some menne wylle believe
nothynge that is out of the compasse of theyre owne knowledge, and yet
some of them presume to have knowledge, above any other, contempnynge
all men but themselfes or suche as they favour.” It is for the reason
mentioned by this author that I have given so many examples of the
greater size of men than is to be seen in our day, to which I could
add several others concerning bodies that have been found in this our
island, particularly one mentioned by Hector Boece in his _Description
of Scotland_, prefixed to his Scotch History, where he tells us that
in a certain church which he names in the shire of Murray, the bones
of a man of much the same size as those of the man mentioned by
Elyote, viz. fourteen feet, were preserved. One of these bones Boece
himself saw, and has particularly described.’—_Ancient Metaphysics_,
vol. iii. p. 156.
‘But without having recourse to bones or monuments of any kind, if a
man has looked upon the world as long as I have done with any
observation he must be convinced that the size of man is diminishing.
I have seen such bodies of men as are not now to be seen: I have
observed in families, of which I have known three generations, a
gradual decline in that, and I am afraid in other respects. Others may
think otherwise; but for my part I have so great a veneration for our
ancestors, that I have much indulgence for that ancient superstition
among the Etrurians, and from them derived to the Romans, of
worshipping the _manes_ of their ancestors under the names of _Lares_
or domestic gods, which undoubtedly proceeded upon the supposition
that they were men superior to themselves, and their departed souls
such genii as Hesiod has described,
ἐσθλοι, ἀλεξικακοι, φυλακες θνητων ἀνθρωπων.
And if antiquity and the universal consent of nations can give a
sanction to any opinion, it is to this, that our forefathers were
better men than we. Even as far back as the Trojan war, the best age
of men of which we have any particular account, Homer has said that
few men were better than their fathers, and the greater part worse:
οἱ πλεονες κακιους, παυροι δε τε πατρος ἀρειους.
And this he puts into the mouth of the Goddess of Wisdom.... But when
I speak of the universal consent of nations, I ought to except the
men, and particularly the young men, of this age, who generally
believe themselves to be better men than their fathers, or than any of
their predecessors.’—_Ancient Metaphysics_, vol. iii. p. 161.
Footnote 54:
ἡμεις μεν προπαν ἡμαρ, ἐς ἡελιον καταδυντα,
ἡμεθα, δαινυμενοι κρεα τ’ ἀσπετα και μεθυ ἡδυ κτλ.
Footnote 55:
The nightingale is gay,
For she can vanquish night,
Dreaming, she sings of day,
Notes that make darkness bright.
But when the refluent gloom
Saddens the gaps of song,
We charge on her the dolefulness,
And call her crazed with wrong.—PATMORE.
Footnote 56:
Hudibras, Part III. ii. 1493.
Footnote 57:
See Forsyth’s _Principles of Moral Science_.
Footnote 58:
‘Il buvoit du vin, mais le laissoit volontiers pour du lait, du thé,
ou d’autres liqueurs douces.’—BUFFON _of the Oran Outang, whom he saw
himself in Paris_.
Footnote 59:
See Mr. Wordsworth’s Lyrical Ballads.
Footnote 60:
The figures of speech marked in italics are familiar to the admirers
of parliamentary rhetoric.
Footnote 61:
_Supplices_, 807, ed. Schutz.
Footnote 62:
Matthew xi. 19.
Footnote 63:
‘He that will mould a modern bishop into a primitive, must yield him
to be elected by the popular voice, undiocesed, unrevenued, unlorded,
and leave him nothing but brotherly equality, matchless temperance,
frequent fasting, incessant prayer and preaching, continual watchings
and labours in his ministry, which, what a rich booty it would be,
what a plump endowment to the many-benefice-gaping mouth of a prelate,
what a relish it would give to his canary-sucking and swan-eating
palate, let old bishop Mountain judge for me.—They beseech us, that we
would think them fit to be our justices of peace, our lords, our
highest officers of state, though they come furnished with no more
knowledge than they learnt between the cook and the manciple, or more
profoundly at the college audit, or the regent house, or to come to
their deepest insight, at their patron’s table.’—MILTON: _Of
Reformation in England_.
Footnote 64:
‘Much have those travellers to answer for, whose casual intercourse
with this innocent and simple people tends to corrupt them:
disseminating among them ideas of extravagance and dissipation—giving
them a taste for pleasures and gratifications of which they had no
ideas—inspiring them with discontent at home—and tainting their rough
industrious manners with idleness and a thirst after dishonest means.
