kaleidoscopes for inspiration. If there is now any writer who believes
himself their descendant, he could not employ his time more profitably
than in a journey to the moon, in order to consult these little
instruments, from which he may derive a fertility of adventures that he
cannot possibly gain by observation of real life. The readers too of
such novels, as well as the authors, may find here the best of
libraries: for, by a few turns of a kaleidoscope, they will pass through
a greater variety of adventures than by turning over a hundred pages;
and no mortal pen can relate an enterprise with as much spirit and
fidelity as one of these kaleidoscopes. I had recourse to several of
them, and gained much useful information.
While I was engaged in this study of biography, I perceived the old man
with whom I had entered the room very intent on the same employment. I
walked up to him, and saw his own name on the kaleidoscope into which
he was looking. This surprised me; for he had spoken of his past vices
with so much contrition, that I imagined he would have chosen to avoid
these apparitions of them, instead of wilfully distressing himself with
the sight. I supposed, therefore, that he must be reviewing his life for
the benefit of reproach and mortification; but when I looked into his
face, expecting to see it full of horror, I observed his eye glistening
with delight at the remembrance of his pleasures. He examined them one
after another, pausing at each, and turning the kaleidoscope with the
slowest caution, so as not to hurry the enjoyment, nor pass over any
material circumstance; and while he made these confessions, there was a
voluptuous joy in his face, very ill suited to his venerable appearance.
I found that these visions of the past have a singular power over the
owner of the kaleidoscope, reviving his former thoughts and sensations,
and imparting at the moment a fancied vigour.
"I see," said I, "that you have returned to the amusements of your
youth. You have here the means of retrieving your lost time."
"How so?" he inquired.
"Why," I answered, "you have only to take back with you this little
instrument, and then you can be a young man in your arm-chair whenever
you please. The actual performance of these things would require an
effort inconvenient to you; but, having this kaleidoscope, you may
enjoy any vice you wish, with no other labour than shutting one eye."
"That is true," said he; "it will be a great comfort to me in my old
age."
"But," I asked, "will it not interfere with the strict temperance and
virtue which you are to practise for the rest of your life?"
"Not at all," answered he, "because none of the consequences of vice
will follow these repetitions; I can do no harm by looking into this
little thing. I may carouse with the friends of my youth in this
kaleidoscope, and awake the next morning without a pain in my head. The
wine that was drunk forty years ago will now furnish a very innocent
debauch; or, if I choose to prosecute a design against a village beauty,
I can accomplish the plot here, and no woman on earth will lose her
peace of mind by my success. I have full confidence in my reformation, I
have thoroughly reclaimed myself from actual vice; but I know not why I
should be so austere as to refuse my old age the comfort of these
recollections, in which I find a remarkable charm." So speaking, he put
his kaleidoscope into his pocket, and walked away to practise
temperance.
I saw several other old men here, each of whom had found his own
kaleidoscope, and was repeating the vices of his youth with great
satisfaction. Under this inspiration, their venerable countenances were
disfigured with a most unbecoming look of enjoyment. Every one of them
carried away his instrument for the support of his declining age. It is
probable that all these old men, like the one mentioned before, had for
some time past been admiring their own temperance, and extolling
themselves for a complete victory over the bad passions of their youth,
having become abstemious by means of seventy years, and attained a habit
of refraining from all those vices which require bodily strength. Men
act alike towards their vices and their friends, no one will confess
himself forsaken by either. A man who finds himself avoided and
discountenanced by one whose acquaintance is advantageous to him,
assures himself first that the friendship is irrecoverable, and then
begins to devise retaliation, endeavours to exceed the neglect with
which the other treats him, and disputes his claim to the first
coolness. Thus an old man, when his pleasures abandon him, pretends to
priority; and being convinced by fair trial that a bad habit is
irrevocably lost, he firmly demands that he and his vice shall part.
