Complete Works of Thomas Love Peacock

by Thomas Love Peacock

  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,’) 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 melanch
oly, 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, 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?’

  ‘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 reechoing 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.

  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 Houhynnhmns, 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 descen
ded 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.

  ‘And pray,’ said Sir Telegraph, as the barouche dis-

  appeared 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 beéves of the pious fraternity.