THE DOCTOR, &c.
There is a kind of physiognomy in the titles of books no less than in
the faces of men, by which a skilful observer will as well know what
to expect from the one as the other.
BUTLER'S REMAINS.
THE DOCTOR, &c.
[Illustration: a tetrahedron]
VOL. III.
LONDON:
LONGMAN, REES, ORME, BROWN, GREEN AND LONGMAN.
1835.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY W. NICOL, 51, PALL MALL.
PRELUDE OF MOTTOES.
Ἄγε νῦν, ὧ—καρδία
῎απελθ᾿ ἐκεῖσε,—
——————————————εἰποῦσ᾿ ἃττ᾿ ἂν αὐτῇ σοι δοκῇ,
τόλμησον, ἲθι, χώρησον, ἄλαμαι καρδιάς.
ARISTOPHANES.
_Je vas de nouveau percer mon tonneau, et de la traicte, laquelle par
deux precedents volumes vous est assez cogneuë, vous tirer du creux de
nos passetemps epicenaires un galant tiercin, et consecutivement un
joyeux quart de sentences Pantagruelliques. Par moy vous sera licite
les appeller Diogeniques.—Et peur n'ayez que le vin faille.—Autant que
vous en tireray par la dille, autant en entonneray per le bondon.
Ainsi demourera le tonneau inexpuisible. Il a source vive et veine
perpetuelle._
RABELAIS.
The wholesom'st meats that are will breed satiety
Except we should admit of some variety.
In music, notes must be some high, some base.
And this I say, these pages have intendment,
Still kept within the lists of good sobriety,
To work in men's ill manners good amendment.
Wherefore if any think the book unseasonable,
Their stoic minds are foes to good society,
And men of reason may think them unreasonable.
It is an act of virtue and of piety,
To warn men of their sins in any sort,
In prose, in verse, in earnest, or in sport.
SIR JOHN HARRINGTON.
The great cement that holds these several discourses together is one
main design which they jointly drive at, and which, I think, is
confessedly generous and important, namely, the knowledge of—true
happiness, so far as reason can cut her way through those darknesses
and difficulties she is encumbered with in this life: which though
they be many and great, yet I should belie the sense of my own
success, if I should pronounce them insuperable; as also, if I were
deprived of that sense, should lose many pleasures and enjoyments of
mind, which I am now conscious to myself of: amongst which, there is
none so considerable as that tacit reflection within myself, what real
service may be rendered to religion by these my labours.
HENRY MORE.
_Scribere fert animus multa et diversa, nec uno
Gurgite versari semper; quo flamina ducent
Ibimus, et nunc has, nunc illas nabimus undas;
Ardua nunc ponti, nunc littora tuta petemus.
Et quanquam interdum fretus ratione, latentes
Naturæ tentabo vias, atque abdita pandam,
Præcipuè tamen illa sequar quæcunque videntur
Prodesse, ac sanctos mortalibus addere mores,
Heu penitus (liceat verum mihi dicere) nostro
Extinctos ævo._
PALINGENIUS.
_Ja n'est besoin (amy Lecteur!) t'escrire
Par le menu le prouffit et plaisir
Que recevras si ce livre veux lire,
Et d'icelluy le sens prendre au desir;
Veuille donc prendre à le lire loisir,
Et que ce soit avecq intelligence.
Si tu le fais, propos de grand plaisance
Tu y verras, et moult prouffiteras;
Et si tiendras en grand resjouissance
Le tien esprit, et ton temps passeras._
JEAN FAVRE.
“Gods me! how now! what present have we here?”
“A Book that stood in peril of the press;
But now it's past those pikes, and doth appear
To keep the lookers on from heaviness.”
“What stuff contains it?”—“Fustian, perfect spruce,
Wit's gallimalfry, or wit fried in steaks.”
“From whom came it, a God's name?”—“From his Muse,
(Oh do not tell!) that still your favour seeks.”
“And who is that?”—“Truth that is I.”—“What I?
I per se I, great I, you would say.”—“No!
Great I indeed _you_ well may say; but I
Am little i, the least of all the row.”
DAVIES OF HEREFORD.
_Lector, esto libro te ofrezco, sin que me aya mandado Señor alguno
que le escriva, ni menos me ayan importunado mis amigos que le
estampe, sino solamente por mi gusto, por mi antojo y por mi
voluntad._
MONTALVAN.
The reader must not expect in this work merely the private
uninteresting history of a single person. He may expect whatever
curious particulars can with any propriety be connected with it. Nor
must the general disquisitions and the incidental narratives of the
present work be ever considered as actually digressionary in their
natures, and as merely useful in their notices. They are all united
with the rest, and form proper parts of the whole. They have some of
them a necessary connexion with the history of the Doctor; they have
many of them an intimate relation, they have all of them a natural
affinity to it. And the Author has endeavoured, by a judicious
distribution of them through the work, to prevent that disgusting
uniformity, and to take off that uninteresting personality, which must
necessarily result from the merely barren and private annals of an
obscure individual. He has thus in some measure adopted the elegant
principles of modern gardening. He has thrown down the close hedges
and the high walls that have confined so many biographers in their
views. He has called in the scenes of the neighbouring country to his
aid, and has happily combined them into his own plan. He has drawn off
the attention from the central point before it became languid and
exhausted, by fetching in some objects from society at large, or by
presenting some view of the philosophy of man. But he has been
cautious of multiplying objects in the wantonness of refinement, and
of distracting the attention with a confused variety. He has always
considered the history of the Doctor, as the great fixed point, the
enlivening centre, of all his excursions. Every opening is therefore
made to carry an actual reference, either mediate or immediate, to the
regular history of the Doctor. And every visto is employed only for
the useful purpose of breaking the stiff straight lines, of lighting
up the dark, of heightening the little, and of colouring over the
lifeless, in the regular history of the Doctor.
Preface to WHITAKER'S History of Manchester,
_mutatis mutandis_.
_Chi tristezza da se cacciar desia,
Legga quest' opra saporita e bella._
BERTOLDO.
I exhort all People, gentle and simple, men, women and children, to
buy, to read, to extol, these labours of mine. Let them not fear to
defend every article; for I will bear them harmless. I have arguments
good store, and can easily confute, either logically, theologically,
or metaphysically, all those who oppose me.
ARBUTHNOT.
_Scripta legis passim quamplurima, lector, in orbe,
Quæ damni plus quam commoditatis habent.
Hæc fugienda procul cum sint, sic illa petenda,
Jucunda utilibus quæ bene juncta docent._
P. RUBIGALLUS PANNONIUS.
Out of the old fieldes, as men saith,
Cometh all this new corn fro' year to year;
And out of old bookes, in good faith,
Cometh all this new science that men lere.
CHAUCER.
CONTENTS.
INTERCHAPTER VII.—p. 1.
OBSOLETE ANTICIPATIONS; BEING A LEAF OUT OF AN OLD ALMANACK, WHICH
LIKE OTHER OLD ALMANACKS THOUGH OUT OF DATE IS NOT OUT OF USE.
If
You play before me, I shall often look on you,
I give you that warning before hand.
Take it not ill, my masters, I shall laugh at you,
And truly when I am least offended with you;
It is my humour.
MIDDLETON.
INTERCHAPTER VIII.—p. 13.
A LEAF OUT OF THE NEW ALMANACK. THE AUTHOR THINKS CONSIDERATELY OF HIS
COMMENTATORS; RUMINATES; RELATES AN ANECDOTE OF SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE;
QUOTES SOME PYRAMIDAL STANZAS, WHICH ARE NOT THE WORSE FOR THEIR
ARCHITECTURE, AND DELIVERS AN OPINION CONCERNING BURNS.
To smell a turf of fresh earth is wholesome for the body; no less are
thoughts of mortality cordial to the Soul. “_Earth thou art, to earth
thou shalt return._”
FULLER.
INTERCHAPTER IX.—p. 21.
AN ILLUSTRATION FOR THE ASSISTANCE OF THE COMMENTATORS DRAWN FROM THE
HISTORY OF THE KORAN. REMARKS WHICH ARE NOT INTENDED FOR MUSSELMEN,
AND WHICH THE MISSIONARIES IN THE MEDITERRANEAN ARE ADVISED NOT TO
TRANSLATE.
You will excuse me if I do not strictly confine myself to narration,
but now and then intersperse such reflections as may offer while I am
writing.
JOHN NEWTON.
INTERCHAPTER X.—p. 30.
MORE ON THE FOREGOING SUBJECT. ELUCIDATIONS FROM HENRY MORE AND DR.
WATTS. AN INCIDENTAL OPINION UPON HORACE WALPOLE. THE STREAM OF
THOUGHT “FLOWETH AT ITS OWN SWEET WILL.” PICTURES AND BOOKS. A SAYING
OF MR PITT'S CONCERNING WILBERFORCE. THE AUTHOR EXPLAINS IN WHAT SENSE
IT MIGHT BE SAID THAT HE SOMETIMES SHOOTS WITH A LONG BOW.