This forbearance from what we cannot do resembles what is sometimes
called resignation in a dying man, who, having tried in vain every
expedient for remaining alive, begins to prefer death, descants on the
disadvantage of being a man, and earnestly endeavours to justify his
choice.
I cannot here avoid a reflection on the hard lot of virtue in being so
commonly the successor of vice. When the house being torn to pieces by
the riots of vice is abandoned as no longer habitable, with the
foundations undermined, the roof fallen in, the furniture destroyed, and
the walls tottering, it is made over to virtue, and she is desired to
take possession of the ruin, and make herself comfortable for life.
Not far from the house of lost vices is a building, which contains lost
virtues, and I entered it as soon as I had left the other. These virtues
are not preserved in the same manner as the vices, but turned into a
liquid, and kept in bottles. On each bottle is declared what virtues are
within, together with the period of life or particular occasion that had
caused the loss. The good qualities lost by age appeared to be chiefly
benevolence and generosity, from which inconveniences men had been
released at very different times, some being qualified for avarice and
ill-nature much sooner than others. As I have lately made some remarks
on the indecorous regret of certain old men at the decay of their vices,
I must now do justice to their patience under the loss of virtue. Old
men have been known to shed tears on finding themselves unable to be
riotous; but I believe none have ever wept at failing to do a generous
action: and however culpable may be their discontent at missing their
pleasures, they amply atone for it by a perfect resignation under the
decay of liberality, and by giving up without a sigh the whole pleasure
of doing good. Covetousness has been appropriated to old men from the
earliest times; and when a man has nothing left except vigour in saving
money, and joy in keeping it from others, it would be a great cruelty to
forbid him the exercise of those qualities.
I here observed a young man seeking some particular bottle very
earnestly, which having found, he took possession of it with great joy.
It contained certain virtues, which had once been in the mind of his
father, and had dropped out as he proceeded through life. The father,
though very old, persisted in remaining alive, without considering how
much pain his son suffered by this usurpation. Amongst other virtues
which had failed him in his latter years, his generosity had quite
decayed; and his son had very dutifully undertaken a journey to the moon
in hope of recovering it. Having gained the bottle, he intended to
contrive that the old man should insensibly drink this generosity with
his tea, taking care to be present himself, that he might intercept any
bounty which might be the consequence of the draught.
I have since heard the success of this stratagem. The young man's
sister, who commanded the tea table, was easily engaged in the plot; and
having supplied her tea with a portion of this medicine from the moon,
she was very urgent in recommending it as composed with uncommon art,
and exactly agreeing with her father's judgment. It had an instant
effect; and the old man, with a sudden look of beneficence, having
descanted for a short time on his own declining years, and his inability
to enjoy wealth, declared he would make over to his son a considerable
portion of his estate, and desired him to send for an attorney on the
following morning that the gift, might be legal and secure. But when
morning arrived, and the young man was punctually proceeding to execute
the order, his father suddenly revoked it, having been cleared from
these fumes of generosity in his sleep. Some expedient, therefore, was
to be devised for making the father's gift irrevocable before his
benevolence should have time to escape.
The teapot was again corrupted, and an excuse contrived for a visit of
an attorney while the medicine was in full vigour. Thus the desired deed
was accomplished; and the father, at the return of his avarice, found
himself strangely dispossessed of his property by his own consent.
Amongst the virtues lost by advance in life, I saw a great quantity of
pity and sensibility. Grief for the misfortunes of others is one of
those follies that seldom fail to be cured by age, being the benefit of
experience, which, amongst other lessons, demonstrates the absurdity of
claiming a share in the afflictions of another man.
