Transcribed from the 1889 George Routledge and Sons “Carisbrooke Library”
edition by Steven Rice. Second proofing by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org
[Picture: Book cover]
A TALE OF A TUB
AND
THE HISTORY OF MARTIN
BY
JONATHAN SWIFT
* * * * *
EDITED BY
HENRY MORLEY, LL.D.
PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LITERATURE AT UNIVERSITY COLLEGE
LONDON
* * * * *
LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS
BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL
GLASGOW MANCHESTER AND NEW YORK
1889
CONTENTS.
A TALE OF A TUB
To the Right Honourable John Lord Somers 37
The Bookseller to The Reader 41
The Epistle Dedicatory 43
The Preface 49
Section I. The Introduction 59
Section II. 70
Section III. A Digression Concerning 81
Critics
Section IV. A Tale of a Tub 90
Section V. A Digression in the Modern 100
Kind
Section VI. A Tale of a Tub 106
Section VII. A Digression in Praise of 113
Digressions
Section VIII. A Tale of a Tub 118
Section IX. A Digression Concerning the 125
Original . . .
Section X. A Farther Digression 138
Section XI. A Tale of a Tub 143
The Conclusion 155
THE HISTORY OF MARTIN
The History of Martin 159
A Digression on the Nature . . . 163
The History of Martin—_Continued_ 164
A Project for the Universal Benefit of Mankind 165
A TALE OF A TUB.
ORIGINAL ADVERTISEMENT.
Treatifes writ by the fame Author, moft of them mentioned in the
following Discourfes; which will be fpeedily publifhed.
A _Character of the prefent Set of_ Wits _in this Ifland_.
_A Panegyrical Effay upon the Number_ THREE.
_A Differtation upon the principal productions of_ Grub-ftreet.
_Lectures upon the Diffection of Human Nature_.
_A Panegyrick upon the World_.
_An Analytical Difcourfe upon Zeal_, Hiftori-theo-phyfi-logically
_confidered_.
A _general Hiftory of_ Ears.
_A modeft Defence of the Proceedings of the_ Rabble _in all Ages_.
_A Defcription of the Kingdom of_ Abfurdities.
_A Voyage into_ England, _by a Perfon of Quality in_ Terra Auftralis
incognita, _tranflated from the Original_.
_A Critical Effay upon the Art of_ Canting, _Philofophically_,
_Phyfically_, _and Mufically confidered_.
[Picture: Facsimile of title page of the second (1704) edition]
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
JOHN LORD SOMERS.
My LORD,
THOUGH the author has written a large Dedication, yet that being
addressed to a Prince whom I am never likely to have the honour of being
known to; a person, besides, as far as I can observe, not at all regarded
or thought on by any of our present writers; and I being wholly free from
that slavery which booksellers usually lie under to the caprices of
authors, I think it a wise piece of presumption to inscribe these papers
to your Lordship, and to implore your Lordship’s protection of them. God
and your Lordship know their faults and their merits; for as to my own
particular, I am altogether a stranger to the matter; and though
everybody else should be equally ignorant, I do not fear the sale of the
book at all the worse upon that score. Your Lordship’s name on the front
in capital letters will at any time get off one edition: neither would I
desire any other help to grow an alderman than a patent for the sole
privilege of dedicating to your Lordship.
I should now, in right of a dedicator, give your Lordship a list of your
own virtues, and at the same time be very unwilling to offend your
modesty; but chiefly I should celebrate your liberality towards men of
great parts and small fortunes, and give you broad hints that I mean
myself. And I was just going on in the usual method to peruse a hundred
or two of dedications, and transcribe an abstract to be applied to your
Lordship, but I was diverted by a certain accident. For upon the covers
of these papers I casually observed written in large letters the two
following words, DETUR DIGNISSIMO, which, for aught I knew, might contain
some important meaning. But it unluckily fell out that none of the
Authors I employ understood Latin (though I have them often in pay to
translate out of that language). I was therefore compelled to have
recourse to the Curate of our Parish, who Englished it thus, _Let it be
given to the worthiest_; and his comment was that the Author meant his
work should be dedicated to the sublimest genius of the age for wit,
learning, judgment, eloquence, and wisdom. I called at a poet’s chamber
(who works for my shop) in an alley hard by, showed him the translation,
and desired his opinion who it was that the Author could mean. He told
me, after some consideration, that vanity was a thing he abhorred, but by
the description he thought himself to be the person aimed at; and at the
same time he very kindly offered his own assistance gratis towards
penning a dedication to himself. I desired him, however, to give a
second guess. Why then, said he, it must be I, or my Lord Somers. From
thence I went to several other wits of my acquaintance, with no small
hazard and weariness to my person, from a prodigious number of dark
winding stairs; but found them all in the same story, both of your
Lordship and themselves. Now your Lordship is to understand that this
proceeding was not of my own invention; for I have somewhere heard it is
a maxim that those to whom everybody allows the second place have an
undoubted title to the first.
This infallibly convinced me that your Lordship was the person intended
by the Author. But being very unacquainted in the style and form of
dedications, I employed those wits aforesaid to furnish me with hints and
materials towards a panegyric upon your Lordship’s virtues.
In two days they brought me ten sheets of paper filled up on every side.
They swore to me that they had ransacked whatever could be found in the
characters of Socrates, Aristides, Epaminondas, Cato, Tully, Atticus, and
other hard names which I cannot now recollect. However, I have reason to
believe they imposed upon my ignorance, because when I came to read over
their collections, there was not a syllable there but what I and
everybody else knew as well as themselves: therefore I grievously suspect
a cheat; and that these Authors of mine stole and transcribed every word
from the universal report of mankind. So that I took upon myself as
fifty shillings out of pocket to no manner of purpose.
If by altering the title I could make the same materials serve for
another dedication (as my betters have done), it would help to make up my
loss; but I have made several persons dip here and there in those papers,
and before they read three lines they have all assured me plainly that
they cannot possibly be applied to any person besides your Lordship.