‘If travellers would frequent this country with a view to examine its
grandeur and beauty, or to explore its varied and curious regions with
the eye of philosophy—if, in their passage through it, they could be
content with such fare as the country produces, or at least reconcile
themselves to it by manly exercise and fatigue (for there is a time
when the stomach and the plainest food will be found in perfect
harmony)—if they could thus, instead of corrupting the manners of an
innocent people, learn to amend their own, by seeing in how narrow a
compass the wants of human life may be compressed—a journey through
these wild scenes might be attended, perhaps, with more improvement
than a journey to Rome or Paris. Where manners are polished into
vicious refinement, simplifying is the best mode of improving; and the
example of innocence is a more instructive lesson than any that can be
taught by artists and literati.
‘But these parts are too often the resort of gay company, who are
under no impressions of this kind—who have no ideas but of extending
the sphere of their amusements, or of varying a life of dissipation.
The grandeur of the country is not taken into the question, or at
least it is not otherwise considered than as affording some new mode
of pleasurable enjoyment. Thus, even the diversions of Newmarket are
introduced—diversions, one would imagine, more foreign to the nature
of this country than any other. A number of horses are carried into
the middle of the lake in a flat boat: a plug is drawn from the
bottom: the boat sinks, and the horses are left floating on the
surface. In different directions they make to land, and the horse
which arrives soonest secures the prize.’—GILPIN’S _Picturesque
Observations on Cumberland and Westmoreland_, vol. ii. p. 67.
Footnote 65:
‘The necessary consequence of men living in so unnatural a way with
respect to houses, clothes, and diet, and continuing to live so for
many generations, each generation adding to the vices, diseases, and
weaknesses produced by the unnatural life of the preceding, is, that
they must gradually decline in strength, health, and longevity, till
at length the race dies out. To deny this would be to deny that the
life allotted by nature to man is the best life for the preservation
of his health and strength; for, if it be so, I think it is
demonstration that the constant deviation from it, going on for many
centuries, must end in the extinction of the race.’—_Ancient
Metaphysics_, vol. v. p. 237.
Footnote 66:
‘Rome, le siège de la gloire et de la vertu, si jamais elles en eurent
un sur la terre.’—ROUSSEAU.
Footnote 67:
——extrema per illos
Justitia, excedens terris, vestigia fecit.—VIRG.
Footnote 68:
_Ancient Metaphysics_, vol. v. book iv. chap. 8.
Footnote 69:
_Ancient Metaphysics_, vol. v. book iv. chap. 8.
Footnote 70:
See _Xenophon’s Memorabilia_.
Footnote 71:
_Ancient Metaphysics_, vol. v. book iv. chap. 8.
Footnote 72:
si tantum culti solus possederis agri,
quantum sub Tatio populus Romanus arabat.—JUV.
Footnote 73:
_Ancient Metaphysics_, vol. v. book iv. chap. 8.
Footnote 74:
‘Pochi compagni avrai per l’altra via:
Tanto ti prego più, gentile spirto,
Non lasciar la magnanima tua impresa.’—PETRARCA.