I here became melancholy by seeing how ready our best qualities are to
slip out of our minds; and I soon, therefore, left the building and
entered another, where I found a vast room containing what at first
appeared to me a collection of statues: but I was informed that what I
saw was the female beauty that has been lost by time, sickness, or other
calamities to which it is liable. These statues, therefore, are merely
bloom and outline without any substance. In the walls of the room there
are as many niches as can be inserted from the bottom to the top, in
each of which stands one of these beautiful outlines, and a multitude of
others placed on pedestals are distributed over the whole room. They are
beautiful from posture as well as shape, being adjusted in every
graceful variety of attitude and purpose; and it may easily be supposed
that this room far surpasses any gallery of statues in our world.
As soon as I was in the midst of these beauties, I began to think myself
guilty of an unfair examination, and of inquiring into secrets which
were not designed for me; but seeing no displeasure or retirement in the
lovely forms as I looked at them, I was emboldened to continue my
studies.
These beautiful figures are in appearance real women, being perfect both
in shape and colour; and, indeed, they seemed to have every female
excellence, except the being alive. I had a great curiosity to know how
these beings would affect the touch; and, being now on terms of
familiarity with them, I approached one, which looked the most
indulgent of those round me, and ventured to lay my hand upon her: but
never was man more disappointed in such an enterprise; for I could
scarcely feel any thing; and though I proceeded to the most resolute
pressure, my solicitations were quite ineffectual:--
"Frustra comprensa manus effugit imago."
The surface yielded, and when I removed my hand immediately regained its
shape. I raised the whole figure from the ground, and could perceive no
weight. I placed a hand on each side of the body, and squeezed it quite
flat without the least resistance; and when it was loosed, it recovered
itself in a moment. Putting my finger on the nose, I pushed it into the
face quite out of sight, and it was restored as soon as my finger was
taken away. I proceeded so far in disfiguring the lady as to hold her
concealed between my two hands, and compressed into a little ball,
which, when released, shot out into a beautiful woman, who had sustained
no injury by the confinement.
I observed that some of these statues were mutilated, wanting arms,
legs, or other appendages to the human figure. This I understood to
happen when the lady retains a part of her beauty. Thus, if her arms
have not lost their perfection, while all the rest has undergone some
decay, a figure of her appears in the moon without arms, which however
are added as soon as she has relinquished them. I saw a nose resting on
a pedestal by itself, the beauty of its outline having been destroyed by
an accident, while the owner was otherwise uninjured. In another place
was some beautiful dark hair, being the spoils of a fever. But the most
common of these particular beauties separate from the rest was the
complexion, which seemed to have frequently preceded all other
endowments in its journey to the moon. Each of these fragments had a
pedestal, upon which was engraved the name of the lady, as amongst
ancient statues we see a beard or a foot, and are told it is Phocion.
I was pleased to see the restoration of beauty to a young woman who had
lost it by the small-pox. She had found her former face, which was a
mere surface like a mask; and applying it to her features, perceived
that it adjusted itself, and adhered to them without needing any care or
contrivance. I saw some depredations committed by women, who never
having been able to acquiesce in their own features would not lose this
opportunity of obtaining others: and I was amused by the incoherent
faces which they constructed; for whenever a feature was appropriated to
a strange face, it evidently dissented from all the other parts of it.
There was a girl, who never having regarded her nose with approbation,
was earnestly engaged in fixing to it a new outline that she had found;
but at first sight this nose was not at all to the purpose. She was
adjusting it by a small mirror, and I heard her expressing her fears
that it never would be made to co-operate with her chin. Another woman,
endowed with long sallow features, had obtained possession of a
beautiful complexion off a small face, and without any regard to the
disproportion had pressed it down upon her boundless features, whence it
projected and had a very ridiculous appearance. However, she walked
away, seeming very well pleased with her new bloom.
When I had left this building and was wandering on for new adventures, I
heard a confused sound, which I supposed to proceed from a valley the
receptacle of some particular kind of eloquence or noise. I soon arrived
at the place, and found it to be the valley containing lost advice,
whence had escaped the father's counsel against gambling, which I had
heard on my first arrival in the moon.