I expected, indeed, to have heard of your Lordship’s bravery at the head
of an army; of your undaunted courage in mounting a breach or scaling a
wall; or to have had your pedigree traced in a lineal descent from the
House of Austria; or of your wonderful talent at dress and dancing; or
your profound knowledge in algebra, metaphysics, and the Oriental
tongues: but to ply the world with an old beaten story of your wit, and
eloquence, and learning, and wisdom, and justice, and politeness, and
candour, and evenness of temper in all scenes of life; of that great
discernment in discovering and readiness in favouring deserving men; with
forty other common topics; I confess I have neither conscience nor
countenance to do it. Because there is no virtue either of a public or
private life which some circumstances of your own have not often produced
upon the stage of the world; and those few which for want of occasions to
exert them might otherwise have passed unseen or unobserved by your
friends, your enemies have at length brought to light.
It is true I should be very loth the bright example of your Lordship’s
virtues should be lost to after-ages, both for their sake and your own;
but chiefly because they will be so very necessary to adorn the history
of a late reign; and that is another reason why I would forbear to make a
recital of them here; because I have been told by wise men that as
dedications have run for some years past, a good historian will not be
apt to have recourse thither in search of characters.
There is one point wherein I think we dedicators would do well to change
our measures; I mean, instead of running on so far upon the praise of our
patron’s liberality, to spend a word or two in admiring their patience.
I can put no greater compliment on your Lordship’s than by giving you so
ample an occasion to exercise it at present. Though perhaps I shall not
be apt to reckon much merit to your Lordship upon that score, who having
been formerly used to tedious harangues, and sometimes to as little
purpose, will be the readier to pardon this, especially when it is
offered by one who is, with all respect and veneration,
My LORD,
Your Lordship’s most obedient
and most faithful Servant,
THE BOOKSELLER.
THE
BOOKSELLER TO THE READER.
IT is now six years since these papers came first to my hand, which seems
to have been about a twelvemonth after they were written, for the Author
tells us in his preface to the first treatise that he had calculated it
for the year 1697; and in several passages of that discourse, as well as
the second, it appears they were written about that time.
As to the Author, I can give no manner of satisfaction. However, I am
credibly informed that this publication is without his knowledge, for he
concludes the copy is lost, having lent it to a person since dead, and
being never in possession of it after; so that, whether the work received
his last hand, or whether he intended to fill up the defective places, is
like to remain a secret.
If I should go about to tell the reader by what accident I became master
of these papers, it would, in this unbelieving age, pass for little more
than the cant or jargon of the trade. I therefore gladly spare both him
and myself so unnecessary a trouble. There yet remains a difficult
question—why I published them no sooner? I forbore upon two accounts.
First, because I thought I had better work upon my hands; and secondly,
because I was not without some hope of hearing from the Author and
receiving his directions. But I have been lately alarmed with
intelligence of a surreptitious copy which a certain great wit had new
polished and refined, or, as our present writers express themselves,
“fitted to the humour of the age,” as they have already done with great
felicity to Don Quixote, Boccalini, La Bruyère, and other authors.
However, I thought it fairer dealing to offer the whole work in its
naturals. If any gentleman will please to furnish me with a key, in
order to explain the more difficult parts, I shall very gratefully
acknowledge the favour, and print it by itself.
THE EPISTLE DEDICATORY
TO
HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS PRINCE POSTERITY.
SIR,
I HERE present your Highness with the fruits of a very few leisure hours,
stolen from the short intervals of a world of business, and of an
employment quite alien from such amusements as this; the poor production
of that refuse of time which has lain heavy upon my hands during a long
prorogation of Parliament, a great dearth of foreign news, and a tedious
fit of rainy weather. For which, and other reasons, it cannot choose
extremely to deserve such a patronage as that of your Highness, whose
numberless virtues in so few years, make the world look upon you as the
future example to all princes. For although your Highness is hardly got
clear of infancy, yet has the universal learned world already resolved
upon appealing to your future dictates with the lowest and most resigned
submission, fate having decreed you sole arbiter of the productions of
human wit in this polite and most accomplished age. Methinks the number
of appellants were enough to shock and startle any judge of a genius less
unlimited than yours; but in order to prevent such glorious trials, the
person, it seems, to whose care the education of your Highness is
committed, has resolved, as I am told, to keep you in almost an universal
ignorance of our studies, which it is your inherent birthright to
inspect.
It is amazing to me that this person should have assurance, in the face
of the sun, to go about persuading your Highness that our age is almost
wholly illiterate and has hardly produced one writer upon any subject. I
know very well that when your Highness shall come to riper years, and
have gone through the learning of antiquity, you will be too curious to
neglect inquiring into the authors of the very age before you; and to
think that this insolent, in the account he is preparing for your view,
designs to reduce them to a number so insignificant as I am ashamed to
mention; it moves my zeal and my spleen for the honour and interest of
our vast flourishing body, as well as of myself, for whom I know by long
experience he has professed, and still continues, a peculiar malice.
It is not unlikely that, when your Highness will one day peruse what I am
now writing, you may be ready to expostulate with your governor upon the
credit of what I here affirm, and command him to show you some of our
productions. To which he will answer—for I am well informed of his
designs—by asking your Highness where they are, and what is become of
them? and pretend it a demonstration that there never were any, because
they are not then to be found. Not to be found! Who has mislaid them?
Are they sunk in the abyss of things? It is certain that in their own
nature they were light enough to swim upon the surface for all eternity;
therefore, the fault is in him who tied weights so heavy to their heels
as to depress them to the centre. Is their very essence destroyed? Who
has annihilated them? Were they drowned by purges or martyred by pipes?
Who administered them to the posteriors of —. But that it may no longer
be a doubt with your Highness who is to be the author of this universal
ruin, I beseech you to observe that large and terrible scythe which your
governor affects to bear continually about him. Be pleased to remark the
length and strength, the sharpness and hardness, of his nails and teeth;
consider his baneful, abominable breath, enemy to life and matter,
infectious and corrupting, and then reflect whether it be possible for
any mortal ink and paper of this generation to make a suitable
resistance. Oh, that your Highness would one day resolve to disarm this
usurping _maître de palais_ of his furious engines, and bring your empire
_hors du page_.
It were endless to recount the several methods of tyranny and destruction
which your governor is pleased to practise upon this occasion. His
inveterate malice is such to the writings of our age, that, of several
thousands produced yearly from this renowned city, before the next
revolution of the sun there is not one to be heard of. Unhappy infants!
many of them barbarously destroyed before they have so much as learnt
their mother-tongue to beg for pity. Some he stifles in their cradles,
others he frights into convulsions, whereof they suddenly die, some he
flays alive, others he tears limb from limb, great numbers are offered to
Moloch, and the rest, tainted by his breath, die of a languishing
consumption.
