Dwaraka/Training_Dataset_of_Project_Gutebberg_Gothic_Fiction

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their minds are always locked up, and vanity and interest keep the
key. I speak feelingly, Scythrop.'

'I am sorry for it, sir,' said Scythrop. 'But how is it that their
minds are locked up? The fault is in their artificial education, which
studiously models them into mere musical dolls, to be set out for sale
in the great toy-shop of society.'

'To be sure,' said Mr Glowry, 'their education is not so well finished
as yours has been; and your idea of a musical doll is good. I bought
one myself, but it was confoundedly out of tune; but, whatever be the
cause, Scythrop, the effect is certainly this, that one is pretty
nearly as good as another, as far as any judgment can be formed of
them before marriage. It is only after marriage that they show
their true qualities, as I know by bitter experience. Marriage is,
therefore, a lottery, and the less choice and selection a man bestows
on his ticket the better; for, if he has incurred considerable pains
and expense to obtain a lucky number, and his lucky number proves a
blank, he experiences not a simple, but a complicated disappointment;
the loss of labour and money being superadded to the disappointment of
drawing a blank, which, constituting simply and entirely the grievance
of him who has chosen his ticket at random, is, from its simplicity,
the more endurable.' This very excellent reasoning was thrown away
upon Scythrop, who retired to his tower as dismal and disconsolate as
before.

The tower which Scythrop inhabited stood at the south-eastern angle of
the Abbey; and, on the southern side, the foot of the tower opened on
a terrace, which was called the garden, though nothing grew on it but
ivy, and a few amphibious weeds. The south-western tower, which was
ruinous and full of owls, might, with equal propriety, have been
called the aviary. This terrace or garden, or terrace-garden, or
garden-terrace (the reader may name it _ad libitum_), took in an
oblique view of the open sea, and fronted a long tract of level
sea-coast, and a fine monotony of fens and windmills.

The reader will judge, from what we have said, that this building was
a sort of castellated abbey; and it will, probably, occur to him to
inquire if it had been one of the strong-holds of the ancient church
militant. Whether this was the case, or how far it had been indebted
to the taste of Mr Glowry's ancestors for any transmutations from its
original state, are, unfortunately, circumstances not within the pale
of our knowledge.

The north-western tower contained the apartments of Mr Glowry. The
moat at its base, and the fens beyond, comprised the whole of his
prospect. This moat surrounded the Abbey, and was in immediate contact
with the walls on every side but the south.

The north-eastern tower was appropriated to the domestics, whom Mr
Glowry always chose by one of two criterions,--a long face, or a
dismal name. His butler was Raven; his steward was Crow; his valet was
Skellet. Mr Glowry maintained that the valet was of French extraction,
and that his name was Squelette. His grooms were Mattocks and Graves.
On one occasion, being in want of a footman, he received a letter
from a person signing himself Diggory Deathshead, and lost no time in
securing this acquisition; but on Diggory's arrival, Mr Glowry was
horror-struck by the sight of a round ruddy face, and a pair of
laughing eyes. Deathshead was always grinning,--not a ghastly smile,
but the grin of a comic mask; and disturbed the echoes of the hall
with so much unhallowed laughter, that Mr Glowry gave him his
discharge. Diggory, however, had staid long enough to make conquests
of all the old gentleman's maids, and left him a flourishing colony of
young Deathsheads to join chorus with the owls, that had before been
the exclusive choristers of Nightmare Abbey.

The main body of the building was divided into rooms of state,
spacious apartments for feasting, and numerous bed-rooms for visitors,
who, however, were few and far between.

Family interests compelled Mr Glowry to receive occasional visits from
Mr and Mrs Hilary, who paid them from the same motive; and, as the
lively gentleman on these occasions found few conductors for his
exuberant gaiety, he became like a double-charged electric jar, which
often exploded in some burst of outrageous merriment to the signal
discomposure of Mr Glowry's nerves.

Another occasional visitor, much more to Mr Glowry's taste, was Mr
Flosky,[1] a very lachrymose and morbid gentleman, of some note in
the literary world, but in his own estimation of much more merit than
name. The part of his character which recommended him to Mr Glowry
was his very fine sense of the grim and the tearful. No one could
relate a dismal story with so many minutiæ of supererogatory
wretchedness. No one could call up a _raw-head and bloody-bones_ with
so many adjuncts and circumstances of ghastliness. Mystery was his
mental element. He lived in the midst of that visionary world in which
nothing is but what is not. He dreamed with his eyes open, and saw
ghosts dancing round him at noontide. He had been in his youth
an enthusiast for liberty, and had hailed the dawn of the French
Revolution as the promise of a day that was to banish war and slavery,
and every form of vice and misery, from the face of the earth. Because
all this was not done, he deduced that nothing was done; and from this
deduction, according to his system of logic, he drew a conclusion
that worse than nothing was done; that the overthrow of the feudal
fortresses of tyranny and superstition was the greatest calamity that
had ever befallen mankind; and that their only hope now was to rake
the rubbish together, and rebuild it without any of those loopholes
by which the light had originally crept in. To qualify himself for a
coadjutor in this laudable task, he plunged into the central
opacity of Kantian metaphysics, and lay _perdu_ several years in

their minds are always locked up, and vanity and interest keep the

key. I speak feelingly, Scythrop.'

