There is, as it were, a
delightful north-east 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 north-east 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 re-appearance 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.
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