But the concern I have most at heart is for our Corporation of Poets,
from whom I am preparing a petition to your Highness, to be subscribed
with the names of one hundred and thirty-six of the first race, but whose
immortal productions are never likely to reach your eyes, though each of
them is now an humble and an earnest appellant for the laurel, and has
large comely volumes ready to show for a support to his pretensions. The
never-dying works of these illustrious persons your governor, sir, has
devoted to unavoidable death, and your Highness is to be made believe
that our age has never arrived at the honour to produce one single poet.
We confess immortality to be a great and powerful goddess, but in vain we
offer up to her our devotions and our sacrifices if your Highness’s
governor, who has usurped the priesthood, must, by an unparalleled
ambition and avarice, wholly intercept and devour them.
To affirm that our age is altogether unlearned and devoid of writers in
any kind, seems to be an assertion so bold and so false, that I have been
sometimes thinking the contrary may almost be proved by uncontrollable
demonstration. It is true, indeed, that although their numbers be vast
and their productions numerous in proportion, yet are they hurried so
hastily off the scene that they escape our memory and delude our sight.
When I first thought of this address, I had prepared a copious list of
titles to present your Highness as an undisputed argument for what I
affirm. The originals were posted fresh upon all gates and corners of
streets; but returning in a very few hours to take a review, they were
all torn down and fresh ones in their places. I inquired after them
among readers and booksellers, but I inquired in vain; the memorial of
them was lost among men, their place was no more to be found; and I was
laughed to scorn for a clown and a pedant, devoid of all taste and
refinement, little versed in the course of present affairs, and that knew
nothing of what had passed in the best companies of court and town. So
that I can only avow in general to your Highness that we do abound in
learning and wit, but to fix upon particulars is a task too slippery for
my slender abilities. If I should venture, in a windy day, to affirm to
your Highness that there is a large cloud near the horizon in the form of
a bear, another in the zenith with the head of an ass, a third to the
westward with claws like a dragon; and your Highness should in a few
minutes think fit to examine the truth, it is certain they would be all
chanced in figure and position, new ones would arise, and all we could
agree upon would be, that clouds there were, but that I was grossly
mistaken in the zoography and topography of them.
But your governor, perhaps, may still insist, and put the question, What
is then become of those immense bales of paper which must needs have been
employed in such numbers of books? Can these also be wholly annihilated,
and to of a sudden, as I pretend? What shall I say in return of so
invidious an objection? It ill befits the distance between your Highness
and me to send you for ocular conviction to a jakes or an oven, to the
windows of a bawdyhouse, or to a sordid lanthorn. Books, like men their
authors, have no more than one way of coming into the world, but there
are ten thousand to go out of it and return no more.
I profess to your Highness, in the integrity of my heart, that what I am
going to say is literally true this minute I am writing; what revolutions
may happen before it shall be ready for your perusal I can by no means
warrant; however, I beg you to accept it as a specimen of our learning,
our politeness, and our wit. I do therefore affirm, upon the word of a
sincere man, that there is now actually in being a certain poet called
John Dryden, whose translation of Virgil was lately printed in large
folio, well bound, and if diligent search were made, for aught I know, is
yet to be seen. There is another called Nahum Tate, who is ready to make
oath that he has caused many reams of verse to be published, whereof both
himself and his bookseller, if lawfully required, can still produce
authentic copies, and therefore wonders why the world is pleased to make
such a secret of it. There is a third, known by the name of Tom Durfey,
a poet of a vast comprehension, an universal genius, and most profound
learning. There are also one Mr. Rymer and one Mr. Dennis, most profound
critics. There is a person styled Dr. Bentley, who has wrote near a
thousand pages of immense erudition, giving a full and true account of a
certain squabble of wonderful importance between himself and a
bookseller; he is a writer of infinite wit and humour, no man rallies
with a better grace and in more sprightly turns. Further, I avow to your
Highness that with these eyes I have beheld the person of William Wotton,
B.D., who has written a good-sized volume against a friend of your
governor, from whom, alas! he must therefore look for little favour, in a
most gentlemanly style, adorned with utmost politeness and civility,
replete with discoveries equally valuable for their novelty and use, and
embellished with traits of wit so poignant and so apposite, that he is a
worthy yoke-mate to his fore-mentioned friend.
Why should I go upon farther particulars, which might fill a volume with
the just eulogies of my contemporary brethren? I shall bequeath this
piece of justice to a larger work, wherein I intend to write a character
of the present set of wits in our nation; their persons I shall describe
particularly and at length, their genius and understandings in miniature.
In the meantime, I do here make bold to present your Highness with a
faithful abstract drawn from the universal body of all arts and sciences,
intended wholly for your service and instruction. Nor do I doubt in the
least but your Highness will peruse it as carefully and make as
considerable improvements as other young princes have already done by the
many volumes of late years written for a help to their studies.
That your Highness may advance in wisdom and virtue, as well as years,
and at last outshine all your royal ancestors, shall be the daily prayer
of,
SIR,
Your Highness’s most devoted, &c.
_Decemb._ 1697.
THE PREFACE.
THE wits of the present age being so very numerous and penetrating, it
seems the grandees of Church and State begin to fall under horrible
apprehensions lest these gentlemen, during the intervals of a long peace,
should find leisure to pick holes in the weak sides of religion and
government. To prevent which, there has been much thought employed of
late upon certain projects for taking off the force and edge of those
formidable inquirers from canvassing and reasoning upon such delicate
points. They have at length fixed upon one, which will require some time
as well as cost to perfect. Meanwhile, the danger hourly increasing, by
new levies of wits, all appointed (as there is reason to fear) with pen,
ink, and paper, which may at an hour’s warning be drawn out into
pamphlets and other offensive weapons ready for immediate execution, it
was judged of absolute necessity that some present expedient be thought
on till the main design can be brought to maturity. To this end, at a
grand committee, some days ago, this important discovery was made by a
certain curious and refined observer, that seamen have a custom when they
meet a Whale to fling him out an empty Tub, by way of amusement, to
divert him from laying violent hands upon the Ship. This parable was
immediately mythologised; the Whale was interpreted to be Hobbes’s
“Leviathan,” which tosses and plays with all other schemes of religion
and government, whereof a great many are hollow, and dry, and empty, and
noisy, and wooden, and given to rotation. This is the Leviathan from
whence the terrible wits of our age are said to borrow their weapons.