Footnote 75:
‘If it were seriously asked (and it would be no untimely question),
who of all teachers and masters that have ever taught hath drawn the
most disciples after him, both in religion and in manners, it might be
not untruly answered, Custom. Though Virtue be commended for the most
persuasive in her theory, and Conscience in the plain demonstration of
the spirit finds most evincing; yet, whether it be the secret of
divine will, or the original blindness we are born in, so it happens
for the most part that Custom still is silently received for the best
instructor. Except it be because her method is so glib and easy, in
some manner like to that vision of Ezekiel, rolling up her sudden book
of implicit knowledge, for him that will to take and swallow down at
pleasure; which proving but of bad nourishment in the concoction, as
it was heedless in the devouring, puffs up unhealthily a certain big
face of pretended learning, mistaken among credulous men for the
wholesome habit of soundness and good constitution, but is, indeed, no
other than that swoln visage of counterfeit knowledge and literature
which not only in private mars our education, but also in public is
the common climber into every chair where either religion is preached
or law reported, filling each estate of life and profession with
abject and servile principles, depressing the high and heaven-born
spirit of man, far beneath the condition wherein either God created
him, or sin hath sunk him. To pursue the allegory, Custom being but a
mere face, as Echo is a mere voice, rests not in her unaccomplishment,
until by secret inclination she accorporate herself with Error, who
being a blind and serpentine body, without a head, willingly accepts
what he wants, and supplies what her incompleteness went seeking:
hence it is that Error supports Custom, Custom countenances Error, and
these two, between them, would persecute and chase away all truth and
solid wisdom out of human life, were it not that God, rather than man,
once in many ages calls together the prudent and religious counsels of
men deputed to repress the encroachments, and to work off the
inveterate blots and obscurities wrought upon our minds by the subtle
insinuating of Error and Custom, who, with the numerous and vulgar
train of their followers, make it their chief design to envy and cry
down the industry of free reasoning, under the terms of humour and
innovation, as if the womb of teeming Truth were to be closed up, if
she presume to bring forth aught that sorts not with their unchewed
notions and suppositions; against which notorious injury and abuse of
man’s free soul, to testify and oppose the utmost that study and true
labour can attain, heretofore the incitement of men reputed grave hath
led me among others, and now the duty and the right of an instructed
Christian calls me through the chance of good or evil report TO BE THE
SOLE ADVOCATE OF A DISCOUNTENANCED TRUTH.’—MILTON: _The Doctrine and
Discipline of Divorce_.
Footnote 76:
Ιλ. Ζ. 261.
Footnote 77:
The words in italics are Lord Monboddo’s: _Ancient Metaphysics_, vol.
iii. preface, p. 79.
Footnote 78:
ῥιζῃ μεν μελαν ἐστι, γαλακτι δε εἰκελον ἀνθος,
ΜΩΛΥ δε μιν καλεουσι θεοι, χαλεπον δε τ’ ὀρυσσειν
θνητοις ἀνθρωποισι.
Footnote 79:
The reader who is desirous of elucidating the mysteries of the words
and phrases marked in italics in this chapter may consult the German
works of Professor Kant, or Professor Born’s Latin translation of
them, or M. Villar’s _Philosophie de Kant, ou Principes fondamentaux
de la Philosophie Transcendentale_; or the first article of the second
number of the _Edinburgh Review_, or the article ‘Kant,’ in the
_Encyclopaedia Londinensis_, or Sir William Drummond’s _Academical
Questions_, book ii. chap. 9.
Footnote 80:
Πρωτευς Ὀλβοδοτης, _Proteus the giver of riches_, certainly deserves a
place among the _Lares_ of every poetical and political turncoat.
Footnote 81:
See the Βατραχοι of Aristophanes.
Footnote 82:
informi limo glaucaque exponit in ulva.
Footnote 83:
_Coleridge’s Lay Sermon_, p. 10.
Footnote 84:
_Ibid._
Footnote 85:
_Ibid._ p. 21.
Footnote 86:
_Ibid._ p. 25.
Footnote 87:
_Ibid._ p. 27.
Footnote 88:
_Ibid._ pp. 45, 46 (where the reader may find in a note the two worst
jokes that ever were cracked).
Footnote 89:
_Ibid._ p. 17.
Footnote 90:
‘Some travellers speak of his strength as wonderful; greater they say,
than that of ten men such as we.’—_Ancient Metaphysics_, vol. iii. p.
105.
Footnote 91:
_Esquisse d’un Tableau historique des Progrès de l’Esprit humain._
Footnote 92:
_Ancient Metaphysics_, vol. iii. p. 139.
Footnote 93:
_Ibid._ p. 193.
Footnote 94:
_Ibid._ p. 191.
Footnote 95:
_Ancient Metaphysics_, vol. iii. p. 181.
Footnote 96:
_Ibid._ p. 182.
Footnote 97:
Cottle’s Edda, or, as the author calls it, _Translation_ of the Edda,
which is a misnomer.
Footnote 98:
_Quarterly Review_, No. xxxi. p. 237.
Footnote 99:
_Ibid._
Footnote 100:
_Ibid._ p. 252.
Footnote 101:
_Quarterly Review_, No. xxxi. p. 252.
Footnote 102:
_Ibid._
Footnote 103:
_Quarterly Review_, No. xxxi. p. 226.
Footnote 104:
_Ibid._
Footnote 105:
_Ibid._ p. 236.
Footnote 106:
_Ibid._ p. 226.
Footnote 107:
_Ibid._ p. 228.