_Vorrei, disse il Signor Gasparo Pallavicino, che voi ragionassi un
poco piu minutamente di questo, che non fate; che in vero vi tenete
molto al generale, et quasi ci mostrate le cose per transito._
IL CORTEGIANO.
CHAPTER LXXVIII.—p. 43.
AMATORY POETRY NOT ALWAYS OF THE WISEST KIND. AN ATTEMPT TO CONVEY
SOME NOTION OF ITS QUANTITY. TRUE LOVE THOUGH NOT IN EVERY CASE THE
BEST POET, THE BEST MORALIST ALWAYS.
_El Amor es tan ingenioso, que en mi opinion, mas poetas ha hecho el
solo, que la misma naturaleza._
PEREZ DE MONTALVAN.
CHAPTER LXXIX.—p. 53.
AN EARLY BEREAVEMENT. TRUE LOVE ITS OWN COMFORTER. A LONELY FATHER AND
AN ONLY CHILD.
Read ye that run the aweful truth,
With which I charge my page;
A worm is in the bud of youth,
And at the root of age.
COWPER.
CHAPTER LXXX.—p. 59.
OBSERVATIONS WHICH SHEW THAT WHATEVER PRIDE MEN MAY TAKE IN THE
APPELLATIONS THEY ACQUIRE IN THEIR PROGRESS THROUGH THE WORLD, THEIR
DEAREST NAME DIES BEFORE THEM.
—Thus they who reach
Grey hairs, die piecemeal.
SOUTHEY.
CHAPTER LXXXI.—p. 64.
A QUESTION WHETHER LOVE SHOULD BE FAITHFUL TO THE DEAD. DOUBTS
ADVANCED AND CASES STATED.
O even in spite of death, yet still my choice,
Oft with the inward all-beholding eye
I think I see thee, and I hear thy voice!
LORD STERLINE.
CHAPTER LXXXII.—p. 71.
THE DOCTOR IS INTRODUCED, BY THE SMALL POX, TO HIS FUTURE WIFE.
Long-waiting love doth entrance find
Into the slow-believing mind.
SYDNEY GODOLPHIN.
CHAPTER LXXXIII.—p. 76.
THE AUTHOR REQUESTS THE READER NOT TO BE IMPATIENT. SHEWS FROM LORD
SHAFTESBURY AT WHAT RATE A JUDICIOUS WRITER OUGHT TO PROCEED.
DISCLAIMS PROLIXITY FOR HIMSELF, AND GIVES EXAMPLES OF IT IN A GERMAN
PROFESSOR, A JEWISH RABBI, AND TWO COUNSELLORS, ENGLISH AND AMERICAN.
_Pand._ He that will have a cake out of the wheat, must tarry the
grinding.
_Troilus._ Have I not tarried?
_Pand._ Ay, the grinding; but you must tarry the bolting.
_Troilus._ Have I not tarried?
_Pand._ Ay, the bolting; but you must tarry the leavening.
_Troilus._ Still have I tarried.
_Pand._ Aye, to the leavening: but here's yet in the word hereafter,
the kneading, the making of the cake, the heating of the oven, and the
baking; nay, you must stay the cooling too; or you may chance to burn
your lips.
TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.
CHAPTER LXXXIV.—p. 83.
A LOOP DROPT IN THE FOREGOING CHAPTER IS HERE TAKEN UP.
_Enobarbus._ Every time
Serves for the matter that is then born in it.
_Lepidus._ But small to greater matters must give way.
_Enobarbus._ Not if the small come first.
SHAKESPEAR.
CHAPTER LXXXV.—p. 86.
THE DOCTOR'S CONTEMPORARIES AT LEYDEN. EARLY FRIENDSHIP. COWPER'S
MELANCHOLY OBSERVATION THAT GOOD DISPOSITIONS ARE MORE LIKELY TO BE
CORRUPTED THAN EVIL ONES TO BE CORRECTED. YOUTHFUL CONNECTIONS
LOOSENED IN THE COMMON COURSE OF THINGS. A FINE FRAGMENT BY WALTER
LANDOR.
_Lass mich den Stunde gedenken, und jedes kleineren umstands.
Ach, wer ruft nicht so gern unwiederbringliches an!
Jenes süsse Gedränge der leichtesten irdischen Tage,
Ach, wer schätzt ihn genug, diesen vereilenden Werth!
Klein erscheinet es nun, doch ach! nicht kleinlich dem Herzen;
Macht die Liebe, die Kunst, jegliches kleine doch gross._
GOETHE.
CHAPTER LXXXVI.—p. 99.
PETER HOPKINS. REASONS FOR SUPPOSING THAT HE WAS AS GOOD A
PRACTITIONER AS ANY IN ENGLAND; THOUGH NOT THE BEST. THE FITTEST
MASTER FOR DANIEL DOVE. HIS SKILL IN ASTROLOGY.
_Que sea Medico mas grave
Quien mas aforismos sabe,
Bien puede ser.
Mas que no sea mas experto
El que mas huviere muerto,
No puede ser._
GONGORA.
CHAPTER LXXXVII.—p. 111.
ASTROLOGY. ALMANACKS. PRISCILLIANISM RETAINED IN THEM TO THIS TIME.
I wander 'twixt the poles
And heavenly hinges, 'mongst eccentricals,
Centers, concentricks, circles and epicycles.
ALBUMAZAR.
CHAPTER LXXXVIII.—p. 120.
AN INCIDENT WHICH BRINGS THE AUTHOR INTO A FORTUITOUS RESEMBLANCE WITH
THE PATRIARCH OF THE PREDICANT FRIARS. DIFFERENCES BETWEEN THE FACT
AND THE FABLE; AND AN APPLICATION WHICH, UNLIKE THOSE THAT ARE USUALLY
APPENDED TO ESOP'S FABLES, THE READER IS LIKELY NEITHER TO SKIP NOR TO
FORGET.
_Diré aqui una maldad grande del Demonio._
PEDRO DE CIEÇA DE LEON.
CHAPTER LXXXIX.—p. 124.
A CHAPTER CHARACTERISTIC OF FRENCH ANTIQUARIES, FRENCH LADIES, FRENCH
LAWYERS, FRENCH JUDGES, FRENCH LITERATURE, AND FRENCHNESS IN GENERAL.
_Quid de pulicibus? vitæ salientia puncta._
COWLEY.
CHAPTER XC.—p. 144.
WHEREIN THE CURIOUS READER MAY FIND SOME THINGS WHICH HE IS NOT
LOOKING FOR, AND WHICH THE INCURIOUS ONE MAY SKIP IF HE PLEASES.
_Voulant doncques satisfaire à la curiosité de touts bons compagnons,
j'ay revolvé toutes les Pantarches des Cieux, calculé les quadrats de
la Lune, crocheté tout ce que jamais penserent touts les Astrophiles,
Hypernephelistes, Anemophylaces, Uranopetes et Ombrophores._
RABELAIS.
CHAPTER XCI.—p. 157.
THE AUTHOR DISPLAYS A LITTLE MORE OF SUCH READING AS IS SELDOM READ,
AND SHOWS THAT LORD BYRON AND AN ESSEX WIDOW DIFFERED IN OPINION
CONCERNING FRIDAY.
_Si j'avois dispersé ceci en divers endroits de mon ouvrage, j'aurois
évité la censure de ceux qui appelleront ce chapitre un fatras de
petit recueils. Mais comme je cherche la commodité de mes lecteurs
plutôt que la mienne, je veux bien au depens de cette censure, leur
épargner la peine de rassembler ce que j'aurois dispersé._
BAYLE.
CHAPTER XCII.—p. 173.
CONCERNING PETER HOPKINS AND THE INFLUENCE OF THE MOON AND TIDES UPON
THE HUMAN BODY. A CHAPTER WHICH SOME PERSONS MAY DEEM MORE CURIOUS
THAN DULL, AND OTHERS MORE DULL THAN CURIOUS.
A man that travelleth to the most desirable home, hath a habit of
desire to it all the way; but his present business is his travel; and
horse, and company, and inns, and ways, and weariness, &c., may take
up more of his sensible thoughts, and of his talk and action, than his
home.
BAXTER.
CHAPTER XCIII.—p. 188.
REMARKS OF AN IMPATIENT READER ANTICIPATED AND ANSWERED.
Ὦ πολλὰ λέξας ἄρτι κάνόνητ᾽ ἔπη,
Οὐ μνημονεύεις οὐκέτ᾽ οὐδὲν;
SOPHOCLES.
CHAPTER XCIV.—p. 200.
THE AUTHOR DISCOVERS CERTAIN MUSICAL CORRESPONDENCIES TO THESE HIS
LUCUBRATIONS.