The Ship in danger is easily understood to be its old antitype the
commonwealth. But how to analyse the Tub was a matter of difficulty,
when, after long inquiry and debate, the literal meaning was preserved,
and it was decreed that, in order to prevent these Leviathans from
tossing and sporting with the commonwealth, which of itself is too apt to
fluctuate, they should be diverted from that game by “A Tale of a Tub.”
And my genius being conceived to lie not unhappily that way, I had the
honour done me to be engaged in the performance.
This is the sole design in publishing the following treatise, which I
hope will serve for an interim of some months to employ those unquiet
spirits till the perfecting of that great work, into the secret of which
it is reasonable the courteous reader should have some little light.
It is intended that a large Academy be erected, capable of containing
nine thousand seven hundred forty and three persons, which, by modest
computation, is reckoned to be pretty near the current number of wits in
this island {50}. These are to be disposed into the several schools of
this Academy, and there pursue those studies to which their genius most
inclines them. The undertaker himself will publish his proposals with
all convenient speed, to which I shall refer the curious reader for a
more particular account, mentioning at present only a few of the
principal schools. There is, first, a large pederastic school, with
French and Italian masters; there is also the spelling school, a very
spacious building; the school of looking-glasses; the school of swearing;
the school of critics; the school of salivation; the school of
hobby-horses; the school of poetry; the school of tops; the school of
spleen; the school of gaming; with many others too tedious to recount.
No person to be admitted member into any of these schools without an
attestation under two sufficient persons’ hands certifying him to be a
wit.
But to return. I am sufficiently instructed in the principal duty of a
preface if my genius, were capable of arriving at it. Thrice have I
forced my imagination to take the tour of my invention, and thrice it has
returned empty, the latter having been wholly drained by the following
treatise. Not so my more successful brethren the moderns, who will by no
means let slip a preface or dedication without some notable
distinguishing stroke to surprise the reader at the entry, and kindle a
wonderful expectation of what is to ensue. Such was that of a most
ingenious poet, who, soliciting his brain for something new, compared
himself to the hangman and his patron to the patient. This was
_insigne_, _recens_, _indictum ore alio_ {51a}. When I went through that
necessary and noble course of study, {51b} I had the happiness to observe
many such egregious touches, which I shall not injure the authors by
transplanting, because I have remarked that nothing is so very tender as
a modern piece of wit, and which is apt to suffer so much in the
carriage. Some things are extremely witty to-day, or fasting, or in this
place, or at eight o’clock, or over a bottle, or spoke by Mr.
Whatdyecall’m, or in a summer’s morning, any of which, by the smallest
transposal or misapplication, is utterly annihilate. Thus wit has its
walks and purlieus, out of which it may not stray the breadth of a hair,
upon peril of being lost. The moderns have artfully fixed this Mercury,
and reduced it to the circumstances of time, place, and person. Such a
jest there is that will not pass out of Covent Garden, and such a one
that is nowhere intelligible but at Hyde Park Corner. Now, though it
sometimes tenderly affects me to consider that all the towardly passages
I shall deliver in the following treatise will grow quite out of date and
relish with the first shifting of the present scene, yet I must need
subscribe to the justice of this proceeding, because I cannot imagine why
we should be at expense to furnish wit for succeeding ages, when the
former have made no sort of provision for ours; wherein I speak the
sentiment of the very newest, and consequently the most orthodox
refiners, as well as my own. However, being extremely solicitous that
every accomplished person who has got into the taste of wit calculated
for this present month of August 1697 should descend to the very bottom
of all the sublime throughout this treatise, I hold it fit to lay down
this general maxim. Whatever reader desires to have a thorough
comprehension of an author’s thoughts, cannot take a better method than
by putting himself into the circumstances and posture of life that the
writer was in upon every important passage as it flowed from his pen, for
this will introduce a parity and strict correspondence of ideas between
the reader and the author. Now, to assist the diligent reader in so
delicate an affair—as far as brevity will permit—I have recollected that
the shrewdest pieces of this treatise were conceived in bed in a garret.
At other times (for a reason best known to myself) I thought fit to
sharpen my invention with hunger, and in general the whole work was
begun, continued, and ended under a long course of physic and a great
want of money. Now, I do affirm it will be absolutely impossible for the
candid peruser to go along with me in a great many bright passages,
unless upon the several difficulties emergent he will please to
capacitate and prepare himself by these directions. And this I lay down
as my principal _postulatum_.
Because I have professed to be a most devoted servant of all modern
forms, I apprehend some curious wit may object against me for proceeding
thus far in a preface without declaiming, according to custom, against
the multitude of writers whereof the whole multitude of writers most
reasonably complain. I am just come from perusing some hundreds of
prefaces, wherein the authors do at the very beginning address the gentle
reader concerning this enormous grievance. Of these I have preserved a
few examples, and shall set them down as near as my memory has been able
to retain them.
One begins thus: “For a man to set up for a writer when the press swarms
with,” &c.
Another: “The tax upon paper does not lessen the number of scribblers who
daily pester,” &c.
Another: “When every little would-be wit takes pen in hand, ’tis in vain
to enter the lists,” &c.
Another: “To observe what trash the press swarms with,” &c.
Another: “Sir, it is merely in obedience to your commands that I venture
into the public, for who upon a less consideration would be of a party
with such a rabble of scribblers,” &c.
Now, I have two words in my own defence against this objection. First, I
am far from granting the number of writers a nuisance to our nation,
having strenuously maintained the contrary in several parts of the
following discourse; secondly, I do not well understand the justice of
this proceeding, because I observe many of these polite prefaces to be
not only from the same hand, but from those who are most voluminous in
their several productions; upon which I shall tell the reader a short
tale.
A mountebank in Leicester Fields had drawn a huge assembly about him.
Among the rest, a fat unwieldy fellow, half stifled in the press, would
be every fit crying out, “Lord! what a filthy crowd is here. Pray, good
people, give way a little. Bless need what a devil has raked this rabble
together. Z—ds, what squeezing is this? Honest friend, remove your
elbow.” At last a weaver that stood next him could hold no longer. “A
plague confound you,” said he, “for an overgrown sloven; and who in the
devil’s name, I wonder, helps to make up the crowd half so much as
yourself? Don’t you consider that you take up more room with that
carcass than any five here? Is not the place as free for us as for you?
