extensive, covered with books, upon the backs of which he read
"Description."
"Your modern writers," said he "must excel those of former times in
description, as much as in similes."
"Yes," answered his informer: "description is another beauty in which
the old writers were very barren and defective. By universal consent,
this is now the noblest way of writing; and those authors who are
conversant only with the reason, and the passions are proved, by
incontestable arguments, to be far inferior to those who treat of
mountains, woods, and water. Modern literature, therefore, is overrun
with trees, and diversified with hill and valley, far beyond the bleak
writings of former ages. Nor are these landscapes confined to poetry. It
is impossible that even a novel should succeed without several
well-wooded chapters, and indeed there is scarcely any subject too
austere to admit this kind of beauty: the most abstruse reasoning may be
rendered more clear by a well-written grove or mountain. Any young man,
therefore, who resolves to be a poet, instead of applying himself to
books, and filling his mind with the thoughts of others, has recourse
for his education to rocks and woods, which, in modern language, are
called nature, and from these he derives all his knowledge and poetical
spirit. Indeed, he has only to roam amongst mountains, and write down
the verses which they dictate. Some of our best modern poems were
entirely composed at the instigation of wood and water, and without any
assistance from books."
One division of this library is filled with novels, and the Italian
expressed his astonishment at the number of them. "You do not consider,"
said the Englishman, "how many people read novels: they are the books
from which our young men and women derive the chief part of their
instruction. These works come out every spring with the butterflies, are
quite as numerous, and live about the same length of time. There are
several kinds of romance: the most abundant species, I think, is that in
which the events of modern life are related with so much fidelity that
in every page men and women do exactly what we see them doing elsewhere.
The author is at great pains to make a true representation of society;
and therefore, that he may not exceed nature, he takes care that in all
his dialogues there shall be no more than that limited portion of wit
and amusement which is usually found in conversation.
There is an admirable expedient frequently practised in romances of this
kind. The author introduces into his narrative some of the newest
incidents of society, relates them with the utmost exactness as they
really happened, and describes the characters, circumstances, and
persons of those engaged in them. You may easily imagine the noble
exercise of mind with which readers are thus provided in recognising
the adventures of the last year; you may conceive the pleasure with
which they adjust the book to the real event,--how they explain the
agreement to those who are not in the secret; how they praise the author
for so artfully describing persons they know, even to the colour of
their hair. This copying of real life is carried to its utmost
perfection by some writers, who introduce not only the events and
characters, but the names also with a slight disturbance of the letters,
contriving, with wonderful skill, that the last syllable of the name
shall take precedence, or by some other invention displacing the several
parts of it, so that discerning persons may have an opportunity of
rectifying the letters and restoring the name to its true sound. It
would surprise you to see the sagacity with which all these mysteries
are explained in a few days after the book has appeared.
Another kind of romance is the history of some imaginary person, who is
to charm the reader by the most abominable crimes. The author frees him
from every restraint of morality, honour, integrity, and kindness. This
monster is always in some plot, and is of so peculiar a disposition that
he has no pleasure in success except with the ruin and misery of others.
Murder is merely the trifling of his leisure; he merits death in every
page, but with great dexterity always evades the law. By these
perfections he is very acceptable to all women he approaches, and they
are sacrificed to him one after another in a deplorable manner. He is
commonly a wanderer, and infests many parts of the globe; but at last,
having arrived at the end of the third volume, he either dies in a
distraction of mind from his crimes, or is rewarded with the hand of a
beautiful woman, and leads an exemplary life ever afterwards. Few novels
succeed better than those with a monster. The historical novel is
another kind. In this composition the endeavour of the author is to show
us the true genius and character of the remarkable persons who lived at
the time of which he writes: thus, if it be recorded of a great man,
that he wore a hat with three feathers, you may be sure that he will
wear a hat with three feathers in the novel. The author dresses him with
a strict adherence to truth, and does not venture to omit a single
button of history, or to introduce so much as a bit of lace that is
fabulous; every ornament he wears is attested by writers of acknowledged
veracity; even his shoe-buckles are facts. Sir Walter Scott having
acquired great fame by historical romances, which represent the thoughts
and designs of uncommon men, has instigated others to embroil themselves
in the same undertaking; but since the thoughts and designs of great men
are not amongst their studies, their discernment being limited to that
part of the human character which is called the dress, they have
contented themselves with narratives of hats, cloaks, and other parts
of apparel, in which their success cannot be disputed."
"I observe," said the Italian, "that each of these novels consists of
three volumes. Is that one of the modern laws of writing?"