And music mild I learn'd that tells
Tune, time and measure of the song.
HIGGINS.
CHAPTER XCV.—p. 207.
WHEREIN MENTION IS MADE OF LORD BYRON, RONSARD, RABBI KAPOL AND CO. IT
IS SUGGESTED THAT A MODE OF READING THE STARS HAS BEEN APPLIED TO THE
RECOVERY OF OBLITERATED ROMAN INSCRIPTIONS; AND IT IS SHOWN THAT A
MATHEMATICIAN MAY REASON MATHEMATICALLY, AND YET LIKE A FOOL.
Thus may ye behold
This man is very bold,
And in his learning old
Intendeth for to sit.
I blame him not a whit;
For it would vex his wit,
And clean against his earning
To follow such learning
As now a-days is taught.
DOCTOUR DOUBLE-ALE.
CHAPTER XCVI.—p.217.
A MUSICIAN'S WISH EXCITED BY HERSCHEL'S TELESCOPE. SYMPATHY BETWEEN
PETER HOPKINS AND HIS PUPIL. INDIFFERENTISM USEFUL IN ORDINARY
POLITICS, BUT DANGEROUS IN RELIGION.
_Noi intendiamo parlare alle cose che utili sono alla umana vita,
quanto per nostro intendimento si potrà in questa parte comprendere; e
sopra quelle particelle che detto avemo di comporre._
BUSONE DA GUBBIO.
CHAPTER XCVII.—p. 229.
MR. BACON'S PARSONAGE. CHRISTIAN RESIGNATION. TIME AND CHANGE. WILKIE
AND THE MONK IN THE ESCURIAL.
The idea of her life shall sweetly creep
Into his study of imagination;
And every lovely organ of her life
Shall come apparell'd in more precious habit,
More moving delicate, and full of life,
Into the eye and prospect of his soul,
Than when she lived indeed.
SHAKESPEARE.
CHAPTER XCVIII.—p. 237.
CHRISTIAN CONSOLATION. OPINIONS CONCERNING THE SPIRITS OF THE DEAD.
The voice which I did more esteem
Than music in her sweetest key;
Those eyes which unto me did seem
More comfortable than the day;
Those now by me, as they have been,
Shall never more be heard, or seen;
But what I once enjoyed in them,
Shall seem hereafter as a dream.
All earthly comforts vanish thus;
So little hold of them have we,
That we from them, or they from us,
May in a moment ravished be.
Yet we are neither just nor wise,
If present mercies we despise;
Or mind not how there may be made
A thankful use of what we had.
WITHER.
CHAPTER XCIX.—p. 248.
A COUNTRY PARISH. SOME WHOLESOME EXTRACTS, SOME TRUE ANECDOTES, AND
SOME USEFUL HINTS, WHICH WILL NOT BE TAKEN BY THOSE WHO NEED THEM
MOST.
_Non è inconveniente, che delle cose delettabili alcune ne sieno
utili, cosi come dell' utili molte ne sono delettabili, et in tutte
due alcune si truovano honeste._
LEONE MEDICO (HEBREO.)
CHAPTER C.—p. 258.
SHEWING HOW THE VICAR DEALT WITH THE JUVENILE PART OF HIS FLOCK; AND
HOW HE WAS OF OPINION THAT THE MORE PLEASANT THE WAY IN WHICH CHILDREN
ARE TRAINED UP TO GO CAN BE MADE FOR THEM, THE LESS LIKELY THEY WILL
BE TO DEPART FROM IT.
Sweet were the sauce would please each kind of taste,
The life, likewise, were pure that never swerved;
For spiteful tongues, in cankered stomachs placed,
Deem worst of things which best, percase, deserved.
But what for that? This medicine may suffice,
To scorn the rest, and seek to please the wise.
SIR WALTER RALEIGH.
CHAPTER CI.—p. 266.
SOME ACCOUNT OF A RETIRED TOBACCONIST AND HIS FAMILY.
_Non fumum ex fulgore, sed ex fumo dare lucem._
HORACE.
INTERCHAPTER XI.—p. 274.
ADVICE TO CERTAIN READERS INTENDED TO ASSIST THEIR DIGESTION OF THESE
VOLUMES.
Take this in good part, whatsoever thou be,
And wish me no worse than I wish unto thee.
TUSSER.
CHAPTER CII.—p. 280.
MORE CONCERNING THE AFORESAID TOBACCONIST.
I doubt nothing at all but that you shall like the man every day
better than other; for verily I think he lacketh not of those
qualities which should become any honest man to have, over and besides
the gift of nature wherewith God hath above the common rate endued
him.
ARCHBISHOP CRANMER.
CHAPTER CIII.—p. 294.
A FEW PARTICULARS CONCERNING NO. 113 BISHOPSGATE STREET WITHIN; AND OF
THE FAMILY AT THAXTED GRANGE.
Opinion is the rate of things,
From hence our peace doth flow;
I have a better fate than kings,
Because I think it so.
KATHERINE PHILIPS.
CHAPTER CIV.—p. 307.
A REMARKABLE EXAMPLE, SHOWING THAT A WISE MAN, WHEN HE RISES IN THE
MORNING, LITTLE KNOWS WHAT HE MAY DO BEFORE NIGHT.
—Now I love,
And so as in so short a time I may;
Yet so as time shall never break that so,
And therefore so accept of Elinor.
ROBERT GREENE.
CHAPTER CV.—p. 318.
A WORD OF NOBS, AND AN ALLUSION TO CÆSAR. SOME CIRCUMSTANCES RELATING
TO THE DOCTOR'S SECOND LOVE, WHEREBY THOSE OF HIS THIRD AND LAST ARE
ACCOUNTED FOR.
_Un mal que se entra por medio los ojos,
Y va se derecho hasta el corazon;
Alli en ser llegado se torna aficion,
Y da mil pesares, plazeres y enojos:
Causa alegrias, tristezas, antojos;
Haze llorar, y haze reir,
Haze cantar, y haze plañir;
Da pensamientos dos mil a manojos._
QUESTION DE AMOR.
INTERCHAPTER XII.—p. 329.
THE AUTHOR REGRETS THAT HE CANNOT MAKE HIMSELF KNOWN TO CERTAIN
READERS; STATES THE POSSIBLE REASONS FOR HIS SECRESY; MAKES NO USE IN
SO DOING OF THE LICENSE WHICH HE SEEMS TO TAKE OUT IN HIS MOTTO; AND
STATING THE PRETENCES WHICH HE ADVANCES FOR HIS WORK, DISCLAIMING THE
WHILE ALL MERIT FOR HIMSELF, MODESTLY PRESENTS THEM UNDER A GRECIAN
VEIL.
Ἔνϑα γαρ τι δεῖ ψεῦδος λεγεσϑαι λεγἐσϑω.
HERODOTUS.
INTERCHAPTER XIII.—p. 339.
A PEEP FROM BEHIND THE CURTAIN.
Ha, ha, ha, now ye will make me to smile,
To see if I can all men beguile.
Ha, my name, my name would ye so fain know?
Yea, I wis, shall ye, and that with all speed.
I have forgot it, therefore I cannot show.
A, a, now I have it! I have it indeed!
My name is Ambidexter, I signify one
That with both hands finely can play.
KING CAMBYSES.
THE DOCTOR, &c.
INTERCHAPTER VII.
OBSOLETE ANTICIPATIONS; BEING A LEAF OUT OF AN OLD ALMANACK, WHICH
LIKE OTHER OLD ALMANACKS THOUGH OUT OF DATE IS NOT OUT OF USE.
If
You play before me, I shall often look on you,
I give you that warning before hand.
Take it not ill, my masters, I shall laugh at you,
And truly when I am least offended with you;
It is my humour.
MIDDLETON.
When St. Thomas Aquinas was asked in what manner a man might best
become learned, he answered, “by reading one book;” “meaning,” says
Bishop Taylor, “that an understanding entertained with several objects
is intent upon neither, and profits not.” Lord Holland's poet, the
prolific Lope de Vega tells us to the same purport;
_Que es estudiante notable
El que lo es de un libro solo.
Que quando no estavan llenos
De tantos libros agenos,
Como van dexando atras,
Sabian los hombres mas
Porque estudiavan en menos._
The _homo unius libri_ is indeed proverbially formidable to all
conversational figurantes. Like your sharp shooter, he knows his piece
perfectly, and is sure of his shot. I would therefore modestly
insinuate to the reader what infinite advantages would be possessed by
that fortunate person who shall be the _homo hujus libri_.
According to the Lawyers the King's eldest son is for certain purposes
of full age as soon as he is born,—great being the mysteries of Law! I
will not assume that in like manner _hic liber_ is at once to acquire
maturity of fame; for fame, like the oak, is not the product of a
single generation; and a new book in its reputation is but as an
acorn, the full growth of which can be known only by posterity. The
Doctor will not make so great a sensation upon its first appearance as
Mr. Southey's Wat Tyler, or the first two Cantos of Don Juan; still
less will it be talked of so universally as the murder of Mr. Weire.