In this valley innumerable voices were striving to hinder various kinds
of imprudence; and I wondered how it happens that with so much good
advice in the world there is also so much folly. When I compared the
excellent precepts which I heard all round me with the actions of men, I
could not avoid considering why it is that we are so much wiser for our
friends than for ourselves; why, in our own case, we are liable to be
misled by every temptation, and usually pursue the most agreeable
course instead of the wisest, while in any other person's case we find
ourselves inspired with invincible resolution, can resist the strongest
temptations and make the greatest sacrifices. From this reflection I
determined that were I to receive a commission to alter and reform the
human race, I would contrive that, instead of being obliged to act for
ourselves, we should all act for each other, by which invention there
would be no such thing as vice or imprudence in the world.
While these admonitions reiterated themselves all round me, I admired
the generosity with which all men are ready to give away advice; and it
appeared to me that if, as some have said, this is the chief office of
friendship, the fidelity of mankind is not to be disputed, since I never
knew an instance of one who would withhold a largess of this kind from a
friend who needed it.
I found here exhortations pronounced in all the several capacities in
which men are qualified to impede others with advice. The counsel of
parents was transacted in one place, that of friends in another; here
the advice of husbands proceeded, and there of wives. I also heard
guardians and tutors imparting discretion to those under their charge.
There was besides much exhortation in a feeble voice from those who have
no right from consanguinity, but are advisers by old age; it being a
well known law of nature that when the faculties of a man are decayed
through time so as to be of no use to himself, they become available to
others. Besides these, I heard many of those universal advisers, whose
vocation it is that nothing indiscreet be done by any of their
acquaintance. In short, there are assembled in this place the words of
all who have any kind of title to provide other people with prudence.
I listened for some time to these rejected counsels in the hope of
discovering by what fault they had failed to persuade, and thinking they
might possibly show what relation the adviser ought to bear to the
sufferer in order to prevail. But I could draw no conclusions from what
I heard. The generality of advisers succeed so far as to make their
friend angry, but not to make him wise; and it is observable that the
advised person, who can find any pretext for being incensed against his
counsellor, always thinks it a valid reason for refusing to do what is
recommended. The skill, therefore, must be to avoid all grounds of
offence. But then occurs another difficulty; for he who can find no
reasonable cause of displeasure either in the advice given, or in its
coming from the particular person who offers it, is still more
exasperated at finding himself without the means of anger. I think it
may be remarked, that the most judicious advice is the most apt to be
resented; for we are displeased with counsel only when we are conscious
that it ought to be followed; when we are convinced that it is mistaken,
we commonly receive it with proper gratitude, because we can neglect it
without self-reproach. The interpretation we put upon good advice is,
that our friend, in order to show his own wisdom, has made us
dissatisfied with ourselves.
From what I heard, therefore, I could not judge what relation an adviser
ought to stand in towards the person advised in order to obviate this
anger, which is always ready. If it be a man who by situation has some
right and authority to advise, the dictation is intolerable; and if he
has no such right, his impertinent interference is not to be borne.
Nor could I learn any thing as to the manner in which advice ought to be
bestowed; for I heard voices in this place advising in every possible
variety of style, and by their being here I knew they had failed to
persuade.
Some advisers tried to make men wise by reproach, others applied
entreaty, and a third class taught by alternately railing and
beseeching. One voice conveyed prudence by a hint, another by resolute
frankness; some pretended great alarm, which made silence impossible;
and I thought that not the least plausible were the confident advisers,
who had not a doubt that what they enjoined would be done: for I knew by
experience that to refuse advice, offered confidently, and confront the
surprise of the giver, requires great firmness. There was here, also,
much of that counsel which enforces an action by showing that nothing
else can possibly be done; and yet it appeared that the ingenuity of the
advised person had found another way. I heard intermitting advice,--that
which revives at stated times, and much, too, of the incessant counsel
which never wants renewal.
