listened to were, as it seemed to me, guilty of wanton calumny in
describing the vices of mankind; for they agreed that not one virtuous
man could be discovered on the earth by the most diligent search. Had
these preachers been any thing more than sound, I should certainly have
remonstrated with some of them against traducing us to the moon with so
much zeal.
This comprehensive invective has long been the established practice of
the pulpit, and many specimens of it are found in our oldest divines.
Indeed, it seems to be a common opinion, that no writing could be an
authentic sermon unless it contained at least one bold assertion--that
the whole world is abandoned to vice. But notwithstanding the authority
of an established practice, if it were my function to make men good from
the pulpit, I should certainly dispense with this rule, whatever
uneasiness I might feel at the sacrifice of an old custom. To affirm the
universal prevalence of vice, appears to me a most preposterous method
of recommending virtue. The clergyman, in order to discourage those who
are inclined to frailty, informs them that, although they gratify every
bad inclination, they will always be countenanced by the similar conduct
of all other men. Instead of engaging the influence of example on his
own side, he exerts himself to make vice more pleasing by the attraction
which there is in the practice of others. Our preachers in this might
take a hint from our political orators, who, wishing to discredit any
particular opinions, always represent them as embraced by a very small
party. The most ignorant declaimer on politics has never endeavoured to
make converts to his principles by affirming that there is not another
man in the country who entertains them: yet by this argument virtue is
enjoined from the pulpit, though against all common methods of
persuasion; and I can hardly conceive, that when men are reasoned with
from a small enclosed place, called a pulpit, they are to be moved by
arguments exactly opposite to those which affect them from any other
spot. I think, therefore, a preacher would furnish his hearers with a
more natural inducement to virtue if, instead of labouring to convince
them that by a dissolute life they will merely conform to established
custom, he endeavoured to show that vicious practices will connect them
with a small condemned party.
And, besides the attraction of example, these invectives against all
mankind afford another discouragement to those who would practise
morality; for he who learns from a sermon that there is not a good man
in the world, must conclude goodness to be impracticable. Not having,
therefore, the vanity to suppose that he can accomplish what no man
living has succeeded in, and having heard that no man has been able to
be virtuous, he infers, that he may spare himself the trouble and
vexation of trying.
The sermons to which I was now listening, after having affirmed an
universal depravity, proceeded to lament the uselessness of preaching,
and to wonder how men could contrive their vicious enjoyments in
defiance of so many sermons. Amongst all the reproaches with which a
clergyman assails his congregation, there is none more frequent than
imputing to them that he does not preach with any success; and he always
concludes, without scruple, that the blame of not listening effectually
must accrue to them.
It is observable, that the mind and the body, being committed for safety
to two different artists, and many satirical observations being made
against the success and utility of both, there is this difference in the
two cases,--that all reflections on the art of medicine are directed
against the physician by other people; while the satire concerning the
efficacy of preaching is applied by the clergyman himself to his
congregation. The preacher reproaches men with not becoming virtuous by
his sermons; but a patient would think a physician very unreasonable,
who should upbraid him with remaining ill in contempt of medicine. A
sick man, who finds no health in the remedies prescribed, thinks himself
entitled to call in question the skill of his physician: yet I believe
there is no example of a profligate man complaining to his clergyman of
not having been reclaimed. Now, I would propose it as a question to be
considered, whether the preacher can justly claim this peculiar
advantage of having his patients supposed incurable, because he has
failed to cure them; whether he has in all cases a right to complain of
having been heard without amendment of life, and should not rather
share, at least, with his hearers the blame of their not being reformed?
Not that I would enforce against the clergy that rigorous computation of
service which Lucian recommends against the philosophers who had to
furnish men with virtue in his time. He relates, that a philosopher
demanding payment from a young man who had attended his lectures, the
guardian of this pupil interposed, and accused the philosopher of not
having fulfilled the contract; "for," said he, "you engaged to supply
this young man with morality; and it is but a few days since he basely
corrupted a young woman in our neighbourhood. How, then, can you have
the confidence to require payment for goodness which he has never
received from you?" Lucian advises that this exaction of the morals,
before they be paid for, should be generally practised against the
providers of virtue. I wonder the expedient has not occurred to those
modern statesmen who have discovered that our prosperity depends upon
our obtaining doctrine from the clergy at the lowest possible price; for
I think nothing could so effectually impoverish them as that all under
their charge should insist upon having virtue before they paid for it:
so that any one accosted by the collector of tithe should, in surprise,
plead such an immunity as this:--"By what right can the clergyman demand
payment for morals which he has not given me? Was I not intoxicated last
night? Did I not beat my wife yesterday? Have not I taught my children
to steal?"
