variety of characters, innumerable shapes of people being engaged in a
rapid exhibition of their several kinds of vanity, all being transacted
in silence, for none of the apparitions could speak. I was amused by the
loftiness and pretence of these shadows: here and there I saw a learned
lady dictating to all round with authoritative gestures, nodding with
great erudition, and sometimes stretching out an instructive finger.
Several shapes of young men wandered about quite unable to suppress
their greatness through having spoken once in parliament. The authors,
too, are very abundant here: I remarked the appearance of a man which
seemed to labour extremely with its dignity, and I discovered that the
person whom it represented had fought a duel the day before. One figure
sat with a look of greatness, but quite immovable: this was the
ostentatious reserve of one of those men who would impose their silence
upon the world as learning and superiority, and so much mistake the
reception given them as to construe dislike into respect. This error,
indeed, is not at all uncommon: every one must know people who fancy
themselves universally esteemed only because they put a visible
constraint on every company they enter.
When I looked at the great crowd assembled here, all believing
themselves admired, and all really despised, I could not help
considering how very little admiration there is in the world, and how
many are in pursuit of it. If we except the few solitary men of
remarkable genius, who in the vast crowd that is left obtains any real
admiration? Still the belief of being admired is what gives life all its
spirit. Mankind is in a perpetual plot to obtain applause, and yet every
one prides himself on detecting vanity, and denies to all others what he
expects from them. He who in conversation hears any thing ostentatiously
spoken remarks the vanity of it to his neighbour, who secretly imputes
to him an equal vanity for pretending to this quick discernment of a
fault.
Being now told that I was near the valley of lost labour, I walked
towards it, expecting a very large collection of curiosities, if here
were the efforts of all those Englishmen, who have been laborious to no
purpose. The end of the valley, where I entered, was occupied by a vast
crowd of students. Innumerable shapes or apparitions of men were here
reading for future eminence, being destined to no other reward than the
remembrance of their industry. Each of them fixed his eyes on his book
with great zeal, removing them from time to time as if to enjoy a vision
of his future greatness. I could not avoid some melancholy thoughts at
seeing the pale resolute faces of these persons, who had given up their
health and pleasure for the sake of disappointment, and I considered how
much endeavour there is in the world, and how little reward.
These shadows appeared to be of various ages, some not arrived at
manhood, and others far advanced in life, representing the different
periods at which men desist from trying to be great. Some had given up
renown as soon as they became men, others did not despair to the end of
their lives, but in their old age were still preparing to be famous in
spite of experience. He who means to be eminent usually fixes an early
time for the first appearance of his genius: the time arrives, and his
genius has not yet appeared, but this is no just cause of despair; for
he has only fallen into the common error of expecting a too hasty
success, and he gives a new allowance of time with the same confidence
as before. In the mean time he has a comfort, that early fame is often
pernicious, and his greatness will be more secure by beginning later. He
is also encouraged by the celebrated men who were unknown till long
after his age,--a reflection which has supported many a pensive
candidate for fame. These hopes and alleviations occur at certain
cheerful moments, but there are many hours when the hardship of not
being famous is bitterly felt. And despair, though often deferred, must
come at last, in which emergency consolation is to be sought in the
notorious injustice of the world, and its ignorance of merit. The
sufferer in this disaster has not mistaken his own abilities, but the
judgment of other men: he has failed, not from a deficiency of true
genius, but from the want of some dexterity, or fraudulent art, without
which genius cannot be manifested. Thus a man encourages himself in his
youthful hopes by the sagacity of the world, which insures success to
real ability, and afterwards in his despair he comforts himself by the
dulness of the world, which denies all opportunity to genius. After the
final disappointment, therefore, he is still a great man in secret, and
corrects the injustice of the world, by privately maintaining himself in
his true rank. I believe it is little suspected how many of these
concealed men of genius there are.
Having passed through these laborious readers, I came to a company of
writers equally industrious. A crowd was here afflicted in the
composition of books never to be read. Amongst these authors, I saw two
or three of my acquaintance, whom I had never suspected of such
practices, so carefully had they concealed their infirmity, intending,
probably, to surprise the world with the sudden appearance of a great
work; but through the inexorable temper of booksellers, or some other
impediment, the surprise had never occurred.
The sight of these unsuspected writers confirmed an opinion I have long
had, that the clandestine authors are a very numerous race. And whatever
mortification there may be in finding that what we have written is not
to be a book, yet a writer of this kind has great advantages by his
concealment; for his work, not spreading beyond himself, he is sure of
unanimous approbation, and is the only author who can securely write
without censure. Besides which, while his works are confined to his
desk, he may assign that to himself as an excuse for their not having
been read; but he who by publication has given men an opportunity of
reading him, which they have declined, has no justification. To my
friends, therefore, who must write, I recommend secrecy as the best art
to defend their works from censure, ridicule, neglect, feeble praise,
and other calamities incident to a book.