"Yes," answered the Englishman: "it is a new discovery; and now a writer
of novels produces three volumes as punctually as a pigeon lays two
eggs. This is a great hardship to the lovers, who are delighted with
each other in the first chapter, and might accomplish their union in a
few pages, if they were not maliciously undermined by the author, who
involves them in difficulties which cost him infinite thought and study,
and thus are they obliged to pass through the three volumes with
perpetual disappointment and vexation. I am not able to give any reason
for this modern law, that every novel should be divided into three, any
more than I can account for the ancient decree that comedies should
consist of five acts; but it is well known that any romance in more or
fewer volumes than three would be instantly rejected by the booksellers,
who have a peculiar sagacity in judging what circumstances will gain a
good reception for a new book. Thus the author of the 'Tale of a Tub'
informs us, that a bookseller, to whom he first offered that work,
assured him it could not possibly succeed unless in the following year
there should be a scarcity of turnips."
At this moment I was startled by a quarto volume which flew close to my
head; it had just arrived from the earth, and coming in at the window
flew two or three times round the room like a bird, as if looking for a
place to light upon; it then perched on a shelf of quartos, and pressed
itself into a vacant space. On examining these quartos I found them to
be books of travels; the one which had just flown in had arrived quite
new, and full of fresh intelligence.
From this multitude of travels the Italian took occasion to admire the
adventurous spirit of Englishmen, who wander about the world to increase
our knowledge of it, and make a book. "These large and numerous works,"
said he, "must contain abundant information on the laws, customs, and
natures of men."
"There are travellers," answered the other, "from whom such knowledge is
to be derived; but these works being found in the moon, we may
conjecture that the authors of them have not been conversant with any
such abstruse studies. Many of our recent travellers go out to explore
countries in which there are no laws, customs, or men to be found; they
undergo great hardships, and at their return the knowledge they impart
to us is, that in one place they were hot, in another cold, and in a
third hungry."
When I had listened for some time to this conversation, I took a cursory
survey of the several divisions in which the library is arranged, and
found it to contain a great variety of works in every kind of
literature. There is a collection of divinity sufficient to perplex the
reason of all the inhabitants of Europe. The poets occupy a very large
space; the names of some I had never heard before. The political
writers, too, stretch over a great territory; there is a whole library
of those small undertakings called pamphlets, which redress all abuses,
and extricate the country out of every distress.
A large extent of shelves is covered with the lives of men written by
themselves: this is a kind of literature much increased in modern times.
It was formerly the custom of celebrated men to let posterity decide
whether their actions were worthy of remembrance; but it is now the
undoubted right of every one to determine this matter for himself. Our
ancestors erroneously believed that praise was a good which every man
must owe to the kindness of others, and could not confer upon himself:
we have detected this mistake amongst many others committed by our
forefathers, and it is now well known that men labour under no such
natural disability as was supposed, but that any one can extol himself
with much greater ease, confidence, and zeal, than any other person.
Through this discovery we abound with lives written without the least
envy or detraction. Johnson says, "Who does not wish that the author of
the 'Iliad' had gratified succeeding ages with a little knowledge of
himself?" Accordingly, the moderns resolve to avoid this culpable
silence of Homer, by freely imparting to the world all their
undertakings, hopes, and fears,--all that they have done, and all that
they have failed to do. Every man now imitates Julius Cæsar, and relates
his own exploits. Very little renown is enough to justify a life, and
indeed many have been written without any such instigation at all; for
if a man has only tried to be famous, the story of his disappointment
cannot fail to be instructive.
It is also a great discovery of modern times, that a man may publish his
own adventures during his life. Formerly, it was thought decorous to die
before the divulging of any private particulars; but, by the new
invention, a man is able to combine the glory from memoirs with the
advantage of being alive. It is now justly thought that a person famous
by writing, or any other stratagem, would betray a culpable indifference
to the impatience of mankind, if he delayed till his death all
satisfaction of the general curiosity concerning his private habits; and
there is hardly a writer of plays or romances so regardless of the world
as to keep it in suspense with respect to the hours when he is used to
write, the books that he reads, and the places where he dines.
I looked over the shelves of biography, and amongst all the authors of
their own praises, I could hardly find one name that I had heard before.
This gave me occasion to consider that memoirs are not so effectual a
provision against the being forgotten as they are usually thought; and I
could not help comparing the precaution of these writers with the device
of Panurge in Rabelais, who, being at sea in a storm, and the ship
expected to sink, could think of no rescue except making his will; for
anxiety had not left him sagacity to discern that all the benefactions
he might record must be drowned with him. So those writers, who are just
about to be overwhelmed in oblivion, betake themselves with all the
foresight of Panurge, to inform posterity of their virtues, forgetting
that this intelligence must be included in the destruction.