When I had satisfied myself with the Valley of Sermons, and was
proceeding in my travels, I met with a gentleman who formerly acquired
considerable renown by some poems which were much read and admired. He
told me, in confidence, that he was in search of his poetical fame,
which he had unaccountably lost without any demerit of his own. When his
works were first published, he said, they had been universally admitted
as authentic poetry; yet they were now generally exploded, though every
word had remained in the situation where he had first placed it. He had
for some time connived at the decay of his reputation, but at length
felt himself so obsolete, that he had no longer the confidence to walk
into a room as a poet, but had relapsed into an ordinary man.
I endeavoured to comfort him by observing, that the same fate had
happened even to the illustrious dead: Pope was once in high esteem, but
is now by no means a poet according to the most received doctrine. The
greatest man has genius only on permission; and how long even Homer and
Virgil may remain poets, depends upon the indulgence of those writers
who furnish us with taste and admiration.
The neglected poet, however, thought that the loss of fame by others was
but little advantage to himself. He said, that Pope, being dead, was not
embarrassed about the behaviour to be assumed in a decay of reputation;
and he seemed to think that he ought at least to have been read as long
as he lived, that he might have escaped this perplexity. He said he
could have borne the want of success if from the beginning men had
committed the injustice of not reading him; but obscurity after fame was
so irksome, that he knew not what to do. To evince the outrage he had
suffered, he began to enlarge upon his forgotten works, and to argue in
favour of their being poetry, in which I knew not how to help him. I
was, indeed, innocent of having ceased to read his poems, for I had
never attained to any farther knowledge of them than the names.
However, I acquiesced in his praises as plausibly as I could.
He said his downfal gave him additional regret, because he had written
his own life, which he had expected to be as much read and esteemed as
that of either Alfieri or Goldoni; but he now should not have the
confidence to publish it. When it was written, the world had evinced a
great curiosity concerning him; and now nobody asked a question about
the way in which he passed his time. I expressed my sense of the
injustice committed by the world in having no curiosity about him.
He told me he had learned that a building within sight contained the
lost renown of Englishmen, who from greatness had fallen into the
adversity that he now suffered; and he had some hope of recovering his
fame there. We advanced, and entered this building, which is very
similar to that described before, as containing the cheerfulness of
dejected persons. In a large room we saw great numbers of phials, which,
we were told, preserve the fame that has left men before their death. As
they are all arranged according to chronology, my companion, by a search
into that period when his reception had become less certainly that of a
poet, discovered the phial that bore his name. He took it into his hand,
and held it up to the light; but, although it was of transparent glass,
nothing could be seen within. But now it occurred to him, that he had
not recovered his fame by acquiring this phial. He knew not what
measures to take, and was at a loss to conceive how the phial could
contribute to the general reading of his works.
I advised him to remove the stopper, and apply his nose, to receive any
virtue that might ensue. This he did; when immediately his eyes began to
sparkle, and he told me that the perfume he enjoyed was the greatest
pleasure he had ever felt. He then held the phial to me: but I could
perceive nothing, this renown being no pleasure to any but the owner. He
exulted as much as a young author during the sale of his first book, and
seemed to think himself suddenly restored to his honours; repeating
several times, "I am a poet again!" I hinted to him, that the
consequences of this phial must be fallacious, and expressed a doubt
whether it were possible to become a poet through the nose, as he now
believed himself to have done; since it was hardly to be supposed that,
because he had found an agreeable perfume, men would read his poems with
new eagerness. He took no notice of what I said, but exclaimed, "The
tenth edition is wanted! the press cannot work fast enough! the public
must have patience!" I perceived that the phial had made him delirious;
but, concluding that its suggestions would soon cease, I let him enjoy
his greatness without any farther interruption. He walked away; and I
know not how long it was before he was undeceived.
I now took a farther survey of the room. Each phial had a label
recording the name of the person whose renown it contained, the means by
which he had become famous, and the cause of his losing reputation, with
some other particulars. They are divided into the different classes of
writing, oratory, and other contrivances for being great. I first
examined the authors, who led me into speculations on the instability of
a writer's fame, and on the causes by which a work full of genius last
year has now no merit, and that without any apparent change, except that
twelve months have elapsed.
On the labels of these phials I read the several artifices practised by
authors for renown. The device of some had been obscurity, which had
charmed those judges who think a passage of no value if it can be read
without delay, and ascribe the greatest genius to him who can obstruct
his reader the most frequently, and oppose to him the greatest number of
impassable phrases.
