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PEACOCK 71
most entertaining, and perhaps his most
brilliant novel, " Crotchet Castle," the years
were heavy with misfortune. His mother,
the human being for whom he seems to have
cared most, died in 1833 ; before that date
his wife had become a hopeless invalid. Three
of his four children were dead before he retired
from affairs. Already he had outlived many
of his companions. Sorrow does not seem to
have embittered but neither did it sweeten
greatly his temper. His reticence stiffened,
so did his prejudices. Only emotion enables
a man to make something noble and lovely of
pain ; but intellect teaches him to bear it
like a gentleman.
It is easy to draw a pleasant picture of
Peacock's old age ; deeply considered, how-
ever, it is profoundly sad. He had stood for
many great causes but for none had he stood
greatly. Good nature and benevolence had
done duty for love and pity. He had been
more intimate with books than with men.
And so, at the end, he found himself alone.
His tragedy is not that he was lonely, but
that he preferred to be so. He retired with a
handsome pension to a sheltered life at Halliford.
The jolly old pagan, the scholar, and
the caustic satirist were still alive in him.
He wrote " Gryll Grange." He packed poor
Robert Buchanan out of the house for smoking