Footnote 108:
_Ibid._
Footnote 109:
_Quarterly Review_, No. xxxi. p. 273, _et passim_.
Footnote 110:
_Ibid._ p. 258.
Footnote 111:
_Ibid._
Footnote 112:
_Quarterly Review_, No. xxxi. p. 249. It is curious, that in the
fourth article of the same number from which I have borrowed so many
exquisite passages, the reviewers are very angry that certain
‘scandalous and immoral practices’ in the island of Wahoo are not
reformed: but certainly, according to the logic of these reviewers,
the Government of Wahoo is entitled to look upon _them_ in the light
of ‘ruffians, scoundrels, incendiaries, firebrands, madmen, and
villains’; since all these hard names belong of primary right to those
who propose the reformation of ‘scandalous and immoral practices’! The
people of Wahoo, it appears, are very much addicted to drunkenness and
debauchery; and the reviewers, in the plenitude of their wisdom,
recommend that a few clergymen should be sent out to them, by way of
mending their morals. It does not appear, whether King Tamaahmaah is a
king by _divine right_; but we must take it for granted that he is
not; as, otherwise, the _Quarterly Reviewers_ would either not admit
that there were any ‘scandalous and immoral practices’ under his
government, or, if they did admit them, they would not be such
‘incendiaries, madmen, and villains,’ as to advocate their
reformation. There are some circumstances, however, which are
conclusive against the _legitimacy_ of King Tamaahmaah, which are
these: that he is a man of great ‘feeling, energy, and steadiness of
conduct’; that he ‘goes about among his people to learn their wants’;
and that he has ‘prevented the recurrence of those horrid murders’
which disgraced the reigns of his predecessors: from which it is
obvious that he has neither put to death brave and generous men, who
surrendered themselves under the faith of treaties, nor re-established
a fallen Inquisition, nor sent those to whom he owed his crown to the
dungeon and the galleys.
In the tenth article of the same number the reviewers pour forth the
bitterness of their gall against Mr. Warden of the Northumberland, who
has detected them in promulgating much gross and foolish falsehood
concerning the captive Napoleon. They labour most assiduously to
_impeach his veracity_ and to _discredit his judgment_. On the first
point, it is sufficient evidence of the truth of his statements, that
the _Quarterly Reviewers_ contradict them: but on the second, they
accuse him, among other misdemeanours, of having called their _Review_
‘_a respectable work_‘! which certainly _discredits his judgment_
completely.
Footnote 113:
_Quarterly Review_, No. xxxi. p. 249. The reader will be reminded of
_Croaker_ in the fourth act of the _Good-natured Man_: ‘Blood and
gunpowder in every line of it. Blown up! murderous dogs! all blown up!
(_Reads._) “Our pockets are low, and money we must have.” Ay, there’s
the reason: they’ll blow us up _because they have got low pockets_....
Perhaps this moment I’m treading on lighted matches, blazing
brimstone, and barrels of gunpowder. They are preparing to blow me up
into the clouds. Murder!... Here, John, Nicodemus, search the house.
Look into the cellars, to see if there be any combustibles below, and
above in the apartments, that no matches be thrown in at the windows.
_Let all the fires be put out_, and let the _engine_ be drawn out in
the yard, to _play upon the house_ in case of necessity.’—_Croaker_
was a deep politician. The _engine_ to _play_ upon the _house_: mark
that!
Footnote 114:
This illustration of the old fable of the mouse and the mountain falls
short of an exhibition in the Honourable House, on the 29th of January
1817; when Mr. Canning, amidst a tremendous denunciation of the
parliamentary reformers, and a rhetorical chaos of storms, whirlwinds,
rising suns, and twilight assassins, produced in proof of his
charges—_Spence’s Plan!_ which was received with an _éclat_ of
laughter on one side, and shrugs of surprise, disappointment, and
disapprobation on the other. I can find but one parallel for the Right
Honourable Gentleman’s dismay:
So having said, awhile he stood, expecting
Their universal shout and high applause
To fill his ear; when contrary he hears
On all sides, from innumerable tongues,
A dismal universal hiss, the sound
Of public scorn.—_Paradise Lost_, x. 504.