Another way to greatness recorded here is, the combining together of
words the most repugnant to each other. I saw the name of a man who had
eminently practised this deception, and obtained by it a great renown
for a few weeks. In every page of his writings, those words which might
have been supposed irreconcileable were found side by side, to the
great admiration of the public. These unusual alliances, as being
imagination, were very successful; and it was thought that none but an
extraordinary man could have brought together words which offered so
much resistance. But these words having remained in conjunction for a
few weeks, the wonder ceased, and it began to be thought that, with an
ample collection from diligent study of a dictionary, this style would
not be so difficult as at first had been imagined. From observing the
several stratagems for greatness, I concluded, that the most efficacious
expedient is surprise. The author who can so perplex his readers, that
they know not what to think, is sure of renown. And, not only in
writing, but all other kinds of imposition, he who can devise some
project for giving men a surprise, will be a celebrated person, until
they are recovered from it. This, indeed, soon happens, for men will not
remain astonished; and, as soon as their wonder has ceased, they always
impute fraud to the author of their amazement, and despise him
accordingly. But still they cannot take from him the advantage of having
once been famous, which sometimes is sufficient for peace of mind; since
ambitious men differ much in their wants; and although some, like my
friend the poet, cannot live in comfort without constant supplies of
applause, yet others, by having once been gazed at for a month, are
cheerful and serene till death.
I saw here the names of many authors who were once famous by a
contrivance which has often been practised with great success: it is not
in the power of a single man, but requires a confederacy. This stratagem
is no more than a secret agreement amongst certain writers to extol each
other; every one in this league, therefore, continues to affirm that the
others are great men, till the world can no longer avoid believing it.
Sometimes a man performs this office for himself, and endeavours to be a
great author on his own assertion: but it is far safer to depend on the
word of an accomplice. While one, in such a combination, is eagerly
prosecuting the plot by encomiums on the rest, he seems merely to be
acting with great candour towards his competitors for fame; and the
world admires the generous spirit in which these men of genius live
together. This invention is exactly described by Horace:--
"Discedo Alcæus puncto illius, ille meo quis?
Quis nisi Callimachus? Si plus adposcere visus
Fit Mimnermus, et optivo cognomine crescit."
In this room, also, I found some who had been illustrious by another
kind of conspiracy--the founding of mysterious sects in poetry. For this
purpose, a few writers enter into a league, and agree upon a style (if
so it can be called) in which, to prevent criticism, they take care that
there shall be no meaning. The art is to give their words such a sound,
that the reader shall be persuaded they signify something remarkable,
though he cannot reach it; and that he shall always seem just about to
understand what he reads, without ever quite arriving at the sense. So
great is the charm of reading in this confusion of mind, that he who has
once contracted a love of it lays aside with contempt any composition
that he can understand, and derides those who had before been received
as poets, and who, in truth, are so far from being so, that a plain man
of competent sagacity may in any passage discern their meaning without
much difficulty. It is true, that the followers of these mysterious
poets, being those who read for the sake of not understanding, are a
small body: but this is a cause of pride to the poets, as being suited
only to a few exalted minds; and any person, who complains of not
understanding what he reads, is readily answered that he is not one of
the chosen few. The readers, too, are as proud of the singularity as
their author, and assume a superiority over all men who insist on
comprehending what they read.
----"Illud
Quod mecum ignorat solus vult scire videri."
HORACE.
Next to the phials which contain the lost reputation of authors are some
which hold the decayed fame of orators; those who, in their first
session of parliament, cause wonder by their eloquence; and in the
second, by their silence. I also saw the names of some orators of a
lower kind; those statesmen in the open air, who distribute strange
noises to any who will listen, and undertake to redress the hunger and
raggedness of their hearers.
I observed on each of these phials containing the past renown of
exploded men the name of the merit with which he was once supposed to be
endowed, and under it the true quality, which had been erroneously
construed into that merit. Thus, on the phial of one of these orators to
the crowd, I read "Eloquence," as his claim to greatness; and this word,
underneath, was translated into "Impudence," which was also the
interpretation of many other excellencies; and I was surprised to find
in how many different ways a man may be great by this single endowment.
He who has not this inspiration imagines that confidence must denote the
possession of something to rely upon, and ignorantly supposes, that a
man cannot be assured of his own eloquence without a subject to speak
upon, and words to utter; while those who are endued with this great
quality lie under no such necessities, but are intrepid without any
means of confidence, except their own inward vigour and alacrity.
I learned here, that this gift of impudence had been wit and humour,
argument, eloquence, industry, courage, zeal for the public good, and,
indeed, any other virtue convenient to the owner. However, the renown by
impudence never lasts long, which seems to be the only defect of that
attribute.
Having examined these phials with many reflections on the perishable
nature of fame, I walked forth, and soon reached a building, which
contains the good intentions that have never been executed. There is a
vast accumulation of these virtuous endeavours; and I found amongst them
many actions so noble, that I greatly regretted they should have been
put in practice only so far as to be thought of. Some persons appeared
to have entertained only two or three of these excellent projects during
their lives; others had been incessantly occupied in schemes of future
goodness. I found a great number of resolutions to reform voluptuous
habits: many had determined to repeat a beloved vice no more after a
certain time; some deferred their abstinence till the following year;
and others declared that it should begin the next day. This contrivance,
of beginning virtue at an appointed time, seemed to have been much
practised: one man, in the month of April, had resolved that he would be
good after the first of June, retaining a license for the intervening
weeks.