'I am sorry for it, sir,' said Scythrop. 'But how is it that their

minds are locked up? The fault is in their artificial education, which

studiously models them into mere musical dolls, to be set out for sale

in the great toy-shop of society.'

'To be sure,' said Mr Glowry, 'their education is not so well finished

as yours has been; and your idea of a musical doll is good. I bought

one myself, but it was confoundedly out of tune; but, whatever be the

cause, Scythrop, the effect is certainly this, that one is pretty

nearly as good as another, as far as any judgment can be formed of

them before marriage. It is only after marriage that they show

their true qualities, as I know by bitter experience. Marriage is,

therefore, a lottery, and the less choice and selection a man bestows

on his ticket the better; for, if he has incurred considerable pains

and expense to obtain a lucky number, and his lucky number proves a

blank, he experiences not a simple, but a complicated disappointment;

the loss of labour and money being superadded to the disappointment of

drawing a blank, which, constituting simply and entirely the grievance

of him who has chosen his ticket at random, is, from its simplicity,

the more endurable.' This very excellent reasoning was thrown away

upon Scythrop, who retired to his tower as dismal and disconsolate as

before.

The tower which Scythrop inhabited stood at the south-eastern angle of

the Abbey; and, on the southern side, the foot of the tower opened on

a terrace, which was called the garden, though nothing grew on it but

ivy, and a few amphibious weeds. The south-western tower, which was

ruinous and full of owls, might, with equal propriety, have been

called the aviary. This terrace or garden, or terrace-garden, or

garden-terrace (the reader may name it _ad libitum_), took in an

oblique view of the open sea, and fronted a long tract of level

sea-coast, and a fine monotony of fens and windmills.

The reader will judge, from what we have said, that this building was

a sort of castellated abbey; and it will, probably, occur to him to

inquire if it had been one of the strong-holds of the ancient church

militant. Whether this was the case, or how far it had been indebted

to the taste of Mr Glowry's ancestors for any transmutations from its

original state, are, unfortunately, circumstances not within the pale

of our knowledge.

The north-western tower contained the apartments of Mr Glowry. The

moat at its base, and the fens beyond, comprised the whole of his

prospect. This moat surrounded the Abbey, and was in immediate contact

with the walls on every side but the south.

The north-eastern tower was appropriated to the domestics, whom Mr

Glowry always chose by one of two criterions,--a long face, or a

dismal name. His butler was Raven; his steward was Crow; his valet was

Skellet. Mr Glowry maintained that the valet was of French extraction,

and that his name was Squelette. His grooms were Mattocks and Graves.

On one occasion, being in want of a footman, he received a letter

from a person signing himself Diggory Deathshead, and lost no time in

securing this acquisition; but on Diggory's arrival, Mr Glowry was

horror-struck by the sight of a round ruddy face, and a pair of

laughing eyes. Deathshead was always grinning,--not a ghastly smile,

but the grin of a comic mask; and disturbed the echoes of the hall

with so much unhallowed laughter, that Mr Glowry gave him his

discharge. Diggory, however, had staid long enough to make conquests

of all the old gentleman's maids, and left him a flourishing colony of

young Deathsheads to join chorus with the owls, that had before been

the exclusive choristers of Nightmare Abbey.

The main body of the building was divided into rooms of state,

spacious apartments for feasting, and numerous bed-rooms for visitors,

who, however, were few and far between.

Family interests compelled Mr Glowry to receive occasional visits from

Mr and Mrs Hilary, who paid them from the same motive; and, as the

lively gentleman on these occasions found few conductors for his

exuberant gaiety, he became like a double-charged electric jar, which

often exploded in some burst of outrageous merriment to the signal

discomposure of Mr Glowry's nerves.

Another occasional visitor, much more to Mr Glowry's taste, was Mr

Flosky,[1] a very lachrymose and morbid gentleman, of some note in

the literary world, but in his own estimation of much more merit than

name. The part of his character which recommended him to Mr Glowry

was his very fine sense of the grim and the tearful. No one could

relate a dismal story with so many minutiæ of supererogatory

wretchedness. No one could call up a _raw-head and bloody-bones_ with

so many adjuncts and circumstances of ghastliness. Mystery was his

mental element. He lived in the midst of that visionary world in which

nothing is but what is not. He dreamed with his eyes open, and saw

ghosts dancing round him at noontide. He had been in his youth

an enthusiast for liberty, and had hailed the dawn of the French

Revolution as the promise of a day that was to banish war and slavery,

and every form of vice and misery, from the face of the earth. Because

all this was not done, he deduced that nothing was done; and from this

deduction, according to his system of logic, he drew a conclusion

that worse than nothing was done; that the overthrow of the feudal

fortresses of tyranny and superstition was the greatest calamity that

had ever befallen mankind; and that their only hope now was to rake

the rubbish together, and rebuild it without any of those loopholes

by which the light had originally crept in. To qualify himself for a

coadjutor in this laudable task, he plunged into the central

opacity of Kantian metaphysics, and lay _perdu_ several years in