This fruitless wisdom, therefore, having been offered in all the
different figures of advice, I found it impossible to conclude any thing
concerning the manner, or tone of voice, the looks or nods most
conducing to prudence. But perhaps an habitual adviser may not think the
inquiry important, since his purpose is usually gained though his
counsel should not be followed, and he succeeds in proving himself a
wise man though he fails to make his friend one.
The general failure of advice is usually imputed to the obstinacy of
those who receive it, but from what I heard in this place I was inclined
to think that the person who gives it is as often in fault. Most of
those whose counsel was here collected did not seem to have considered
what advice would most benefit their friend, but what would best evince
their own prudence, sagacity, or other virtue which they had to
demonstrate; and they appeared very eager to have it concluded, that
what they desired another to do they would practise themselves if the
case were their own. Thus, there are men of courage, who, if their
friend has had a quarrel, will with great intrepidity advise him to
fight a duel; and he must be shot that they may show their spirit. In
this multitude of voices, I heard one in a resolute tone giving counsel
to a friend, who was labouring under that domestic affliction called the
tooth-ache, which the adviser very courageously exhorted him to relieve
by extraction, giving many hints of what he would do himself if a tooth
of his gave him similar provocation. It is a great advantage that in all
exigencies requiring a painful remedy there is always some man who thus
freely undertakes to furnish resolution while his friend undergoes the
pain.
This valley contains, also, much of that advice which I think the most
discreet in all emergencies, and the least likely to be proved
erroneous, which is, to recommend some expedient for which the
opportunity is past. A prudent adviser, consulted in hurry and danger,
will always endeavour, first, to discover something which ought to have
been done before, and which cannot be done now. Accordingly, in this
valley I heard many faithful counsellors dissuading their friends from
something past, and teaching them how to have prevented yesterday some
misfortune which has happened to-day.
Having left this valley of advice, I entered a very large building not
far from it, which I was told was a library. It consists of one room,
containing all the books which are lost upon earth. The hapless volumes
resort to this room as soon as they cease to be read; some had come up
on the day of their publication, others had lived below a whole year,
and the immortality of many had been cut off in a month.
My eye was caught by some shelves, on which were ranged a vast multitude
of books, all bound alike, and on approaching them, I saw that on the
back of each was the title "Similes." When I found that these volumes
comprised all the fruitless similes of English literature, I did not
wonder at the number of them.
I here found an Englishman of my acquaintance conversing with an
Italian, who had applied to him for an explanation of this great
assembly of similes. "I am conversant," said he, "with the old writers
of your country, but have not much studied the moderns: now it seems to
me that all the similes of your best writers collected together would
scarcely fill one of these volumes. Your recent authors must greatly
excel them in imagination, if they have produced such a library of
similes."
"Undoubtedly," said the Englishman, "there is a great poverty of these
beauties in our old writers. Similes have now invaded all our
literature, both prose and verse, and make a part of every thing we
speak or write."
"I have looked into one of these volumes," said the Italian, "and some
of the similes appear to me difficult of application. A poet is here
describing a greyhound in chase of a hare, and, in order to increase the
speed of the dog, he compares it to Westminster Abbey."
"And how," said the other, "does he effect a likeness?"
"That," he answered, "is what I cannot arrive at. I have read it over
many times, but cannot discover what he would wish the resemblance to
be."
"That is a true modern simile," said the Englishman. "In the similes of
the old writers, a natural resemblance is instantly apparent between the
two things compared. Now the moderns are of opinion that when two things
are in themselves similar, there is no invention shown in comparing
them, but that the imagination and ingenuity of a writer are proved by
his bringing together two objects obstinately unlike, and forcing them
into a comparison in spite of all resistance. Therefore, as no two
things could easily be more different than a greyhound in pursuit of a
hare and Westminster Abbey, the poet, with a great deal of invention,
has coupled them together, by which he thinks that he has very much
accelerated his greyhound."