In examining these appearances of authors, I observed that there were
some of every rank in life; many of them betrayed that they could not be
clothed without difficulty, while several seemed to belong to the
highest order of society. All gave proofs of being affected by the force
and merit of what they were writing; some appeared ready to weep for
the distress which they were causing in a romance; and others were much
diverted by their own wit. I saw two or three authors who could not
contain their laughter at every new sentence that came from their pens.
The works were of various kinds, with which all these persons were
trying to enrich the world. I looked over the shoulders of some, and saw
poems and novels, politics, history, divinity, and every other
undertaking.
Leaving the authors, and advancing farther into the valley of lost
labour, I saw a crowd of young men, who with much energy were throwing
their bodies into many different postures. At first I could not imagine
the purpose of this peculiar diligence, but soon discovered that these
young men were in the practice of oratory, and that all the strange
attitudes I saw were for parliament. As I approached the orators, I
found they were reciting speeches to these gestures, each having a
mirror before him, to direct that part of eloquence which lies in the
arms and legs. All of them argued vehemently with their limbs, and I
lamented that so many convincing gestures should have been lost.
After seeing many other lost labours, which it would be tiresome to
enumerate, I left the valley, and before I had gone far, observed a
pretty woman, with a disconsolate countenance, sitting to rest herself,
as it appeared, from some fruitless search. I asked whether I could
assist her in finding what she wanted, and she gladly accepted of my
aid, informing me that she was in quest of her husband's affection,
which she had unaccountably lost, two years after their marriage, and
had vainly attempted to regain. She had been told that somewhere near
the place where she now sat there was a receptacle for the lost
affection both of husbands and wives, but she had not yet succeeded in
finding it. I comforted her with observing, that a place which should
contain all the lost love of married people must be of considerable
extent, and therefore easily found.
We walked on together, and making inquiries, were directed to a large
building where the affection which has dropped out of the bosoms of
married people is preserved in the shape of small hearts, white and
shining, like alabaster. On each is an inscription, recording the fault
of the wife or husband, by which it had been lost. On one male heart I
read "Decay of beauty," that being the wife's misconduct, by which this
heart had been estranged from her. Almost every heart alleged some
excellent reason for the ceasing of affection, such as a hasty temper,
jealousy, dulness, vivacity, scolding, growing old, the having been
married _two_ years, with many other equally good causes for the
discontinuance of domestic kindness. On some of the hearts was a blank,
and no reason assigned for the alienation, which intimated that the
affection of the husband or wife had not been extinguished by any
violence, but had gone out of itself.
I saw a considerable number both of men and women searching for the
hearts that they desired to regain. There is no name on any of these
hearts, but all people were enabled to discover that which had once
loved them, by a very singular property in the heart; for when they took
hold of that which had formerly entertained a kindness for them, it
instantly began to beat and palpitate violently, though to the eye it
appeared common alabaster; but if it had never felt any passion for them
it remained perfectly still.
There was an old man who seized every female heart that he met with; and
as I came up to him, I heard him mutter, "This certainly beats a
little." He then requested me to feel the heart, which he held in his
hand, and give my judgment whether there was any thing amounting to a
real palpitation while he held it. I could not perceive the least
motion, except from the trembling of his hands, which greatly mortified
him. He told me he had been married late in life to a young woman, who
had very soon become extremely cool towards him, though he had done
nothing to displease her, and always spoke to her with the greatest
kindness. I represented to him that unless he was quite sure he had once
been really possessed of her heart it was vain to search for it here;
but he declared he was confident that when he married the lady her heart
was his own, though it escaped from him in so singular a manner soon
after. He then continued to try all the hearts in his way, imagining a
palpitation in each.
One male heart was vehemently disputed by half-a-dozen women, each of
whom pleaded a lawful claim to it, and, indeed, it actually beat
whichever of them held it, thus owning a passion for them all. One of
them was wife to this heart; but her right was contested by the others,
on the pretence that the palpitation of the heart when she touched it
was much weaker than when it was held by any of them. There were many
other hearts, both male and female, which, having been pluralists, were
disputed by many competitors, each of whom was able to produce a real
palpitation.
I was informed that somebody had invented a method by which these hearts
might restore the lost affection; and as the wife whom I accompanied had
found the heart of her husband, I explained to her the invention, which
she has since practised with complete success. According to the
direction given her, she dissolved the heart in a certain liquid, and,
keeping it in a bottle, secretly mixed a small quantity with whatever
her husband drank. The effect was, that after the first draught he
intimated some return of kindness, which still increased as he
proceeded through the bottle; and when he had drank the whole heart he
had resumed all his former affection.