Talked of however it will be, widely, largely, loudly and _lengthily_
talked of: lauded and vituperated, vilified and extolled, heartily
abused, and no less heartily admired.
Thus much is quite certain; that before it has been published a week,
eight persons will be named as having written it: and these eight
positive lies will be affirmed each as positive truths on positive
knowledge.
Within the month Mr. Woodbee will write to one Marquis, one Earl, two
Bishops, and two Reviewers-Major assuring them that he is _not_ the
Author. Mr. Sligo will cautiously avoid making any such declaration,
and will take occasion significantly to remark upon the exceeding
impropriety of saying to any person that a work which has been
published anonymously is supposed to be his. He will observe also that
it is altogether unwarrantable to ask any one under such circumstances
whether the report be true. Mr. Blueman's opinion of the book will be
asked by four and twenty female correspondents, all of the order of
the stocking.
Professor Wilson will give it his hearty praise. Sir Walter Scott will
deny that he has any hand in it. Mr. Coleridge will smile if he is
asked the question. If it be proposed to Sir Humphrey Davy he will
smile too, and perhaps blush also. The Laureate will observe a
careless silence; Mr. Wordsworth a dignified one. And Professor
Porson, if he were not gone where his Greek is of no use to him, would
accept credit for it, though he would not claim it.
The Opium-Eater while he peruses it, will doubt whether there is a
book in his hand, or whether he be not in a dream of intellectual
delight.
“My little more than nothing” Jeffrey the second,—(for of the small
Jeffreys Jeffrey Hudson must always be the first)—will look less when
he pops upon his own name in its pages. Sir Jeffrey Dunstan is Jeffrey
the third: he must have been placed second in right of seniority, had
it not been for the profound respect with which I regard the
University of Glasgow. The Rector of Glasgow takes precedence of the
Mayor of Garratt.
And what will the Reviewers do? I speak not of those who come to their
office, (for such there are, though few,) like Judges to the bench,
stored with all competent knowledge and in an equitable mind;
prejudging nothing, however much they may foreknow; and who give their
sentence without regard to persons, upon the merits of the case;—but
the aspirants and wranglers at the bar, the dribblers and the
spit-fires, (there are of both sorts;)—the puppies who bite for the
pleasure which they feel in exercising their teeth, and the dogs whose
gratification consists in their knowledge of the pain and injury that
they inflict;—the creepers of literature, who suck their food like the
ivy from what they strangulate and kill; they who have a party to
serve, or an opponent to run down; what opinion will they pronounce in
their utter ignorance of the author? They cannot play without a bias
in their bowls!—Aye, there's the rub!
Ha ha, ha ha! this World doth pass
Most merrily, I'll be sworn,
For many an honest Indian Ass
Goes for a Unicorn.
Farra diddle dyno,
This is idle fyno!
Tygh hygh, tygh hygh! O sweet delight!
He tickles this age that can
Call Tullia's ape a marmasite,
And Leda's goose a swan.[1]
[Footnote 1: BRITISH BIBLIOGRAPHER.]
Then the discussion that this book will excite among blue stockings,
and blue beards! The stir! the buzz! the bustle! The talk at tea
tables in the country and _conversazione_ in town,—in Mr. Murray's
room, at Mr. Longman's dinners, in Mr. Hatchard's shop,—at the Royal
Institution,—at the Alfred, at the Admiralty, at Holland House!—Have
you seen it?—Do you understand it? Are you not disgusted with it?—Are
you not provoked at it?—Are you not delighted with it? Whose is it?
Whose can it be?
Is it Walter Scott's?—There is no Scotch in the book,—and that hand is
never to be mistaken in its masterly strokes.—Is it Lord Byron's?—Lord
Byron's! Why the Author fears God, honours the King, and loves his
country and his kind. Is it by Little Moore?—If it were we should have
sentimental lewdness, Irish patriotism which is something very like
British treason, and a plentiful spicing of personal insults to the
Prince Regent. Is it the Laureate?—He lies buried under his own
historical quartos! There is neither his mannerism, nor his moralism,
nor his methodism. Is it Wordsworth?—What,—an Elephant cutting capers
on the slack wire!—Is it Coleridge?—The method indeed of the book
might lead to such a suspicion,—but then it is intelligible
throughout. Mr. A——?—there is Latin in it. Mr. B——?—there is Greek in
it. Mr. C——?—it is written in good English. Mr. Hazlitt? It contains
no panegyric upon Bonaparte; no imitations of Charles Lamb; no
plagiarisms from Mr. Coleridge's conversation; no abuse of that
gentleman, Mr. Southey and Mr. Wordsworth,—and no repetitions of
himself. Certainly therefore it is _not_ Mr. Hazlitt's.
Is it Charles Lamb?
Baa! Baa! good Sheep, have you any wool?
Yes marry, that I have, three bags full.
_Good_ Sheep I write here, in emendation of the nursery song; because
nobody ought to call this Lamb a _black_ one.
Comes it from the Admiralty? There indeed wit enough might be found
and acuteness enough, and enough of sagacity, and enough of knowledge
both of books and men; but when
The Raven croaked as she sate at her meal
And the Old Woman knew what he said,—[2]
the Old Woman knew also by the tone who said it.
[Footnote 2: SOUTHEY.]
Does it contain the knowledge, learning, wit, sprightliness, and good
sense, which that distinguished patron of letters my Lord Puttiface
Papinhead has so successfully concealed from the public and from all
his most intimate acquaintance during his whole life?
Is it Theodore Hook with the learned assistance of his brother the
Archdeacon?—A good guess that of the Hook: have an eye to it!
“I guess it is our Washington Irving,” says the New Englander. The
Virginian replies “I reckon it may be;” and they agree that none of
the Old Country Authors are worthy to be compared with him.
Is it Smith?
Which of the Smiths? for they are a numerous people. To say nothing of
Black Smiths, White Smiths, Gold Smiths, and Silver Smiths, there is
Sidney, who is Joke-Smith to the Edinburgh Review; and William, who is
Motion Smith to the Dissenters Orthodox and Heterodox, in Parliament,
having been elected to represent them,—to wit the aforesaid
Dissenters—by the citizens of Norwich. And there is _Cher Bobus_ who
works for nobody; and there is Horace and his brother James, who work
in Colburn's forge at the sign of the Camel. You probably meant these
brothers; they are clever fellows, with wit and humour as fluent as
their ink; and to their praise be it spoken with no gall in it. But
their wares are of a very different quality.
Is it the Author of Thinks I to myself?—“Think you so,” says I to
myself I. Or the Author of the Miseries of Human Life? George Coleman?
Wrangham,—unfrocked and in his lighter moods? Yorick of Dublin? Dr.
Clarke? Dr. Busby? The Author of My Pocket Book? D'Israeli? Or that
phenomenon of eloquence, the celebrated Irish Barrister, Counsellor
Phillips? Or may it not be the joint composition of Sir Charles and
Lady Morgan? he compounding the speculative, scientific and erudite
ingredients; she intermingling the lighter parts, and infusing her own
grace, airiness, vivacity and spirit through the whole. A well-aimed
guess: for they would throw out opinions differing from their own, as
ships in time of war hoist false colours; and thus they would enjoy
the baffled curiosity of those wide circles of literature and fashion
in which they move with such enviable distinction both at home and
abroad.
Is it Mr. Mathurin? Is it Hans Busk?—
Busk ye, busk ye my bonny bonny bride,
Busk ye, my winsome marrow!
Is it he who wrote of a World without Souls, and made the Velvet
Cushion relate its adventures?
Is it Rogers?—The wit and the feeling of the book may fairly lead to
such an ascription, if there be sarcasm enough to support it. So may
the Pleasures of Memory which the Author has evidently enjoyed during
the composition.
Is it Mr. Utinam? He would have written it,—if he could.—Is it Hookham
Frere? He could have written it,—if he would.—Has Matthias taken up a
new Pursuit in Literature? Or has William Bankes been trying the
experiment whether he can impart as much amusement and instruction by
writing, as in conversation?
Or is it some new genius ‘breaking out at once like the Irish
Rebellion a hundred thousand strong?’ Not one of the Planets, nor
fixed stars of our Literary System, but a Comet as brilliant as it is
eccentric in its course.
Away the dogs go, whining here, snuffing there, nosing in this place,
pricking their ears in that, and now full-mouthed upon a false
scent,—and now again all at fault.
Oh the delight of walking invisible among mankind!
“Whoever he be,” says Father O'Faggot, “he is an audacious heretic.”