Bring your own guts to a reasonable compass, and then I’ll engage we
shall have room enough for us all.”
There are certain common privileges of a writer, the benefit whereof I
hope there will be no reason to doubt; particularly, that where I am not
understood, it shall be concluded that something very useful and profound
is couched underneath; and again, that whatever word or sentence is
printed in a different character shall be judged to contain something
extraordinary either of wit or sublime.
As for the liberty I have thought fit to take of praising myself, upon
some occasions or none, I am sure it will need no excuse if a multitude
of great examples be allowed sufficient authority; for it is here to be
noted that praise was originally a pension paid by the world, but the
moderns, finding the trouble and charge too great in collecting it, have
lately bought out the fee-simple, since which time the right of
presentation is wholly in ourselves. For this reason it is that when an
author makes his own eulogy, he uses a certain form to declare and insist
upon his title, which is commonly in these or the like words, “I speak
without vanity,” which I think plainly shows it to be a matter of right
and justice. Now, I do here once for all declare, that in every
encounter of this nature through the following treatise the form
aforesaid is implied, which I mention to save the trouble of repeating it
on so many occasions.
It is a great ease to my conscience that I have written so elaborate and
useful a discourse without one grain of satire intermixed, which is the
sole point wherein I have taken leave to dissent from the famous
originals of our age and country. I have observed some satirists to use
the public much at the rate that pedants do a naughty boy ready horsed
for discipline. First expostulate the case, then plead the necessity of
the rod from great provocations, and conclude every period with a lash.
Now, if I know anything of mankind, these gentlemen might very well spare
their reproof and correction, for there is not through all Nature another
so callous and insensible a member as the world’s posteriors, whether you
apply to it the toe or the birch. Besides, most of our late satirists
seem to lie under a sort of mistake, that because nettles have the
prerogative to sting, therefore all other weeds must do so too. I make
not this comparison out of the least design to detract from these worthy
writers, for it is well known among mythologists that weeds have the
pre-eminence over all other vegetables; and therefore the first monarch
of this island whose taste and judgment were so acute and refined, did
very wisely root out the roses from the collar of the order and plant the
thistles in their stead, as the nobler flower of the two. For which
reason it is conjectured by profounder antiquaries that the satirical
itch, so prevalent in this part of our island, was first brought among us
from beyond the Tweed. Here may it long flourish and abound; may it
survive and neglect the scorn of the world with as much ease and contempt
as the world is insensible to the lashes of it. May their own dulness,
or that of their party, be no discouragement for the authors to proceed;
but let them remember it is with wits as with razors, which are never so
apt to cut those they are employed on as when they have lost their edge.
Besides, those whose teeth are too rotten to bite are best of all others
qualified to revenge that defect with their breath.
I am not, like other men, to envy or undervalue the talents I cannot
reach, for which reason I must needs bear a true honour to this large
eminent sect of our British writers. And I hope this little panegyric
will not be offensive to their ears, since it has the advantage of being
only designed for themselves. Indeed, Nature herself has taken order
that fame and honour should be purchased at a better pennyworth by satire
than by any other productions of the brain, the world being soonest
provoked to praise by lashes, as men are to love. There is a problem in
an ancient author why dedications and other bundles of flattery run all
upon stale musty topics, without the smallest tincture of anything new,
not only to the torment and nauseating of the Christian reader, but, if
not suddenly prevented, to the universal spreading of that pestilent
disease the lethargy in this island, whereas there is very little satire
which has not something in it untouched before. The defects of the
former are usually imputed to the want of invention among those who are
dealers in that kind; but I think with a great deal of injustice, the
solution being easy and natural, for the materials of panegyric, being
very few in number, have been long since exhausted; for as health is but
one thing, and has been always the same, whereas diseases are by
thousands, besides new and daily additions, so all the virtues that have
been ever in mankind are to be counted upon a few fingers, but his
follies and vices are innumerable, and time adds hourly to the heap. Now
the utmost a poor poet can do is to get by heart a list of the cardinal
virtues and deal them with his utmost liberality to his hero or his
patron. He may ring the changes as far as it will go, and vary his
phrase till he has talked round, but the reader quickly finds it is all
pork, {56a} with a little variety of sauce, for there is no inventing
terms of art beyond our ideas, and when ideas are exhausted, terms of art
must be so too.
But though the matter for panegyric were as fruitful as the topics of
satire, yet would it not be hard to find out a sufficient reason why the
latter will be always better received than the first; for this being
bestowed only upon one or a few persons at a time, is sure to raise envy,
and consequently ill words, from the rest who have no share in the
blessing. But satire, being levelled at all, is never resented for an
offence by any, since every individual person makes bold to understand it
of others, and very wisely removes his particular part of the burden upon
the shoulders of the World, which are broad enough and able to bear it.
To this purpose I have sometimes reflected upon the difference between
Athens and England with respect to the point before us. In the Attic
{56b} commonwealth it was the privilege and birthright of every citizen
and poet to rail aloud and in public, or to expose upon the stage by name
any person they pleased, though of the greatest figure, whether a Creon,
an Hyperbolus, an Alcibiades, or a Demosthenes. But, on the other side,
the least reflecting word let fall against the people in general was
immediately caught up and revenged upon the authors, however considerable
for their quality or their merits; whereas in England it is just the
reverse of all this. Here you may securely display your utmost rhetoric
against mankind in the face of the world; tell them that all are gone
astray; that there is none that doeth good, no, not one; that we live in
the very dregs of time; that knavery and atheism are epidemic as the pox;
that honesty is fled with Astræa; with any other common-places equally
new and eloquent, which are furnished by the _splendida bilis_ {56c}; and
when you have done, the whole audience, far from being offended, shall
return you thanks as a deliverer of precious and useful truths. Nay,
further, it is but to venture your lungs, and you may preach in Covent
Garden against foppery and fornication, and something else; against
pride, and dissimulation, and bribery at Whitehall. You may expose
rapine and injustice in the Inns-of-Court chapel, and in a City pulpit be
as fierce as you please against avarice, hypocrisy, and extortion. It is
but a ball bandied to and fro, and every man carries a racket about him
to strike it from himself among the rest of the company. But, on the
other side, whoever should mistake the nature of things so far as to drop
but a single hint in public how such a one starved half the fleet, and
half poisoned the rest; how such a one, from a true principle of love and
honour, pays no debts but for wenches and play; how such a one runs out
of his estate; how Paris, bribed by Juno and Venus, loath to offend
either party, slept out the whole cause on the bench; or how such an
orator makes long speeches in the Senate, with much thought, little
sense, and to no purpose;—whoever, I say, should venture to be thus
particular, must expect to be imprisoned for _scandalum magnatum_, to
have challenges sent him, to be sued for defamation, and to be brought
before the bar of the House.
