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72
PEACOCK
in it. He terrified a meek curate, who came
to persuade him to leave his burning home,
by shouting at him, " By the immortal gods
I will not move." He carried on a desultory
full of
correspondence with Lord Broughton,
literary humour and literary sentiment. He
practised small benevolences and small tyrannies,
liked to see smiling faces about him, and
declined to believe seriously in the unhappiness
of others. He was a thoroughly good-natured,
selfish old man.
In old age he had to pay the penalty that
awaits those who live by the head and not by
the heart. He had kind acquaintances, but
he had no real friends. He had nothing to
look back upon but a series of more or less
amusing events and a tale of successful
achievements no high enterprises, no splendid
failures, no passionate affections. Before him
lay nothing but his books, his dinner, and a
literary reputation. Capable biographers can
make pretty pictures
of the white-haired
scholar surrounded by his favourite authors.
They can turn his petulant limitations and
querulous prejudices into exquisite foibles,
his despotisms into quaint impetuosity, his
insensibility to human want and misery into
mellow wisdom. But we cannot forget that
the last years of those who have never pas-