“A schoolmaster, by his learning,” says Dr. Fullbottom Wigsby. The
Bishop would take him for a Divine, if there were not sometimes a
degree of levity in the book, which though always innocent, is not
altogether consistent with the gown. Sir Fingerfee Dolittle discovers
evident marks of the medical profession. “He has manifestly been a
traveller” says the General, “and lived in the World.” The man of
letters says it would not surprize him if it were the work of a
learned Jew. Mr. Dullman sees nothing in the book to excite the
smallest curiosity; he really does not understand it, and doubts
whether the Author himself knew what he would be at. Mr. M^cDry
declares, with a harsh Scotch accent, “Its just parfit nonsense.”
INTERCHAPTER VIII.
A LEAF OUT OF THE NEW ALMANACK. THE AUTHOR THINKS CONSIDERATELY OF HIS
COMMENTATORS; RUMINATES; RELATES AN ANECDOTE OF SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE;
QUOTES SOME PYRAMIDAL STANZAS, WHICH ARE NOT THE WORSE FOR THEIR
ARCHITECTURE, AND DELIVERS AN OPINION CONCERNING BURNS.
To smell to a turf of fresh earth is wholesome for the body; no less
are thoughts of mortality cordial to the Soul. “_Earth thou art, to
earth thou shalt return._”
FULLER.
The Commentators in the next millennium, and even in the next century,
will I foresee, have no little difficulty, in settling the chronology
of this opus. I do not mean the time of its conception, the very day
and hour of that happy event having been recorded in the seventh
chapter, A. I.: nor the time of its birth, that, as has been
registered in the weekly Literary Journals, having been in the second
week of January, 1834. But at what intervening times certain of its
Chapters and Inter Chapters were composed.
A similar difficulty has been found with the Psalms, the Odes of
Horace, Shakespeare's Plays, and other writings sacred or profane, of
such celebrity as to make the critical enquiry an object of reasonable
curiosity, or of real moment.
They however who peruse the present volume while it is yet a new book,
will at once have perceived that between the composition of the
preceding Chapter and their perusal thereof, an interval as long as
one of Nourjahad's judicial visitations of sleep must have elapsed.
For many of the great performers who figured upon the theatre of
public life when the anticipations in that Chapter were expressed,
have made their exits; and others who are not there mentioned, have
since that time made their entrances.
The children of that day have reached their stage of adolescence; the
youth are now in mid life; the middle-aged have grown old, and the old
have passed away. I say nothing of the political changes that have
intervened. Who can bestow a thought upon the pantomime of politics,
when his mind is fixed upon the tragedy of human life?
Robert Landor, (a true poet like his great brother, if ever there was
one) says finely in his Impious Banquet,
There is a pause near death when men grow bold
Toward all things else:
Before that awful pause, whenever the thought is brought home to us,
we feel ourselves near enough to grow indifferent to them, and to
perceive the vanity of all earthly pursuits, those only excepted which
have the good of our fellow creatures for their object, and tend to
our own spiritual improvement.
But this is entering upon a strain too serious for this place; though
any reflection upon the lapse of time and the changes that steal on us
in its silent course leads naturally to such thoughts.
_Omnia paulatim consumit longior ætas,
Vivendoque simul morimur, rapimurque manendo.
Ipse mihi collatus enim non ille videbor;
Frons alia est, moresque alii, nova mentis imago,
Voxque aliud mutata sonat._[1]
[Footnote 1: PETRARCH.]
Sir Thomas Lawrence was told one day that he had made a portrait which
he was then finishing, ten years too young, “Well,” he replied, “I
have; and I see no reason why it should not be made so.” There was
this reason: ten years if they bring with them only their ordinary
portion of evil and of good, cannot pass over any one's head without
leaving their moral as well as physical traces, especially if they
have been years of active and intellectual life. The painter therefore
who dips his brush in Medea's kettle, neither represents the
countenance as it is, nor as it has been.
“And what does that signify?” Sir Thomas might ask in rejoinder.—What
indeed! Little to any one at present, and nothing when the very few
who are concerned in it shall have passed away,—except to the artist.
The merits of his picture as a work of art are all that will then be
considered; its fidelity as a likeness will be taken for granted, or
be thought of as little consequence as in reality it then is.
Yet if Titian or Vandyke had painted upon such a principle, their
portraits would not have been esteemed as they now are. We should not
have felt the certainty which we now feel, that in looking at the
pictures of the Emperor Charles V. and of Cortes; of King Charles the
Martyr, and of Strafford, we see the veritable likeness and true
character of those ever-memorable personages.
Think of the changes that any ten years in the course of human life
produce in body and in mind, and in the face, which is in a certain
degree the index of both. From thirty to forty is the decade during
which the least outward and visible alteration takes place; and yet
how perceptible is it even during that stage in every countenance that
is composed of good flesh and blood! For I do not speak of those which
look as if they had been hewn out of granite, cut out of a block, cast
in bronze, or moulded either in wax, tallow, or paste.
Ten years!
Quarles in those Hieroglyphics of the Life of Man, which he presents
to the Reader as an Egyptian dish drest in the English fashion;
symbolizes it by the similitude of a taper divided into eight equal
lengths, which are to burn for ten years each,—if the candle be not
either wasted, or blown out by the wind, or snuffed out by an
unskilful hand, or douted (to use a good old word) with an
extinguisher, before it is burnt down to the socket. The poem which
accompanies the first print of the series, begins thus, in pyramidal
stanzas; such they were designed to be, but their form resembles that
of an Aztecan or Mexican Cu, rather than of an Egyptian pyramid.
1.
Behold
How short a span
Was long enough of old
To measure out the life of man!
In those well-temper'd days, his time was then
Surveyed, cast up, and found but threescore years and ten.
2.
Alas
And what is that!
They come and slide and pass
Before my pen can tell thee what.
The posts of life are swift, which having run
Their seven short stages o'er, their short-liv'd task is done.
“I had an old grand-uncle,” says Burns, “with whom my mother lived
awhile in her girlish years. The good man was long blind ere he died,
during which time his highest enjoyment was to sit down and cry, while
my mother would sing the simple old song of the Life and Age of Man.”
It is certain that this old song was in Burns's mind when he composed
to the same cadence those well-known stanzas of which the burthen is
that “man was made to mourn.” But the old blind man's tears were tears
of piety, not of regret; it was his greatest enjoyment thus to listen
and to weep; and his heart the while was not so much in the past, as
his hopes were in the future. They were patient hopes; he knew in Whom
he believed, and was awaiting his deliverance in God's good time.
_Sunt homines qui cum patientiâ moriuntur; sunt autem quidam perfecti
qui cum patientiâ vivunt._[2] Burns may perhaps have been conscious in
his better hours (and he had many such,) that he had inherited the
feeling (if not the sober piety,) which is so touchingly exemplified
in this family anecdote;—that it was the main ingredient in the
_athanasia_ of his own incomparable effusions; and that without it he
never could have been the moral, and therefore never the truly great
poet that he eminently is.
[Footnote 2: ST. AUGUSTIN.]
INTERCHAPTER IX.
AN ILLUSTRATION FOR THE ASSISTANCE OF THE COMMENTATORS DRAWN FROM THE
HISTORY OF THE KORAN. REMARKS WHICH ARE NOT INTENDED FOR MUSSELMEN,
AND WHICH THE MISSIONARIES IN THE MEDITERRANEAN ARE ADVISED NOT TO
TRANSLATE.
You will excuse me if I do not strictly confine myself to narration,
but now and then intersperse such reflections as may offer while I am
writing.
JOHN NEWTON.
But the most illustrious exemplification of the difficulty which the
Doctorean or Dovean commentators will experience in settling the
chronology of these chapters, is to be found in the history of the
Koran.
Mahommedan Doctors are agreed that the first part or parcel of their
sacred book which was revealed to the Prophet, consisted of what now
stands as the first five verses of the ninety-sixth chapter; and that
the chapter which ought to be the last of the whole hundred and
fourteen, because it was the last which Mahommed delivered, is placed
as the ninth in order.
The manner in which the book was originally produced and afterwards
put together explains how this happened.
Whenever the Impostor found it convenient to issue a portion, one of
his disciples wrote it, from his dictation, either upon palm-leaves or
parchment, and these were put promiscuously into a chest. After his
death Abubeker collected them into a volume, but with so little regard
to any principle of order or connection, that the only rule which he
is supposed to have followed was that of placing the longest chapters
first.
Upon this M. Savary remarks, _ce bouleversement dans un ouvrage qui
est un recueil de préceptes donnés dans différens temps et dont les
premiers sont souvent abrogés par les suivans, y a jetté la plus grand
confusion. On ne doit donc y chercher ni ordre ni suite._ And yet one
of the chapters opens with the assertion that “a judicious order
reigns in this book,”—according to Savary's version, which here
follows those commentators who prefer this among the five
interpretations which the words may bear.