When I had left this building, I soon arrived at another which contains
groundless fears. I entered it, and found, as in many others, a spacious
room filled with bottles, containing the apprehensions that have
troubled mankind without necessity. On studying the labels of these
bottles, I thought the fears of men little less wild and visionary than
their hopes; and it appeared to me that the worst calamities of life are
those which are never to happen. Moralists have often praised the
concealment of the future from man as a most ingenious invention against
approaching evils; but since we are so much tormented by evils that are
not coming, I think this ignorance is but an imperfect security.
I diverted myself in reading the terrors with which these bottles are
stored. Every gale of wind supplies them with apprehensions from those
who are at sea; and I was surprised to observe how many people there are
who, in a thunder-storm on shore, are fully convinced that the lightning
will choose their persons in preference to every other spot where it
could light. Great numbers in a trifling sickness had suffered all the
horrors of approaching death. I knew not before how many there are who
use the precaution of being always uneasy, and have so much foresight
as to lose all the comfort of life.
One part of this room is assigned to public fears, which are contained
in large urns. These are the apprehensions which have seized a great
part of our nation from time to time. There is great variety in the
nature of them. At one time a small party of men are suddenly convinced
that all the rest of the nation are soon to be mad by agreement at the
same instant, leaving only themselves in possession of reason: every
thing they see tends to a general insanity; and by the expectation of
this event they are much harassed, as is reasonable. Sometimes those who
are earnest in religion apprehend that the people, at a stated time, are
going to disbelieve Christianity and abolish it. And sometimes the
farmers of England are seized with a belief that parliament, instigated
by a bad ministry, intends to pass a law forbidding the practices of
ploughing and sowing, to the manifest injury of agriculture.
These epidemic fears are so frequent in England that every body must
remember a great number of them. Sometimes they seem to invade the
country of their own accord, and at other times are contrived by the
invention and industry of certain statesmen,--for one of these terrors
has often power to ruin or secure a ministry; so that the great wisdom
of state in England is a skill in prompting and regulating fears. I know
not whether there is more art or fortune in the beginning and progress
of a fear: very able men often undertake to be the authors of one
without any success; and in spite of the reasoning with which they tell
the world to be afraid, not a man will consent to feel any alarm.
Sometimes a most plausible apprehension is invented, and sent into the
world with the countenance of eminent men, and every other advantage for
its promotion, and yet it can obtain no credit, but is almost
immediately lost, while, at another time, a terror is obscurely raised,
and, although without probability, favour, or any arts of advancement,
it is instantly spread and established.
It is vain to oppose a successful fear: a wise minister attacked by one
will enrol himself under it, and be as much terrified as any body. These
apprehensions differ much in duration, the life of some being only a few
weeks, and others lasting for many months, or even for some years.
I have said that the public fears are kept in large urns, with this
difference from the private fears, that a bottle contains the
apprehensions of only one person, while an urn holds the terror of a
whole party, each public fear having an urn to itself. Every urn is
inscribed with the name of the fear that it preserves, and is larger or
smaller according to the numbers who have been possessed by its
contents. On one urn I read "Popery," on another, "Revolution."
But while I was reading the names of these past disturbances, a fearful
clamour rushed into the room, sounding like the sudden shout of a vast
crowd, but incessantly repeated. I found it was a public terror newly
arrived from the earth, and the guardian of the room made haste to
secure it. He brought an urn, the size of which he had determined by his
ear, and enticed the uproar into it by a proceeding very similar to the
art which inveigles a swarm of bees into a hive. This clamour was the
repetition of a single word by thousands of voices. What the word was I
shall not disclose; for since it has very lately been a prevalent fear,
some excellent persons not yet dispossessed, on learning its departure
to the moon, would be distressed by the fatal security that has befallen
us.
It is possible that a skilful statesman might employ these urns in his
service by letting out some terror judiciously chosen at a time
favourable to its progress. I am not able to say whether it would
prosper a second time, or return instantly to the moon, as having been
discharged, but I think the experiment worthy of being tried by any
administration that wants aid. Great care and judgment would be required
in the selection of a fear for release, lest it should turn against its
deliverers.
I next entered a building filled with the unavailing projects of
Englishmen, and spent a short time in examining these enterprises,
which are political, moral, religious, mechanical, and chemical. The
collection has been much enriched by recent contributions. Many
excellent designs of the present age for the benefit of England and the
rest of the world are here honourably preserved. I saw numerous projects
for making morality: every virtue had some contrivance to be practised
by; and these schemes appeared very easy of execution, requiring nothing
for their success except the universal concurrence of mankind in
receiving them.
I found here plans for dispensing with all laws, and extinguishing crime
by a general resolution of men in favour of virtue, for preventing the
birth of children by argument, for discontinuing war throughout the
world, for converting all nations to the true religion, that is, the
religion of the projector.
