Nightmare Abbey by Thomas Love Peacock (top 10 best books of all time txt) 📕

long been anxiously expected by the whole host of fashionable readers; and the last number of a popular Review, of which the editor and his coadjutors were in high favour at court, and enjoyed ample pensions5 for their services to church and state. As Fatout left the room, Mr. Flosky entered, and curiously inspected the literary arrivals. Mr. Flosky

Turning over the leaves. “Devilman, a novel.” Hm. Hatred⁠—revenge⁠—misanthropy⁠—and quotations from the Bible. Hm. This is the morbid anatomy of black bile.⁠—“Paul Jones, a poem.” Hm. I see how it is. Paul Jones, an amiable enthusiast⁠—disappointed in his affections⁠—turns pirate from ennui and magnanimity⁠—cuts various masculine throats, wins various feminine hearts⁠—is hanged at the yardarm! The catastrophe is very awkward, and very unpoetical.⁠—“The Downing Street Review.” Hm. First article⁠—An Ode to the Red Book, by Roderick Sackbut, Esquire. Hm. His own poem reviewed by himself. Hm⁠—m⁠—m.

Mr. Flosky proceeded in silence to look over the other articles of the review; Marionetta inspected the novel, and Mr. Listless the poem.

The Reverend Mr. Larynx

For a young man of fashion and family, Mr. Listless, you seem to be of a very studious turn.

The Honourable Mr. Listless

Studious! You are pleased to be facetious, Mr. Larynx. I hope you do not suspect me of being studious. I have finished my education. But there are some fashionable books that one must read, because they are ingredients of the talk of the day; otherwise, I am no fonder of books than I dare say you yourself are, Mr. Larynx.

The Reverend Mr. Larynx

Why, sir, I cannot say that I am indeed particularly fond of books; yet neither can I say that I never do read. A tale or a poem, now and then, to a circle of ladies over their work, is no very heterodox employment of the vocal energy. And I must say, for myself, that few men have a more Job-like endurance of the eternally recurring questions and answers that interweave themselves, on these occasions, with the crisis of an adventure, and heighten the distress of a tragedy.

The Honourable Mr. Listless

And very often make the distress when the author has omitted it.

Marionetta

I shall try your patience some rainy morning, Mr. Larynx; and Mr. Listless shall recommend us the very newest new book, that everybody reads.

The Honourable Mr. Listless

You shall receive it, Miss O’Carroll, with all the gloss of novelty; fresh as a ripe greengage in all the downiness of its bloom. A mail-coach copy from Edinburgh, forwarded express from London.

Mr. Flosky

This rage for novelty is the bane of literature. Except my works and those of my particular friends, nothing is good that is not as old as Jeremy Taylor: and, entre nous, the best parts of my friends’ books were either written or suggested by myself.

The Honourable Mr. Listless

Sir, I reverence you. But I must say, modern books are very consolatory and congenial to my feelings. There is, as it were, a delightful northeast wind, an intellectual blight breathing through them; a delicious misanthropy and discontent, that demonstrates the nullity of virtue and energy, and puts me in good humour with myself and my sofa.

Mr. Flosky

Very true, sir. Modern literature is a northeast wind⁠—a blight of the human soul. I take credit to myself for having helped to make it so. The way to produce fine fruit is to blight the flower. You call this a paradox. Marry, so be it. Ponder thereon.

The conversation was interrupted by the reappearance of Mr. Toobad, covered with mud. He just showed himself at the door, muttered “The devil is come among you!” and vanished. The road which connected Nightmare Abbey with the civilised world, was artificially raised above the level of the fens, and ran through them in a straight line as far as the eye could reach, with a ditch on each side, of which the water was rendered invisible by the aquatic vegetation that covered the surface. Into one of these ditches the sudden action of a shy horse, which took fright at a windmill, had precipitated the travelling chariot of Mr. Toobad, who had been reduced to the necessity of scrambling in dismal plight through the window. One of the wheels was found to be broken; and Mr. Toobad, leaving the postilion to get the chariot as well as he could to Claydyke for the purpose of cleaning and repairing, had walked back to Nightmare Abbey, followed by his servant with the imperial, and repeating all the way his favourite quotation from the Revelations.

VI

Mr. Toobad had found his daughter Celinda in London, and after the first joy of meeting was over, told her he had a husband ready for her. The young lady replied, very gravely, that she should take the liberty to choose for herself. Mr. Toobad said he saw the devil was determined to interfere with all his projects, but he was resolved on his own part, not to have on his conscience the crime of passive obedience and nonresistance to Lucifer, and therefore she should marry the person he had chosen for her. Miss Toobad replied, très posément, she assuredly would not. “Celinda, Celinda,” said Mr. Toobad, “you most assuredly shall.”

“Have I not a fortune in my own right, sir?” said Celinda.

“The more is the pity,” said Mr. Toobad: “but I can find means, miss; I can find means. There are more ways than one of breaking in obstinate girls.” They parted for the night with the expression of opposite resolutions, and in the morning the young lady’s chamber was found empty, and what was become of her Mr. Toobad had no clue to conjecture. He continued to investigate town and country in search of her; visiting and revisiting Nightmare Abbey at intervals, to consult with his friend, Mr. Glowry. Mr. Glowry agreed with Mr. Toobad that this was a very flagrant instance of filial disobedience and rebellion; and Mr. Toobad declared, that when he discovered the fugitive, she should find that “the devil was come unto her, having great wrath.”

In the evening, the whole party met, as usual, in