Abubeker no doubt was of opinion that it was impossible to put the
book together in any way that could detract from its value and its
use. If he were, as there is every reason to think, a true believer,
he would infer that the same divine power which revealed it piece-meal
would preside over the arrangement, and that the earthly copy would
thus miraculously be made a faithful transcript of the eternal and
uncreated original.
If, on the other hand, he had been as audacious a knave as his
son-in-law, the false prophet himself, he would have come with equal
certainty to the same conclusion by a different process: for he would
have known that if the separate portions, when they were taken out of
the chest, had been shuffled and dealt like a pack of cards, they
would have been just as well assorted as it was possible to assort
them.
A north-country dame in days of old economy, when the tailor worked
for women as well as men, delivered one of her nether garments to a
professor of the sartorial art with these directions:
“Here Talleor, tak this petcut; thoo mun bin' me't, and thoo mun
tap-bin' me't; thoo mun turn it rangsid afoor, tapsid bottom, insid
oot: thoo can do't, thoo mun do't, and thoo mun do't speedly.”—Neither
Bonaparte nor Wellington ever gave their orders on the field of battle
with more precision, or more emphatic and authoritative conciseness.
Less contrivance was required for editing the Koran, than for
renovating this petticoat: The Commander of the Faithful had only to
stitch it together and bin' me't.
The fable is no doubt later than Abubeker's time that the first
transcript of this book from its eternal and uncreated original in the
very essence of the Deity, is on the Preserved Table, fast by the
throne of God; on which Table all the divine decrees of things past,
passing and to come are recorded. The size of the Table may be
estimated by that of the Pen wherewith these things were written on
it. The Great Pen was one of the first three created things; it is in
length, five hundred years' journey, and in breadth, eighty; and I
suppose the rate of an Angel's travelling is intended, which
considerably exceeds that of a rail-road, a race-horse, or a
carrier-pigeon. A copy of the Koran, transcribed upon some celestial
material from this original on the Preserved Table, bound in silk, and
ornamented with gold and set with precious stones from Paradise, was
shown to the Prophet by the Angel Gabriel, once a year, for his
consolation, and twice during the last year of his life.
Far later is the legend transmitted by the Spanish Moor, Mahomet
Rabadan, that Othman arranged the fragments and copied them in the
Prophet's life-time; and that when this transcript was compleated
Gabriel presented the Prophet with another copy of the whole, written
by his own arch-angelic hand in heaven, whereby the greatest honour
and most perfect satisfaction that could be given to man were
imparted, and the most conclusive proof afforded of the fidelity with
which Othman had executed his holy task. For when his copy was
collated with the Angel's it was found to be so exact, “that not the
least tittle was variated or omitted, but it seemed as if the same
hand and pen had written them both,” the only difference being in the
size of the letters, and consequently of the two books, and in their
legibility.
Gabriel's copy was contained in sixteen leaves, the size of a Damascus
coin not larger than an English shilling; and the strokes of the
letters were so much finer than any human hair, or any visible thread,
that they are compared to the hairs of a serpent, which are so fine
that no microscope has ever yet discovered them. They were plainly
legible to all who were pure and undefiled; but no unclean person
could discern a single syllable, nor could any pen ever be made fine
enough to imitate such writing. The ink was of a rich purple, the
cover of a bright chesnut colour. Mahommed continually carried this
wonderful book about him in his bosom, and when he slept he had it
always under his pillow or next his heart. After his decease it
disappeared, nor though Othman and Ali diligently sought for it, could
it ever be found; it was believed therefore to have returned to the
place from whence it came.
But this is a legend of later date; and learned Mahommedans would
reject it not merely as being apocryphal, but as false.
Before I have done with the subject, let me here, on the competent
authority of Major Edward Moore, inform the European reader, who may
be ignorant of Arabic, that the name of the Arabian False Prophet is,
in the language of his own country, written with four letters—M. H. M.
D.—a character called _teshdid_ over the medial M denoting that sound
to be prolonged or doubled; so that Mahammad would better than any
other spelling represent the current vernacular pronunciation.
Here let me observe by the way that the work which the reader has now
the privilege of perusing is as justly entitled to the name of the
Koran as the so called pseudo-bible itself, because the word signifies
“_that which ought to be read_;” and moreover, that, like the
Musselman's Koran, it might also be called Dhikr, which is, being
interpreted, “_the Admonition_,” because of the salutary instruction
and advice which it is intended to convey.
Take, if ye can, ye careless and supine,
Counsel and caution from a voice like mine!
Truths that the theorist could never reach,
And observation taught me, I would teach.[1]
[Footnote 1: COWPER.]
Haying given the reader this timely intimation I shall now explain in
what my commentators will find a difficulty of the same kind as that
which Abubeker would have had, if, in putting together the disorderly
writings entrusted to his care, he had endeavoured to arrange them
according to the order in which the several portions were produced.
When Mahommed wanted to establish an ordinance for his followers, or
to take out a license for himself for the breach of his own laws, as
when he chose to have an extra allowance of wives, or coveted those of
his neighbours, he used to promulgate a fragment of the Koran,
revealed _pro re natâ_, that is to say in honest old English _for the
nonce_. It has been determined with sufficient accuracy at what times
certain portions were composed, because the circumstances in his
public or private history which rendered them necessary, or
convenient, are known. And what has been done with these parts, might
have been done with the whole, if due pains had been taken, at a time
when persons were still living who knew when, and why, every separate
portion had been,—as they believed,—revealed. This would have required
more diligence than the first Caliph had either leisure or inclination
to bestow, and perhaps more sagacity than he possessed: the task would
have been difficult, but it was possible.
But my commentators will never be able to ascertain anything more of
the chronology of this Koran, than the dates of its conception, and of
its birth-day, the interval between them having been more than twenty
years.
INTERCHAPTER X.
MORE ON THE FOREGOING SUBJECT. ELUCIDATIONS FROM HENRY MORE AND DR.
WATTS. AN INCIDENTAL OPINION UPON HORACE WALPOLE. THE STREAM OF
THOUGHT “FLOWETH AT ITS OWN SWEET WILL.” PICTURES AND BOOKS. A SAYING
OF MR. PITT'S CONCERNING WILBERFORCE. THE AUTHOR EXPLAINS IN WHAT
SENSE IT MIGHT BE SAID THAT HE SOMETIMES SHOOTS WITH A LONG BOW.
_Vorrei, disse il Signor Gasparo Pallavicino, che voi ragionassi un
poco piu minutamente di questo, che non fate; che en vero vi tenete
molto al generale, et quasi ci mostrate le cose per transito._
IL CORTEGIANO.
Henry More, in the Preface General to the collection of his
philosophical writings, says to the reader, “if thy curiosity be
forward to enquire what I have done in these new editions of my books,
I am ready to inform thee that I have taken the same liberty in this
Intellectual Garden of my own planting, that men usually take in their
natural ones; which is, to set or pluck up, to transplant and
inoculate, where and what they please. And therefore if I have rased
out some things, (which yet are but very few) and transposed others,
and interserted others, I hope I shall seem injurious to no man in
ordering and cultivating this Philosophical Plantation of mine
according to mine own humour and liking.”
Except as to the rasing out, what our great Platonist has thus said
for himself, may here be said for me. “Many things,” as the happy old
lutanist, Thomas Mace, says, “are good, yea, very good; but yet upon
after-consideration we have met with the comparative, which is better;
yea, and after that, with the superlative, (best of all), by adding
to, or altering a little, the same good things.”
During the years that this Opus has been in hand, (and in head and
heart also) nothing was expunged as if it had become obsolete because
the persons therein alluded to had departed like shadows, or the
subjects there touched on had grown out of date; but much was
introduced from time to time where it fitted best. Allusions occur in
relation to facts which are many years younger than the body of the
chapter in which they have been grafted, thus rendering it impossible
for any critic, however acute, to determine the date of any one
chapter by its contents.
What Watts has said of his own Treatise upon the Improvement of the
Mind may therefore with strict fidelity be applied to this book, which
I trust, O gentle Reader, thou wilt regard as specially conducive to
the improvement of thine. “The work was composed at different times,
and by slow degrees. Now and then indeed it spread itself into
branches and leaves, like a plant in April, and advanced seven or
eight pages in a week; and sometimes it lay by without growth, like a
vegetable in the winter, and did not increase half so much in the
revolution of a year. As thoughts occurred to me in reading or
meditation, or in my notices of the various appearances of things
among mankind, they were thrown under appropriate heads, and were, by
degrees, reduced to such a method as the subject would admit. The
language and dress of these sentiments is such as the present temper
of mind dictated, whether it were grave or pleasant, severe or
smiling. And a book which has been twenty years in writing may be
indulged in some variety of style and manner, though I hope there will
not be found any great difference of sentiment.” With little
transposition Watts' words have been made to suit my purpose; and when
he afterwards speaks of “so many lines altered, so many things
interlined, and so many paragraphs and pages here and there inserted,”
the circumstances which he mentions as having deceived him in
computing the extent of his work, set forth the embarrassment which
the commentators will find in settling the chronology of mine.
