THE learned Bishop _Hall_, I mean the famous Dr. _Joseph Hall_, who was
Bishop of _Exeter_ in King _James_ the First’s reign, tells us in one
of _Decads_, at the end of his divine art of meditation, imprinted at
_London_, in the year 1610, by _John Beal_, dwelling in
_Aldersgate-street_, “That it is an abominable thing for a man to
commend himself;”——and I really think it is so.
And yet, on the other hand, when a thing is executed in a masterly kind
of a fashion, which thing is not likely to be found out;—I think it is
full as abominable, that a man should lose the honour of it, and go out
of the world with the conceit of it rotting in his head.
This is precisely my situation.
For in this long digression which I was accidentally led into, as in
all my digressions (one only excepted) there is a master-stroke of
digressive skill, the merit of which has all along, I fear, been
over-looked by my reader,—not for want of penetration in him,—but
because ’tis an excellence seldom looked for, or expected indeed, in a
digression;—and it is this: That tho’ my digressions are all fair, as
you observe,—and that I fly off from what I am about, as far, and as
often too, as any writer in _Great Britain_; yet I constantly take care
to order affairs so that my main business does not stand still in my
absence.
I was just going, for example, to have given you the great out-lines of
my uncle _Toby_’s most whimsical character;—when my aunt _Dinah_ and
the coachman came across us, and led us a vagary some millions of miles
into the very heart of the planetary system: Notwithstanding all this,
you perceive that the drawing of my uncle _Toby_’s character went on
gently all the time;—not the great contours of it,—that was
impossible,—but some familiar strokes and faint designations of it,
were here and there touch’d on, as we went along, so that you are much
better acquainted with my uncle Toby now than you was before.
By this contrivance the machinery of my work is of a species by itself;
two contrary motions are introduced into it, and reconciled, which were
thought to be at variance with each other. In a word, my work is
digressive, and it is progressive too,—and at the same time.
This, Sir, is a very different story from that of the earth’s moving
round her axis, in her diurnal rotation, with her progress in her
elliptick orbit which brings about the year, and constitutes that
variety and vicissitude of seasons we enjoy;—though I own it suggested
the thought,—as I believe the greatest of our boasted improvements and
discoveries have come from such trifling hints.
Digressions, incontestably, are the sunshine;——they are the life, the
soul of reading!—take them out of this book, for instance,—you might as
well take the book along with them;—one cold eternal winter would reign
in every page of it; restore them to the writer;—he steps forth like a
bridegroom,—bids All-hail; brings in variety, and forbids the appetite
to fail.
All the dexterity is in the good cookery and management of them, so as
to be not only for the advantage of the reader, but also of the author,
whose distress, in this matter, is truly pitiable: For, if he begins a
digression,—from that moment, I observe, his whole work stands stock
still;—and if he goes on with his main work,—then there is an end of
his digression.
——This is vile work.—For which reason, from the beginning of this, you
see, I have constructed the main work and the adventitious parts of it
with such intersections, and have so complicated and involved the
digressive and progressive movements, one wheel within another, that
the whole machine, in general, has been kept a-going;—and, what’s more,
it shall be kept a-going these forty years, if it pleases the fountain
of health to bless me so long with life and good spirits.