Amongst all the noble schemes that I saw here, I most admired those
which were not content with the improvement of England, but designed the
good of the whole world, such as the plan last mentioned, for including
all the inhabitants of the globe in one religion. The means of effecting
so great a work were not described, but the inventor of this unanimity
was said to have devised so infallible a project, that for spreading
truth over the earth he required nothing but a steam vessel, and
undertook by a few tons of coal to convince all mankind.
I saw many other English schemes for the welfare of distant nations, so
that not a people was to remain vicious, ignorant, or oppressed. In
examining these ample designs, I felt a secret pride in the noble spirit
of some amongst my countrymen; and it appeared to me that nothing has
been so much improved in modern times as the virtue of humanity. Men
were formerly satisfied with relieving the distresses which they saw and
heard; but there is now a large body of men in England who busy
themselves with the troubles of distant nations, and consider all
sufferings on the farther side of the globe as their own calamities. It
is well known how many persons of all ranks in England pined away under
the lashes inflicted upon the negroes in the West Indies. Others could
not be cheerful as long as Greece was under the dominion of Turkey; and
another party, who were not concerned either about Greece or the
negroes, regarded themselves as the most unfortunate of men because in
India widows sometimes burned themselves at the funerals of their
husbands. How would one of the ancient moralists admire the dismay which
has been caused in England by the conflagration of an old woman in the
East!
It is observable that one who is thoroughly inspired with this remote
pity disdains to do a kindness in his own hemisphere, and despises that
superficial humanity which makes us supply the wants of those who are
immediately round us. He can only pity at a distance, and feels
compassion in proportion to the number of leagues that intervene between
him and the sufferer. He can see with firmness the starvation of those
who live near him, but shudders to think that a man may be hungry two
thousand miles off. Thus he claims a share in the misery of every man at
a sufficient distance: a lash inflicted on the other side of the
Atlantic makes a mark upon his back--he is flogged with the negro,
enslaved with the Greek, and burned to ashes with the Indian widow.
I had now been wandering in our satellite almost a fortnight, according
to the earth, and almost a day according to the moon, for I arrived
there in the morning, and the day was now almost ended. I have not
related all that I saw, but selected a few of the most remarkable places
that I visited; nor have I instructed the world in what manner I
provided for my own personal comforts, according to the practice of many
travellers, who rescue every one of their meals from oblivion, and never
eat or drink without recording it. I have also omitted all mention of
the moon's inhabitants, because they are to be fully described by other
travellers.
When I left the House of Projects, I was informed that I was very near
to the Valley of Lost Time, and I hastened towards it, that I might
observe whatever was there, before it should be dark. I descended into
the valley, and found myself surrounded by the sounds of innumerable
clocks. These sounds did not proceed from any visible mechanism, but
lived in the air like the other preserved clamours. They are the ghosts
of minutes and hours that have perished. It was remarkable that in this
confused clamour, every man knew his own time, and could distinguish the
hours he had lost when he heard them struck; yet he knew not what it was
that discovered them to him: all were alike in sound; only at the
striking of particular hours, he was seized with a conviction that he
heard his own time.
There were many persons in the valley, and I observed that some of them
heard their own lost hours with great emotion. They turned pale,
trembled, and were overpowered by the reproach. And not only could a man
discern his own losses amongst these sounds, but knew what particular
hour or minute of his past life he was listening to, which very much
aggravated the rebuke. Men heard the striking of the very crisis which
might have saved, enriched, or advanced them. In some men the emotion
from these sounds continued a long time, others soon recovered
themselves.
I saw two or three running about in chase of their time with a hat, as a
boy follows a butterfly. The hours were very nimble, escaping by an
irregular flight, and the pursuit was long continued in vain. At last
one of these men succeeded in the capture of a portion of time, which he
had followed with much perseverance. The chase being finished close to
me, I heard the stifled hours striking under his hat. As he had been
present in the room of lost spirits when I had shown the means of
recovering mirth from the phial containing it, he had contracted a high
opinion of my skill and invention in rendering available these regained
prizes, and he now earnestly consulted me about the means of making the
time under his hat serve the purpose which it ought to have been applied
to before. He told me he was a London tradesman, and not very
prosperous, through the misapplication of three particular days which he
now had in captivity. A few years ago he had been in pursuit of a rich
widow, from whom though he had extorted no promise, yet he had been
convinced that she was waiting only till a decorous time had elapsed
since her first husband. But this confidence ruined him: he was absent
three days with some friends; and on returning to his vocation found the
lady had so much resented his neglect of office as to supply his place
with another candidate, whom soon after she married. "Now," he
continued, "I have caught these three days, and here they are, but still
I know not how to make them answer my purpose. However, since you, sir,
could restore a lady her spirits out of a phial, perhaps you can restore
me my widow from under a hat."