Happening to look through the window of the library, I saw a great
flight of new books approaching. They came in, and flew up and down in
search of places. There were works of every size: the quartos soared
backwards and forwards like swans, and the duodecimos fluttered about in
the manner of sparrows. Being endued with a sagacity to find their own
places, they all settled themselves in the class of books to which they
belonged; the several volumes of a work remained together, and one
followed another in a line, like wild geese; volume the first taking the
lead, and so in succession. I saw a history consisting of fourteen
octavos, which made a splendid flight; and it was amusing to see them
wind round the room, still preserving their order, and then light one by
one upon a shelf.
My curiosity was excited by a thin book, which, having just flown in,
hovered about unable to find a resting place, and seemed to be in great
distress. It had first approached the district of religious writings,
and, finding room, was just preparing to light when the surly volumes
closed themselves together with one accord, and refused to admit the new
comer amongst them. It attempted several different openings on these
shelves, but still found the same want of hospitality, and wherever it
appeared the divines shut up their ranks. It then flew round the room in
great trouble, and I observed that as it passed the political pamphlets
they opened of their own accord and offered it an asylum, but it turned
away in disdain, and again made trial of the clergy; these inexorable
octavos still refused, and it fluttered about appearing to be almost
exhausted. I endeavoured to catch it, but it was too active to be
entrapped. I then took aim at it with another book, and was so dexterous
as to bring it down stunned and crippled by the blow. I found it to be a
bishop's "Charge," which, instead of enforcing the topics that belong
to that sort of exhortation, was almost entirely a political treatise.
The religious writings, therefore, had not acknowledged it as divinity,
but the pamphlets had supposed it to be one of themselves. I thought
that this "Charge" was justly excluded from the religious shelves, and
that it had no right to look with contempt upon the political writings,
the language of which it had thought proper to assume. I therefore
pushed it in amongst the pamphlets, though it flapped violently and made
great efforts to escape.
As I left the library I observed two men, who were likewise quitting it,
each of them having a roll of parchment in his hand, about which they
were engaged in a violent controversy. I found that they had come up to
the moon in search of the British Constitution, which they agreed had
long ago been lost. Each fancied that he had found it, and vehemently
asserted that what he carried was the real constitution, and the
parchment of the other a fiction. One of them triumphantly pointed to
the date, asking whether that was not the time when the constitution
flourished. The other denied that there had been any constitution in
being at that time, and asserted that his own date was the true one.
Neither of them would give up the pretensions of his parchment, and they
parted in some anger, each of them being convinced that he had the
British constitution under his arm.
I next entered a valley containing the consolation which has been
lavished in vain upon those stubborn people who will not cease to be
unhappy at the desire of a friend. A great multitude of exhortations
were proceeding here in every tone and cadence of sympathy. I heard the
several topics of comfort under all earthly evils, so that any
unfortunate man, who comes to this valley, may find the particular
harangue suited to his case, and thus be reasoned out of his calamity.
Every saying to be cheerful by is here repeated without intermission,
and the folly of being grieved under any affliction is so forcibly
represented, that he who listens might wonder for what reason men are
ever so perverse as to be miserable.
One person was desired to be easy, because he could not possibly have
prevented his misfortune; another was told that he had no right to
mourn, because his calamity might have been easily avoided. One
comforter represented that, notwithstanding what had been taken away,
the world was still full of happiness; while another declared that every
thing in the world being utterly worthless, it was ridiculous that any
man should imagine he had sustained a loss. Many were desired to console
themselves with the advantage of others being in the same adversity. I
also heard it urged, that Providence was certainly the best qualified
to conduct the affairs of the world, and that we had no right to
remonstrate, even by our tears, against what he might choose to do. One
comforter would have cured all grief by affirming that we are altogether
governed by imagination, and that the being either happy or miserable is
a mere act of fancy. Some were very peremptory in their consolation, and
inveighed against the grief of their friend as the most reprehensible of
errors. Another consolation, of which I heard many specimens, was, that
adversity is beneficial, and that there is nothing so much to a man's
advantage as the being in affliction. To be grieved, therefore, was said
to be altogether erroneous; and the reasonable deportment under all
troubles was to rejoice. It was also declared that an admirable remedy
against affliction is to consider that there has been sorrow from the
beginning of the world; for how can men be troubled by something which
has been from the beginning of the world?