The difficulty would not be obviated were I, like Horace Walpole,
(though Heaven knows for no such motives as influenced that posthumous
libeller,—) to leave a box containing the holograph manuscript of this
Opus in safe custody, with an injunction that the seals should not be
broken till the year of our Lord, 2000. Nothing more than what has
been here stated would appear in that inestimable manuscript. Whether
I shall leave it as an heir-loom in my family, or have it deposited
either in the public library of my Alma Mater, or that of my own
College, or bequeath it as a last mark of affection to the town of
Doncaster, concerns not the present reader. Nor does it concern him to
know whether the till-then-undiscoverable name of the author will be
disclosed at the opening of the seals. An adequate motive for placing
the manuscript in safe custody is, that a standard would thus be
secured for posterity whereby the always accumulating errors of the
press might be corrected. For modern printers make more and greater
blunders than the copyists of old.
In any of those works which posterity will not be “willing to let
perish,” how greatly would the interest be enhanced, if the whole
history of its rise and progress were known, and amid what
circumstances, and with what views, and in what state of mind, certain
parts were composed. Sir Walter, than whom no man ever took more
accurate measure of the public taste, knew this well; and posterity
will always be grateful to him for having employed his declining years
in communicating so much of the history of those works which obtained
a wider and more rapid celebrity than any that ever preceded them, and
perhaps than any that ever may follow them.
An author of the last generation, (I cannot call to mind who,) treated
such an opinion with contempt, saying in his preface that “there his
work was, and that as the Public were concerned with it only as it
appeared before them, he should say nothing that would recal the
blandishments of its childhood:” whether the book was one of which the
maturity might just as well be forgotten as the nonage, I do not
remember. But he must be little versed in bibliology who has not
learnt that such reminiscences are not more agreeable to an author
himself, than they are to his readers, (if he obtain any,) in after
times; for every trifle that relates to the history of a favourite
author, and of his works, then becomes precious.
Far be it for me to despise the relic-mongers of literature, or to
condemn them, except when they bring to light things which ought to
have been buried with the dead; like the Dumfries craniologists, who,
when the grave of Burns was opened to receive the corpse of his wife,
took that opportunity of _abstracting_ the poet's skull that they
might make a cast from it! Had these men forgotten the malediction
which Shakespeare utters from his monument? And had they never read
what Wordsworth says to such men in his Poet's epitaph—
Art thou one all eyes,
Philosopher! a fingering slave,
One that would peep and botanize
Upon his mother's grave?
Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece,
O turn aside,—and take, I pray,
That he below may rest in peace,
Thy pin-point of a soul away!
O for an hour of Burns' for these men's sake! Were there a Witch of
Endor in Scotland it would be an act of comparative piety in her to
bring up his spirit; to stigmatize them in verses that would burn for
ever would be a gratification for which he might think it worth while
to be thus brought again upon earth.
But to the harmless relic-mongers we owe much; much to the Thomas
Hearnes and John Nichols, the Isaac Reids and the Malones, the
Haslewoods and Sir Egertons. Individually, I owe them much, and
willingly take this opportunity of acknowledging the obligation. And
let no one suppose that Sir Egerton is disparaged by being thus
classed among the pioneers of literature. It is no disparagement for
any man of letters, however great his endowments, and however
extensive his erudition, to take part in those patient and humble
labours by which honour is rendered to his predecessors, and
information preserved for those who come after him.
But in every original work which lives and deserves to live there must
have been some charms which no editorial diligence can preserve, no
critical sagacity recover. The pictures of the old masters, suffer
much when removed from the places for which, (and in which, many of
them,) they were painted. It may happen that one which has been
conveyed from a Spanish palace or monastery to the collection of
Marshal Soult, or any other Plunder-Master-General in Napoleon's
armies, and have past from thence,—honestly as regards the
purchaser,—to the hands of an English owner, may be hung at the same
elevation as in its proper place, and in the same light. Still it
loses much. The accompaniments are all of a different character; the
air and odour of the place are different. There is not here the
locality that consecrated it,—no longer the _religio loci_. Wealth
cannot purchase these; power may violate and destroy, but it cannot
transplant them. The picture in its new situation is seen with a
different feeling, by those who have any true feeling for such things.
Literary works of imagination, fancy or feeling, are liable to no
injury of this kind; but in common with pictures they suffer a partial
deterioration in even a short lapse of time. In such works as in
pictures, there are often passages which once possessed a peculiar
interest, personal and local, subordinate to the general interest. The
painter introduced into an historical piece the portrait of his
mistress, his wife, his child, his dog, his friend, or his faithful
servant. The picture is not as a work of art the worse where these
persons were not known, or when they are forgotten: but there was once
a time when it excited on this account in very many beholders a
peculiar delight which it can never more impart.
So it is with certain books; and though there is perhaps little to
regret in any thing that becomes obsolete, an author may be allowed to
sigh over what he feels and knows to be evanescent.
Mr. Pitt used to say of Wilberforce that he was not so single minded
in his speeches as might have been expected from the sincerity of his
character, and as he would have been if he had been less dependent
upon popular support. Those who knew him, and how he was connected, he
said, could perceive that some things in his best speeches were
intended to _tell_ in such and such quarters,—upon Benjamin Sleek in
one place, Isaac Drab in another, and Nehemiah Wilyman in a
third.—Well would it be if no man ever looked askant with worse
motives!
Observe, Reader, that I call him simply Wilberforce, because any
common prefix would seem to disparage that name, especially if used by
one who regarded him with admiration; and with respect, which is
better than admiration, because it can be felt for those only whose
virtues entitle them to it; and with kindliness, which is better than
both, because it is called forth by those kindly qualities that are
worth more than any talents, and without which a man, though he may be
both great and good, never can be amiable. No one was ever blest with
a larger portion of those gifts and graces which make up the measure
of an amiable and happy man.
It will not be thought then that I have repeated with any
disrespectful intention what was said of Wilberforce by Mr. Pitt. The
observation was brought to mind while I was thinking how many passages
in these volumes were composed with a double intention, one for the
public and for posterity, the other private and personal, written with
special pleasure on my part, _speciali gratiâ_, for the sake of
certain individuals. Some of these which are calculated for the
meridian of Doncaster the commentators may possibly, if they make due
research, discover; but there are others which no ingenuity can
detect. Their quintessence exhales when the private, which was in
these cases the primary intention has been fulfilled. Yet the
consciousness of the emotions which those passages will excite, the
recollections they will awaken, the surprize and the smile with which
they will be received,—yea and the melancholy gratification,—even to
tears,—which they will impart, has been one and not the least of the
many pleasures which I have experienced while employed upon this work.
Πολλά μοι ὑπ᾽ ἀγκῶ–
–νος ὠκέα βέλη
Ἒνδον ἐντὶ φαρέτρας
Φωνᾶντα συνετοῖσιν.[1]
[Footnote 1: PINDAR.]
But while thus declaring that these volumes contain much covert
intention of this kind, I utterly disclaim all covert malevolence. My
roving shafts are more harmless even than bird bolts, and can hurt
none on whom they fall. The arrows with which I take aim carry tokens
of remembrance and love, and may be likened to those by which
intelligence has been conveyed into besieged places. Of such it is
that I have been speaking. Others indeed I have in the quiver which
are pointed and barbed.
ἐμοὶ μὲν ὧν Μοῖσα καρτερώ-
-τατον βέλος ἀλκᾷ τρἐφει.[2]
When one of these is let fly, (with sure aim and never without just
cause,) it has its address written on the shaft at full length, like
that which Aster directed from the walls of Methone to Philip's right
eye.
[Footnote 2: PINDAR.]
_Or' c'est assez s' estre esgare de son grand chemin: j'y retourne et
le bats, et le trace comme devant._[3]
[Footnote 3: BRANTOME.]
CHAPTER LXXVIII.
AMATORY POETRY NOT ALWAYS OF THE WISEST KIND. AN ATTEMPT TO CONVEY
SOME NOTION OF ITS QUANTITY. TRUE LOVE THOUGH NOT IN EVERY CASE THE
BEST POET, THE BEST MORALIST ALWAYS.
_El Amor es tan ingenioso, que en mi opinion, mas poetas ha hecho el
solo, que la misma naturaleza._
PEREZ DE MONTALVAN.
I return to the loves of Leonard and Margaret.
That poet asked little from his mistress, who entreated her to bestow
upon him, not a whole look, for this would have been too great a mercy
for a miserable lover, but part of a look, whether it came from the
white of her eye, or the black: and if even that were too much, then
he besought her only to seem to look at him:
_Un guardo—un guardo? no, troppo pietate
E per misero Amante un guardo intero;
Solo un de' vostri raggi, occhi girate,
O parte del bel bianco, o del bel nero.