But I forget that I am expatiating on a subject wherein I have no
concern, having neither a talent nor an inclination for satire. On the
other side, I am so entirely satisfied with the whole present procedure
of human things, that I have been for some years preparing material
towards “A Panegyric upon the World;” to which I intended to add a second
part, entitled “A Modest Defence of the Proceedings of the Rabble in all
Ages.” Both these I had thoughts to publish by way of appendix to the
following treatise; but finding my common-place book fill much slower
than I had reason to expect, I have chosen to defer them to another
occasion. Besides, I have been unhappily prevented in that design by a
certain domestic misfortune, in the particulars whereof, though it would
be very seasonable, and much in the modern way, to inform the gentle
reader, and would also be of great assistance towards extending this
preface into the size now in vogue—which by rule ought to be large in
proportion as the subsequent volume is small—yet I shall now dismiss our
impatient reader from any further attendance at the porch; and having
duly prepared his mind by a preliminary discourse, shall gladly introduce
him to the sublime mysteries that ensue.
SECTION I.
_THE INTRODUCTION_.
WHOEVER has an ambition to be heard in a crowd must press, and squeeze,
and thrust, and climb with indefatigable pains, till he has exalted
himself to a certain degree of altitude above them. Now, in all
assemblies, though you wedge them ever so close, we may observe this
peculiar property, that over their heads there is room enough; but how to
reach it is the difficult point, it being as hard to get quit of number
as of hell.
“—Evadere ad auras,
Hoc opus, hic labor est.” {59}
To this end the philosopher’s way in all ages has been by erecting
certain edifices in the air; but whatever practice and reputation these
kind of structures have formerly possessed, or may still continue in, not
excepting even that of Socrates when he was suspended in a basket to help
contemplation, I think, with due submission, they seem to labour under
two inconveniences. First, that the foundations being laid too high,
they have been often out of sight and ever out of hearing. Secondly,
that the materials being very transitory, have suffered much from
inclemencies of air, especially in these north-west regions.
Therefore, towards the just performance of this great work there remain
but three methods that I can think on; whereof the wisdom of our
ancestors being highly sensible, has, to encourage all aspiring
adventures, thought fit to erect three wooden machines for the use of
those orators who desire to talk much without interruption. These are
the Pulpit, the Ladder, and the Stage-itinerant. For as to the Bar,
though it be compounded of the same matter and designed for the same use,
it cannot, however, be well allowed the honour of a fourth, by reason of
its level or inferior situation exposing it to perpetual interruption
from collaterals. Neither can the Bench itself, though raised to a
proper eminency, put in a better claim, whatever its advocates insist on.
For if they please to look into the original design of its erection, and
the circumstances or adjuncts subservient to that design, they will soon
acknowledge the present practice exactly correspondent to the primitive
institution, and both to answer the etymology of the name, which in the
Phoenician tongue is a word of great signification, importing, if
literally interpreted, “The place of sleep,” but in common acceptation,
“A seat well bolstered and cushioned, for the repose of old and gouty
limbs;” _senes ut in otia tuta recedant_ {60}. Fortune being indebted to
them this part of retaliation, that as formerly they have long talked
whilst others slept, so now they may sleep as long whilst others talk.
But if no other argument could occur to exclude the Bench and the Bar
from the list of oratorical machines, it were sufficient that the
admission of them would overthrow a number which I was resolved to
establish, whatever argument it might cost me; in imitation of that
prudent method observed by many other philosophers and great clerks,
whose chief art in division has been to grow fond of some proper mystical
number, which their imaginations have rendered sacred to a degree that
they force common reason to find room for it in every part of Nature,
reducing, including, and adjusting, every genus and species within that
compass by coupling some against their wills and banishing others at any
rate. Now, among all the rest, the profound number THREE {61} is that
which has most employed my sublimest speculations, nor ever without
wonderful delight. There is now in the press, and will be published next
term, a panegyrical essay of mine upon this number, wherein I have, by
most convincing proofs, not only reduced the senses and the elements
under its banner, but brought over several deserters from its two great
rivals, SEVEN and NINE.
Now, the first of these oratorical machines, in place as well as dignity,
is the Pulpit. Of pulpits there are in this island several sorts, but I
esteem only that made of timber from the Sylva Caledonia, which agrees
very well with our climate. If it be upon its decay, it is the better,
both for conveyance of sound and for other reasons to be mentioned by and
by. The degree of perfection in shape and size I take to consist in
being extremely narrow, with little ornament, and, best of all, without a
cover; for, by ancient rule, it ought to be the only uncovered vessel in
every assembly where it is rightfully used, by which means, from its near
resemblance to a pillory, it will ever have a mighty influence on human
ears.
Of Ladders I need say nothing. It is observed by foreigners themselves,
to the honour of our country, that we excel all nations in our practice
and understanding of this machine. The ascending orators do not only
oblige their audience in the agreeable delivery, but the whole world in
their early publication of their speeches, which I look upon as the
choicest treasury of our British eloquence, and whereof I am informed
that worthy citizen and bookseller, Mr. John Dunton, has made a faithful
and a painful collection, which he shortly designs to publish in twelve
volumes in folio, illustrated with copper-plates,—a work highly useful
and curious, and altogether worthy of such a hand.
The last engine of orators is the Stage-itinerant, erected with much
sagacity, _sub Jove pluvio_, _in triviis et quadriviis_. {62a} It is the
great seminary of the two former, and its orators are sometimes preferred
to the one and sometimes to the other, in proportion to their deservings,
there being a strict and perpetual intercourse between all three.
From this accurate deduction it is manifest that for obtaining attention
in public there is of necessity required a superior position of place.