It is a precept of Lord Bacon's, that those who are endeavouring to
assume an authority over their bad habits should contrive that what they
undertake at one time be neither too easy nor too difficult; since, by
attempting too little, they make no progress, and by aiming at too
much, they fail altogether, and are discouraged. This plan seems
plausible; but I here found innumerable instances in which it had been
useless: nor from these examples was I able to form any opinion as to
what quantity of reformation is the most likely to be endured at one
time. Some confident men had been very peremptory with their faults, and
resolved to dismiss them altogether; the consequence of which was, that
these faults adhered to each other, and all remained where they were.
Others had been content to begin with prohibiting one little enjoyment
at a time, and had found the same disobedience; while others, who had
tried the moderate amendment prescribed by Lord Bacon, had succeeded no
better.
There were several who, after the frequent failing of a resolution, had
desisted in despair, and for the rest of their lives permitted the error
to remain unmolested; but many had continued to repeat the same
unsuccessful effort, and as soon as one resolution gave way, had
supplied its place with another, exactly similar, so as to equal the
perseverance with which the spider renews his web whenever it is swept
away.
A man, who lived principally in bed, had every day entered into a
determination to rise at six; one, whose health suffered by the
achievements of his appetite at meals, had employed the morning of every
day in a resolution to dine sparingly; a third, while he was zealously
dispersing a good fortune, had not passed a day without resolving to
commence a rigid scrutiny into his accounts, and to have a personal
acquaintance with every shilling he possessed. A man who, by an angry
temper, put both his family and himself to great inconvenience, had
undertaken from that moment to be the most peaceable man alive: this
resolution had wanted repairing several times every day.
Men are apt to commit the error of believing, that a resolution, once
fixed in the mind, will remain there till they authorise it to leave its
post. Another mistake is, the supposing that, because a certain bad
inclination is not troublesome at the present moment, it can never
return. Some animals have a property which naturalists call hybernation
(they remain a part of every year without apparent life); and many
persons do not know that their faults are amongst the creatures which
undergo this intermission. From ignorance of this part of natural
history, they believe a vice to be dead, and exult at having destroyed
it, when it is only taking this natural rest, from which it is to have
new vigour. The bad success of these persons, who all their lives were
about to be excellent men, made me reflect on the deficiency of the
ancient and celebrated injunction, "Know thyself," which "e coelo
descendit," and was delivered and received as comprehending all wisdom
and virtue; whereas, to know our faults, and to abstain from them, are
two achievements so obviously distinct, that I wonder how they could
have been confounded.
It has been said, that hell is paved with good intentions; by which all
efficacy seems to be denied to these unsuccessful attempts. This
judgment appears to me a little too severe; and I would allow some merit
to the good that we do in prospect. The chief praise, no doubt, must be
given to the inexorable man who is actually virtuous; but he who makes
an effort, though in vain, must, I think, be acknowledged superior to
the numbers who continue to sin with perfect resignation. Moralists
usually agree, that he who intends to do ill is culpable, though he
should not accomplish his schemes; and I think, therefore, it is but
just, that he who designs to do good, though without success, should be
allowed some portion of praise.
Pursuing my journey, I arrived at a valley, in which I saw a crowd of
seeming men and women, dressed in fantastic habits, and walking up and
down: but one whom I there met informed me, that this was the Valley of
Lost Fashions, and that the persons I saw were only dresses which had
formerly reigned. I walked down into the valley; and then perceived that
these dresses had no person to guide and conduct them: yet they stood
upright, as if the wearers had been within, and moved about as
gracefully as they could have done under their command. The several
parts of the same suit adhered together, each occupying its proper
place; and the hat hovered over, as if supported by a head. These
dresses were of both sexes; and I saw every variety of apparel that has
inhabited England. The dresses of the different ages were mingled
together: there was the scanty and simple concealment of savage times,
and the several sorts of gorgeous and cumbersome robes formerly worn in
our country; in looking at which, I wondered how people could ever have
been induced to involve themselves in such impediments.
I here found, not only the dresses once in fashion, but also the
gestures which have been practised in former ages; for every suit of
clothes retained the manner and behaviour to which it had been
accustomed. There were some ceremonious clothes, which were incessantly
paying homage to others, and, in particular, made very low bows to every
female dress which they met. Some moved with a solemn sedate pace, and
others were very lively. I observed several ladies' gowns that had a
great deal of vivacity.