E se troppo vi par, non mi mirate;
Ma fate sol sembiante di mirarmi,
Che nol potete far senza bearmi._[1]
This is a new thought in amatory poetry; and the difficulty of
striking out a new thought in such poetry, is of all difficulties the
greatest. Think of a look from the white of an eye! Even part of a
look however is more than a lady will bestow upon one whom she does
not favour; and more than one whom she favours will consent to part
with. An Innamorato Furioso in one of Dryden's tragedies says:
I'll not one corner of a glance resign!
[Footnote 1: CHIABRERA.]
Poor Robert Greene, whose repentance has not been disregarded by just
posterity, asked his mistress in his licentious days, to look upon him
with one eye, (no doubt he meant a sheep's eye;) this also was a new
thought; and he gave the reason for his request in this sonnet—
On women nature did bestow two eyes,
Like heaven's bright lamps, in matchless beauty shining,
Whose beams do soonest captivate the wise,
And wary heads, made rare by art's refining.
But why did nature, in her choice combining,
Plant two fair eyes within a beauteous face?
That they might favour two with equal grace.
Venus did soothe up Vulcan with one eye,
With the other granted Mars his wished glee.
If she did so whom Hymen did defy,
Think love no sin, but grant an eye to me!
In vain else nature gave two stars to thee.
If then two eyes may well two friends maintain,
Allow of two, and prove not nature vain.
Love, they say, invented the art of tracing likenesses, and thereby
led the way to portrait painting. Some painters it has certainly made;
whether it ever made a poet may be doubted: but there can be no doubt
that under its inspiration more bad poetry has been produced than by
any, or all other causes.
Hæc via jam cunctis nota est, hæc trita poetis
Materia, hanc omnis tractat ubique liber.[2]
As the most forward bud
Is eaten by the canker ere it blow,
Even so by Love the young and tender wit
Is turn'd to folly.[3]
Vanity, presumption, ambition, adulation, malice and folly, flatulent
emptiness and ill digested fulness, misdirected talent and misapplied
devotion, wantonness and want, good motives, bad motives, and mixed
motives have given birth to verses in such numberless numbers, that
the great lake of Oblivion in which they have sunk, must long ago have
been filled up, if there had been any bottom to it. But had it been so
filled up, and a foundation thus laid, the quantity of love poems
which have gone to the same place, would have made a pile there that
would have been the eighth wonder of the world. It would have dwarfed
the Pyramids. Pelion upon Ossa would have seemed but a type of it; and
the Tower of Babel would not, even when that Tower was at its highest
elevation, have overtopt it, though the old rhyme says that
Seven mile sank, and seven mile fell,
And seven mile still stand and ever shall.
_Ce n'est que feu de leurs froids chaleurs,
Ce n'est qu' horreur de leurs feintes douleurs,
Ce n'est encor de leurs souspirs et pleurs,
Que vents, pluye, et orages:
Et bref, ce n'est à ouir leurs chansons,
De leurs amours, que flammes et glaçons,
Fleches, liens, et mille autres façons
De semblables outrages._
_De voz beautez, ce n'est que tout fin or,
Perles, crystal, marbre, et ivoyre encor,
Et tout l'honneur de l'Indique thresor,
Fleurs, lis, œillets, et roses:
De voz doulceurs ce n'est que succre et miel,
De voz rigueures n'est qu' aloës, et fiel,
De voz esprits c'est tous ce que le ciel
Tient de graces encloses._
* * * * *
_Il n'y a roc, qui n'entende leurs voix,
Leurs piteux cris ont faict cent mille fois
Pleurer les monts, les plaines, et les bois,
Les antres et fonteines.
Bref, il n'y a ny solitaires lieux,
N'y lieux hantez, voyre mesmes les cieux,
Qui ça et là ne montrent à leurs yeux
L'image de leurs peines._
_Cestuy-la porte en son cueur fluctueux
De l'Ocean les flots tumultueux,
Cestuy l'horreur des vents impetueux
Sortans de leur caverne:
L'un d'un Caucase, et Mongibel se plaingt,
L'autre en veillant plus de songes se peingt,
Qu'il n'en fut onq' en cest orme, qu'on feinct
En la fosse d'Averne._
_Qui contrefaict ce Tantale mourant
Bruslé de soif au milieu d'un torrent,
Qui repaissant un aigle devorant,
S'accoustre en Promethee:
Et qui encor, par un plus chaste vœu,
En se bruslant, veult Hercule estre veu,
Mais qui se mue en eau, air, terre, et feu,
Comme un second Protee._
_L'un meurt de froid, et l'autre meurt de chauld;
L'un vole bas, et l'autre vole hault,
L'un est chetif, l'autre a ce qui luy fault;
L'un sur l'esprit se fonde,
L'autre s'arreste à la beauté du corps;
On ne vid onq' si horribles discords
En ce cahos, qui troubloit les accords
Dont fut basty le monde._[4]
But on the other hand if love, simple love, is the worst of poets,
that same simple love, is beyond comparison the best of letter
writers. In love poems conceits are distilled from the head; in love
letters feelings flow from the heart; and feelings are never so
feelingly uttered, affection never so affectionately expressed, truth
never so truly spoken, as in such a correspondence. Oh if the
disposition which exists at such times, were sustained through life,
marriage would then be indeed the perfect union, the “excellent
mystery” which our Father requires from those who enter into it, that
it should be made; and which it might always be, under His blessing,
were it not for the misconduct of one or the other party, or of both.
If such a disposition were maintained,—“if the love of husbands and
wives were grounded (as it then would be) in virtue and religion, it
would make their lives a kind of heaven on earth; it would prevent all
those contentions and brawlings which are the great plagues of
families, and the lesser hell in passage to the greater.” Let no
reader think the worse of that sentence because it is taken from that
good homely old book, the better for being homely, entitled the Whole
Duty of Man.
[Footnote 2: SCAURANUS.]
[Footnote 3: SHAKESPEARE.]
[Footnote 4: JOACHIM DU BELLAY.]
I once met with a book in which a servant girl had written on a blank
leaf, “_not much love after marriage, but a good deal before!_” In her
station of life this is but too true; and in high stations also, and
in all those intermediate grades where either the follies of the
world, or its cares, exercise over us an unwholesome influence. But it
is not so with well constituted minds in those favorable circumstances
wherein the heart is neither corrupted by wealth, nor hardened by
neediness. So far as the tendency of modern usages is to diminish the
number of persons who are thus circumstanced, in that same proportion
must the sum of happiness be diminished, and of those virtues which
are the only safeguard of a nation. And that modern policy and modern
manners have this tendency, must be apparent to every one who observes
the course both of public and private life.
This girl had picked up a sad maxim from the experience of others; I
hope it did not as a consequence, make her bestow too much love before
marriage herself, and meet with too little after it. I have said much
of worthless verses upon this subject; take now, readers, some that
may truly be called worthy of it. They are by the Manchester Poet,
Charles Swain.
1.
Love?—I will tell thee what it is to love!
It is to build with human thoughts a shrine,
Where Hope sits brooding like a beauteous dove;
Where Time seems young, and Life a thing divine.
All tastes, all pleasures, all desires combine
To consecrate this sanctuary of bliss.
Above, the stars in shroudless beauty shine;
Around, the streams their flowery margins kiss;
And if there's heaven on earth, that heaven is surely this!
2.
Yes, this is Love, the stedfast and the true,
The immortal glory which hath never set;
The best, the brightest boon the heart e'er knew:
Of all life's sweets the very sweetest yet!
Oh! who but can recall the eve they met
To breathe, in some green walk, their first young vow,
While summer flowers with moonlight dews were wet,
And winds sigh'd soft around the mountain's brow,
And all was rapture then which is but memory now!
The dream of life indeed can last with none of us,—
As if the thing beloved were all a Saint,
And every place she entered were a shrine:[5]
but it must be our own fault, when it has past away, if the realities
disappoint us: they are not “weary, stale, flat and unprofitable,”
unless we ourselves render them so. The preservation of the species is
not the sole end for which love was implanted in the human heart; that
end the Almighty might as easily have effected by other means: not so
the developement of our moral nature, which is its higher purpose. The
comic poet asserts that
_Verum illud verbum est vulgo quod dici solet,
Omnes sibi esse melius malle, quam alteri:_[6]
but this is not true in love. The lover never says
_Heus proximus sum egomet mihi;_[6]
He knows and understands the falsehood of the Greek adage,
φιλεῖ δ᾽ ἑαυτοῦ πλεῖον οὐδείς οὐδένα.
and not lovers alone, but husbands and wives, and parents feel that
there are others who are dearer to them than themselves. Little do
they know of human nature who speak of marriage as doubling our
pleasures and dividing our griefs: it doubles, or more than doubles
both.
[Footnote 5: GONDIBERT.]
[Footnote 6: TERENCE.]