But although this point be generally granted, yet the cause is little
agreed in; and it seems to me that very few philosophers have fallen into
a true natural solution of this phenomenon. The deepest account, and the
most fairly digested of any I have yet met with is this, that air being a
heavy body, and therefore, according to the system of Epicurus {62b},
continually descending, must needs be more so when laden and pressed down
by words, which are also bodies of much weight and gravity, as is
manifest from those deep impressions they make and leave upon us, and
therefore must be delivered from a due altitude, or else they will
neither carry a good aim nor fall down with a sufficient force.
“Corpoream quoque enim vocem constare fatendum est,
Et sonitum, quoniam possunt impellere sensus.”
—_Lucr._ lib. 4. {62c}
And I am the readier to favour this conjecture from a common observation,
that in the several assemblies of these orators Nature itself has
instructed the hearers to stand with their mouths open and erected
parallel to the horizon, so as they may be intersected by a perpendicular
line from the zenith to the centre of the earth. In which position, if
the audience be well compact, every one carries home a share, and little
or nothing is lost.
I confess there is something yet more refined in the contrivance and
structure of our modern theatres. For, first, the pit is sunk below the
stage with due regard to the institution above deduced, that whatever
weighty matter shall be delivered thence, whether it be lead or gold, may
fall plump into the jaws of certain critics, as I think they are called,
which stand ready open to devour them. Then the boxes are built round
and raised to a level with the scene, in deference to the ladies, because
that large portion of wit laid out in raising pruriences and
protuberances is observed to run much upon a line, and ever in a circle.
The whining passions and little starved conceits are gently wafted up by
their own extreme levity to the middle region, and there fix and are
frozen by the frigid understandings of the inhabitants. Bombast and
buffoonery, by nature lofty and light, soar highest of all, and would be
lost in the roof if the prudent architect had not, with much foresight,
contrived for them a fourth place, called the twelve-penny gallery, and
there planted a suitable colony, who greedily intercept them in their
passage.
Now this physico-logical scheme of oratorical receptacles or machines
contains a great mystery, being a type, a sign, an emblem, a shadow, a
symbol, bearing analogy to the spacious commonwealth of writers and to
those methods by which they must exalt themselves to a certain eminency
above the inferior world. By the Pulpit are adumbrated the writings of
our modern saints in Great Britain, as they have spiritualised and
refined them from the dross and grossness of sense and human reason. The
matter, as we have said, is of rotten wood, and that upon two
considerations: because it is the quality of rotten wood to light in the
dark; and secondly, because its cavities are full of worms—which is a
type with a pair of handles, having a respect to the two principal
qualifications of the orator and the two different fates attending upon
his works. {63}
The Ladder is an adequate symbol of faction and of poetry, to both of
which so noble a number of authors are indebted for their fame. Of
faction, because . . . (Hiatus in MS.) . . . Of poetry, because its
orators do _perorare_ with a song; and because, climbing up by slow
degrees, fate is sure to turn them off before they can reach within many
steps of the top; and because it is a preferment attained by transferring
of propriety and a confounding of _meum_ and _tuum_.
Under the Stage-itinerant are couched those productions designed for the
pleasure and delight of mortal man, such as “Six Pennyworth of Wit,”
“Westminster Drolleries,” “Delightful Tales,” “Complete Jesters,” and the
like, by which the writers of and for Grub Street have in these later
ages so nobly triumphed over time, have clipped his wings, pared his
nails, filed his teeth, turned back his hour-glass, blunted his scythe,
and drawn the hobnails out of his shoes. It is under this class I have
presumed to list my present treatise, being just come from having the
honour conferred upon me to be adopted a member of that illustrious
fraternity.
Now, I am not unaware how the productions of the Grub Street brotherhood
have of late years fallen under many prejudices, nor how it has been the
perpetual employment of two junior start-up societies to ridicule them
and their authors as unworthy their established post in the commonwealth
of wit and learning. Their own consciences will easily inform them whom
I mean; nor has the world been so negligent a looker-on as not to observe
the continual efforts made by the societies of Gresham and of Will’s
{64}, to edify a name and reputation upon the ruin of ours. And this is
yet a more feeling grief to us, upon the regards of tenderness as well as
of justice, when we reflect on their proceedings not only as unjust, but
as ungrateful, undutiful, and unnatural. For how can it be forgot by the
world or themselves, to say nothing of our own records, which are full
and clear in the point, that they both are seminaries, not only of our
planting, but our watering too. I am informed our two rivals have lately
made an offer to enter into the lists with united forces and challenge us
to a comparison of books, both as to weight and number. In return to
which, with license from our president, I humbly offer two answers.
First, we say the proposal is like that which Archimedes made upon a
smaller affair {65a}, including an impossibility in the practice; for
where can they find scales of capacity enough for the first, or an
arithmetician of capacity enough for the second. Secondly, we are ready
to accept the challenge, but with this condition, that a third
indifferent person be assigned, to whose impartial judgment it shall be
left to decide which society each book, treatise, or pamphlet do most
properly belong to. This point, God knows, is very far from being fixed
at present, for we are ready to produce a catalogue of some thousands
which in all common justice ought to be entitled to our fraternity, but
by the revolted and newfangled writers most perfidiously ascribed to the
others. Upon all which we think it very unbecoming our prudence that the
determination should be remitted to the authors themselves, when our
adversaries by briguing and caballing have caused so universal a
defection from us, that the greatest part of our society has already
deserted to them, and our nearest friends begin to stand aloof, as if
they were half ashamed to own us.
This is the utmost I am authorised to say upon so ungrateful and
melancholy a subject, because we are extremely unwilling to inflame a
controversy whose continuance may be so fatal to the interests of us all,
desiring much rather that things be amicably composed; and we shall so
far advance on our side as to be ready to receive the two prodigals with
open arms whenever they shall think fit to return from their husks and
their harlots, which I think, from the present course of their studies
{65b}, they most properly may be said to be engaged in, and, like an
indulgent parent, continue to them our affection and our blessing.
But the greatest maim given to that general reception which the writings
of our society have formerly received, next to the transitory state of
all sublunary things, has been a superficial vein among many readers of
the present age, who will by no means be persuaded to inspect beyond the
surface and the rind of things; whereas wisdom is a fox, who, after long
hunting, will at last cost you the pains to dig out. It is a cheese
which, by how much the richer, has the thicker, the homelier, and the
coarser coat, and whereof to a judicious palate the maggots are the best.