This Spencean chimaera, which is the very foolishness of folly, and
which was till lately invisible to the naked eye of the political
entomologist, has since been subjected to a _lens_ of _extraordinary
power_, under which, like an insect in a microscope, it has appeared a
formidable and complicated monster, all bristles, scales, and claws,
with a ‘husk about it like a chestnut’: _horridus, in jaculis et pelle
Libystidis ursae!_
Footnote 115:
_Quarterly Review_, No. xxxi. p. 271.
Footnote 116:
_Ibid._
Footnote 117:
_Ibid._ p. 258.
Footnote 118:
_Ibid._
Footnote 119:
_Ibid._ p. 273.
Footnote 120:
_Quarterly Review_, No. xxxi. p. 276.
Footnote 121:
_Ibid._ p. 260.
Footnote 122:
_Ibid._ p. 192.
Footnote 123:
‘To scatter praise or blame without regard to justice is to destroy
the distinction of good and evil. Many have no other test of actions
than general opinion; and all are so far influenced by a sense of
reputation, that they are often restrained by fear of reproach, and
excited by hope of honour, when other principles have lost their
power; nor can any species of prostitution promote general depravity
more, than that which destroys the force of praise by showing that it
may be acquired without deserving it, and which, by setting free the
active and ambitious from the dread of infamy, lets loose the rapacity
of power, and weakens the only authority by which greatness is
controlled. What credit can he expect who professes himself the
hireling of vanity however profligate, and without shame or scruple
celebrates the worthless, dignifies the mean, and gives to the
corrupt, licentious, and oppressive, the ornaments which ought only to
add grace to truth, and loveliness to innocence? EVERY OTHER KIND OF
ADULTERATION, HOWEVER SHAMEFUL, HOWEVER MISCHIEVOUS, IS LESS
DETESTABLE THAN THE CRIME OF COUNTERFEITING CHARACTERS, AND FIXING THE
STAMP OF LITERARY SANCTION UPON THE DROSS AND REFUSE OF THE
WORLD.’—_Rambler_, No. 136.
Footnote 124:
Deorum injurias diis curae.—_Tiberius apud Tacit. Ann. I._ 73.
Footnote 125:
‘Besides all these evils of modern times which I have mentioned, there
is in some countries of Europe, and particularly in England, another
evil peculiar to civilised countries, but quite unknown in barbarous
nations. The evil I mean is _indigence_, and the reader will be
surprised when I tell him that it is _greatest in the richest
countries_; and, therefore, in England, which I believe is the richest
country in Europe, there is more indigence than in any other; for the
number of people that are there maintained on public or private
charity, and who may therefore be called _beggars_, is prodigious.
What proportion they may bear to the whole people, I have never heard
computed: but I am sure it must be very great. And I am afraid in
those countries they call rich, indigence is not confined to the lower
sort of people, but extends even to the better sort: for such is the
effect of wealth in a nation, that (however paradoxical it may appear)
it does at last make all men poor and indigent; the lower sort through
idleness and debauchery, the better sort through luxury, vanity, and
extravagant expense. Now, I would desire to know from the greatest
admirers of modern times, who maintain that the human race is not
degenerated, but rather improved, whether they know any other source
of human misery, besides vice, disease, and indigence, and whether
these three are not in the greatest abundance in the rich and
flourishing country of England? I would further ask these gentlemen,
whether, in the cities of the ancient world, there were poor’s houses,
hospitals, infirmaries, and those other receptacles of indigence and
disease which we see in the modern cities? And whether, in the streets
of ancient Athens and Rome, there were so many objects of disease,
deformity, and misery to be seen as in our streets, besides those
which are concealed from public view in the houses above mentioned? In
later times, indeed, in those cities, when the corruption of manners
was almost as great as among us, some such things might have been seen
as we are sure they were to be seen in Constantinople, under the later
Greek Emperors.’—_Ancient Metaphysics_, vol. iii. p. 194.
Footnote 126:
‘Omnia, quae nunc vetustissima creduntur, nova fuere. Inveterascet hoc
quoque: et, quod hodie exemplis tuemur, inter exempla erit.’—TACITUS,
_Ann. XI._ 24.
Footnote 127:
_Drummond’s Academical Questions._—Preface, p. 4.
Footnote 128:
_Ancient Metaphysics_, vol. iii. p. 280.
Footnote 129:
_Malthus on Population_, book i. chap. vii.
Footnote 130:
Sophocles, Antigone, 850. (Ed. Erfurdt.)