By listening to these several ways of dissuading a man from having been
unfortunate, I was confirmed in an opinion which I had formed before,
that nature, fearing lest fortune should not be careful enough to
provide us with calamities for our good, has annexed consolation to
every disaster as an additional evil. It is said in a comedy of Molière,
that no sick man ought to consult a physician unless he be sure that his
constitution is strong enough to bear not only the disease but the
remedies also; and perhaps it would be a caution equally proper that no
man in distress should have recourse to a comforter unless confident
that he has patience to undergo consolation as well as his calamity.
Leaving these remedies against adversity, I wandered on, and hearing a
confused noise at a distance, walked towards it in expectation of
another instructive valley. I was soon met by a man who was walking in a
great hurry away from this sound, and I inquired of him what it was.
"Are you a married man?" said he; "if so, I advise you to fly from those
murmurs; for in that valley are collected the noises of all the wives
that have scolded since our first parents. The first I heard was the
eloquence of my own excellent partner, which put me to flight, as it has
often done before."
Notwithstanding the warning given me by this fugitive husband, I boldly
approached the scene of domestic oratory; and as I drew near I heard
female reprimands uttered in every variety of English phrase, ancient
and modern, whence I learned that this species of rhetoric has been
cultivated in our island from the earliest times, and continued to
flourish without interruption through every change of the language.
These invectives having arrived in the moon, it was plain that they had
all been lost upon the inaccessible husbands, and I could not help
admiring the firmness of men.
I was amused by observing the different styles of eloquence; there were
several florid scolds, who declaimed with great copiousness, while
others railed in a brief and forcible manner. Some spoke in a style of
earnest remonstrance, many abandoned themselves to invective, and not
the least powerful were those who conveyed censure in a sneer. In short,
here might be studied all those varieties of reproof by which certain
wives are accustomed to enforce domestic peace.
It was easy to distinguish the different ranks of life to which these
connubial noises belonged; for some of them expressed a well-bred
displeasure in good English, while others were so disguised by a
provincial dialect that I was unable to interpret them. From the great
variety of accent I concluded that every county in England was scolding
here.
Soon after I had left this valley, I saw at a little distance from me a
gentleman of my acquaintance, who with a stick was distributing some
very vigorous blows in the air, as if defending himself from a swarm of
bees, yet I could see no enemy against which all these efforts were
directed. As I approached him, I heard an angry voice, very loud and
voluble; and I then discovered his difficulty. He had been in the valley
which I have last mentioned, where was a considerable quantity of his
own wife's rhetoric, which, as soon as he approached it, had recognised
him by a strange instinct, and swarming round his head, had assailed him
with great fury. He instantly quitted the valley, hoping to leave this
attendant behind, but it adhered to him with wonderful fidelity wherever
he went, and he was now vainly endeavouring to drive it away with a
stick, which instrument, whatever power it may sometimes have had to
silence a similar clamour, was applied to this reproof without the least
mitigation. I endeavoured to assist him in repelling it by disturbance
of the air, but all we could do was to cut some of the words through the
middle, and thus cause a little hesitation in the harangue. I could not
forbear smiling to hear the lady's voice, which I knew very well,
uttering a groundless invective upon domestic matters of very little
importance. The husband perceiving my inclination to mirth, was much
troubled that I should be a witness of the discipline he was undergoing.
He said something about every family being liable to misunderstandings,
and as the voice then entered upon a very private topic he walked
hastily away, and carried his reproaches out of my hearing. I afterwards
heard that he could not free himself from his incumbrance as long as he
remained in the moon; but when he left it, the oratory could follow him
no farther, and returned to its valley. I have been told that several
other husbands who entered this valley were assailed in the same
manner, and afterwards walked about the moon surrounded by these
reprimands.
As I walked along, my attention was caught by a humming sound at a
distance, which, as I was told, proceeded from the valley of lost
sermons, whence an accidental wind had dispersed those discourses which
had already assailed me in another part of the moon. I advanced into the
valley, and stood surrounded by the uproar of divinity which filled it.
Notwithstanding the vast multitude of voices preaching in defiance of
each other, I had no difficulty in distinguishing the words of each, but
could single out any one that I chose to listen to. In all these valleys
the same peculiarity is observable, that any voice can be heard without
confusion, and separately from the rest.
The sermons in this place are divided according to their persuasion; the
Church of England having its own district, and each body of Dissenters
being limited to one place. The sects are sometimes confounded together
by the wind, but when it is calm again they are all speedily reclaimed.
Here are collected all the fruitless English sermons, that is, all which
have failed to effect either of the two great ends of preaching,--the
virtue of the hearers, and the preferment of the clergyman.
I heard much Christian anger uttered with great sincerity. Some of these
compositions had more the sound of political speeches delivered to a
body of electors than of discourses written for morality; and I imagined
they must have been enrolled in the sermons by mistake.