It is a sack-posset, wherein the deeper you go you will find it the
sweeter. Wisdom is a hen whose cackling we must value and consider,
because it is attended with an egg. But then, lastly, it is a nut,
which, unless you choose with judgment, may cost you a tooth, and pay you
with nothing but a worm. In consequence of these momentous truths, the
Grubæan sages have always chosen to convey their precepts and their arts
shut up within the vehicles of types and fables; which having been
perhaps more careful and curious in adorning than was altogether
necessary, it has fared with these vehicles after the usual fate of
coaches over-finely painted and gilt, that the transitory gazers have so
dazzled their eyes and filled their imaginations with the outward lustre,
as neither to regard nor consider the person or the parts of the owner
within. A misfortune we undergo with somewhat less reluctancy, because
it has been common to us with Pythagoras, Æsop, Socrates, and other of
our predecessors.
However, that neither the world nor ourselves may any longer suffer by
such misunderstandings, I have been prevailed on, after much importunity
from my friends, to travail in a complete and laborious dissertation upon
the prime productions of our society, which, besides their beautiful
externals for the gratification of superficial readers, have darkly and
deeply couched under them the most finished and refined systems of all
sciences and arts, as I do not doubt to lay open by untwisting or
unwinding, and either to draw up by exantlation or display by incision.
This great work was entered upon some years ago by one of our most
eminent members. He began with the “History of Reynard the Fox,” but
neither lived to publish his essay nor to proceed farther in so useful an
attempt, which is very much to be lamented, because the discovery he made
and communicated to his friends is now universally received; nor do I
think any of the learned will dispute that famous treatise to be a
complete body of civil knowledge, and the revelation, or rather the
apocalypse, of all state arcana. But the progress I have made is much
greater, having already finished my annotations upon several dozens from
some of which I shall impart a few hints to the candid reader, as far as
will be necessary to the conclusion at which I aim.
The first piece I have handled is that of “Tom Thumb,” whose author was a
Pythagorean philosopher. This dark treatise contains the whole scheme of
the metempsychosis, deducing the progress of the soul through all her
stages.
The next is “Dr. Faustus,” penned by Artephius, an author _bonæ notæ_ and
an adeptus; he published it in the nine hundred and eighty-fourth year
{67a} of his age; this writer proceeds wholly by reincrudation, or in the
_via humida_; and the marriage between Faustus and Helen does most
conspicuously dilucidate the fermenting of the male and female dragon.
“Whittington and his Cat” is the work of that mysterious Rabbi, Jehuda
Hannasi, containing a defence of the Gemara of the Jerusalem Misna, and
its just preference to that of Babylon, contrary to the vulgar opinion.
“The Hind and Panther.” This is the masterpiece of a famous writer now
living {67b}, intended for a complete abstract of sixteen thousand
schoolmen from Scotus to Bellarmine.
“Tommy Potts.” Another piece, supposed by the same hand, by way of
supplement to the former.
The “Wise Men of Gotham,” _cum_ Appendice. This is a treatise of immense
erudition, being the great original and fountain of those arguments
bandied about both in France and England, for a just defence of modern
learning and wit, against the presumption, the pride, and the ignorance
of the ancients. This unknown author hath so exhausted the subject, that
a penetrating reader will easily discover whatever has been written since
upon that dispute to be little more than repetition. An abstract of this
treatise has been lately published by a worthy member of our society.
These notices may serve to give the learned reader an idea as well as a
taste of what the whole work is likely to produce, wherein I have now
altogether circumscribed my thoughts and my studies; and if I can bring
it to a perfection before I die, shall reckon I have well employed the
poor remains of an unfortunate life. This indeed is more than I can
justly expect from a quill worn to the pith in the service of the State,
in pros and cons upon Popish Plots, and Meal Tubs, and Exclusion Bills,
and Passive Obedience, and Addresses of Lives and Fortunes; and
Prerogative, and Property, and Liberty of Conscience, and Letters to a
Friend: from an understanding and a conscience, threadbare and ragged
with perpetual turning; from a head broken in a hundred places by the
malignants of the opposite factions, and from a body spent with poxes ill
cured, by trusting to bawds and surgeons, who (as it afterwards appeared)
were professed enemies to me and the Government, and revenged their
party’s quarrel upon my nose and shins. Fourscore and eleven pamphlets
have I written under three reigns, and for the service of six-and-thirty
factions. But finding the State has no farther occasion for me and my
ink, I retire willingly to draw it out into speculations more becoming a
philosopher, having, to my unspeakable comfort, passed a long life with a
conscience void of offence towards God and towards men.
But to return. I am assured from the reader’s candour that the brief
specimen I have given will easily clear all the rest of our society’s
productions from an aspersion grown, as it is manifest, out of envy and
ignorance, that they are of little farther use or value to mankind beyond
the common entertainments of their wit and their style; for these I am
sure have never yet been disputed by our keenest adversaries; in both
which, as well as the more profound and most mystical part, I have
throughout this treatise closely followed the most applauded originals.
And to render all complete I have with much thought and application of
mind so ordered that the chief title prefixed to it (I mean that under
which I design it shall pass in the common conversation of court and
town) is modelled exactly after the manner peculiar to our society.
I confess to have been somewhat liberal in the business of titles {69a},
having observed the humour of multiplying them, to bear great vogue among
certain writers, whom I exceedingly reverence. And indeed it seems not
unreasonable that books, the children of the brain, should have the
honour to be christened with variety of names, as well as other infants
of quality. Our famous Dryden has ventured to proceed a point farther,
endeavouring to introduce also a multiplicity of godfathers {69b}, which
is an improvement of much more advantage, upon a very obvious account.
It is a pity this admirable invention has not been better cultivated, so
as to grow by this time into general imitation, when such an authority
serves it for a precedent. Nor have my endeavours been wanting to second
so useful an example, but it seems there is an unhappy expense usually
annexed to the calling of a godfather, which was clearly out of my head,
as it is very reasonable to believe. Where the pinch lay, I cannot
certainly affirm; but having employed a world of thoughts and pains to
split my treatise into forty sections, and having entreated forty Lords
of my acquaintance that they would do me the honour to stand, they all
made it matter of conscience, and sent me their excuses.