“And Mr. Panscope,” said Mr. Cranium.

“And Mr. Escot,” said Squire Headlong.  What would you have better?  He has ten thousand virtues.”

“So has Mr. Panscope.  He has ten thousand a year.”

“Virtues?” said Squire Headlong.

“Pounds,” said Mr. Cranium.

“Who fished you out of the water?” said Squire Headlong..

“What is that to the purpose?” said Mr. Cranium.  “The whole process of the action was mechanical and necessary.  He could no more help jumping into the water than I could help falling into it.”

“Very well,” said the squire.  “Your daughter and Mr. Escot are necessitated to love one another.”

Mr. Cranium, after a profound reverie, said, “Do you think Mr. Escot would give me that skull?”

“Skull?” said Squire Headlong.

“Yes,” said Mr. Cranium.  “The skull of Cadwallader.”

“To be sure he will.  How can you doubt it?”

“I simply know,” said Mr. Cranium, “that if it were once in my possession I would not part with it for any acquisition on earth, much less for a wife.”

The squire flew over to Mr. Escot.  “I told you,” said he, “I would settle him; but there is a very hard condition attached to his compliance.  Nothing less than the absolute and unconditional surrender of the skull of Cadwallader.”

“I resign it,” said Mr. Escot.

“The skull is yours,” said the squire, skipping over to Mr. Cranium.

“I am perfectly satisfied,” said Mr. Cranium.

“The lady is yours,” said the squire, skipping back to Mr. Escot.

“I am the happiest man alive,” said Mr. Escot, and he flew off as nimbly as Squire Headlong himself, to impart the happy intelligence to his beautiful Cephalis.

The departure of the ball visitors then took place, and the squire did not suffer many days to elapse before the spiritual metamorphosis of eight into four was effected by the clerical dexterity of the Reverend Doctor Gaster.

* * * * *

Nightmare Abbey

“Nightmare Abbey” is perhaps the most extravagant of all Peacock’s stories, and, with the exception of “Headlong Hall,” it obtained more vogue on its publication in 1818 than any of his other works.  It is eminently characteristic of its author—­the eighteenth century Rabelaisian pagan who prided himself on his antagonism towards religion, yet whose likes and dislikes were invariably inspired by hatred of cant and enthusiasm for progress.  The hero of the story is easily distinguishable as the poet Shelley.  On the whole the characters are more life-like presentations of humanity than those of “Headlong Hall.”  Simple and weak though the plot is, the reader is carried along to the end through a brilliant maze of wit and satire; underneath which outward show of irresponsible fun there pervades a gloomy note of tragedy.

I.—­Mr. Glowry and His Son