Footnote 131:
‘It is notorious, that towards one another the Indians are liberal in
the extreme, and for ever ready to supply the deficiencies of their
neighbours with any superfluities of their own. They have no idea of
amassing wealth for themselves individually; and they wonder that
persons can be found in any society so destitute of every generous
sentiment as to enrich themselves at the expense of others, and to
live in ease and affluence regardless of the misery and wretchedness
of members of the same community to which they themselves
belong.’—WELD’S _Travels in Canada; Letter XXXV._
Footnote 132:
See the Edda and the Northern Antiquities.
Footnote 133:
‘The civilised man will submit to the greatest pain and labour, in
order to excel in any exercise which is honourable; and this induces
me to believe that such a man as Achilles might have beat in running
even an oran outang, or the savage of the Pyrenees, whom nobody could
lay hold of, though that be the exercise in which savages excel the
most, and though I am persuaded that the oran outang of Angola is
naturally stronger and swifter of foot than Achilles was, or than even
the heroes of the preceding age, such as Hercules, and such as
Theseus, Pirithous, and others mentioned by Nestor.’—_Ancient
Metaphysics_, vol. iii. p. 76.
Footnote 134:
See Fletcher’s _Faithful Shepherdess_. The following extracts from the
Satyr’s speeches to Corin will explain the allusion in the text.
But behold a fairer sight!
By that heavenly form of thine,
Brightest fair! thou art divine!
Sprung from great immortal race
Of the gods; for in thy face
Shines more awful majesty
Than dull weak mortality
Dare with misty eyes behold,
And live! Therefore on this mould
Lowly do I bend my knee,
In worship of thy deity.
_Act I. Scene I._
Brightest! if there be remaining
Any service, without feigning
I will do it: were I set
To catch the nimble wind, or get
Shadows gliding on the green,
Or to steal from the great queen
Of the fairies all her beauty,
I would do it, so much duty
Do I owe those precious eyes.
_Act IV. Scene II._
Thou divinest, fairest, brightest,
Thou most powerful maid, and whitest,
Thou most virtuous and most blessed,
Eyes of stars, and golden tressed
Like Apollo. Tell me, sweetest,
What new service now is meetest
For the Satyr? Shall I stray
In the middle air, and stay
The sailing rack? or nimbly take
Hold by the moon, and gently make
Suit to the pale queen of night
For a beam to give thee light?
Shall I dive into the sea,
And bring thee coral, making way
Through the rising waves that fall
In snowy fleeces? Dearest, shall
I catch thee wanton fauns, or flies
Whose woven wings the summer dyes
Of many colours? Get thee fruit?
Or steal from heaven old Orpheus’ lute?
All these I’ll venture for, and more,
To do her service all these woods adore.
_Act V. Scene V._
Footnote 135:
‘There are very few women who might not have married in some way or
other. The old maid, who has either never formed an attachment, or who
has been disappointed in the object of it, has, under the
circumstances in which she has been placed, conducted herself with the
most perfect propriety; and has acted a much more virtuous and
honourable part in society than those women who marry without a proper
degree of love, or at least of esteem, for their husbands; a species
of immorality which is not reprobated as it deserves.’—_Malthus on
Population_, book iv.
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with the Birds.= Illustrated by BRYAN HOOK.
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HENRY KINGSLEY.—=Tales of Old Travel.=
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AMY LEVY.—=Reuben Sachs.=
S. R. LYSAGHT.—=The Marplot.=
LORD LYTTON.—=The Ring of Amasis.=
M. M’LENNAN.—=Muckle Jock, and other Stories of Peasant Life.=
LUCAS MALET.—=Mrs. Lorimer.=
GUSTAVE MASSON.—=A French Dictionary.=
A. B. MITFORD.—=Tales of Old Japan.=
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THE WORKS OF SHAKESPEARE. Vol. I. =Comedies.= Vol. II. =Histories.= Vol.
III. =Tragedies.= 3 vols.
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MARCHESA THEODOLI.—=Under Pressure.=
“TIMES” Summaries.—=Biographies of Eminent Persons.= In 4 vols.—=Annual
Summaries.= In 2 vols.
Mrs. HUMPHRY WARD.—=Miss Bretherton.=
MONTAGU WILLIAMS, Q.C.—=Leaves of a Life.=—=Later Leaves.=—=Round
London: Down East, and Up West.=
=Hogan, M.P.=—=Tim.=—=The New Antigone.=
MACMILLAN AND CO., LONDON.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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