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.
“Nobs,” said the Doctor, as he mounted and rode away from Mr. Bacon's
garden gate, “when I alighted and fastened thee to that wicket, I
thought as little of what was to befal me then, and what I was about
to do, as thou knowest of it now.”
Man has an inward voice as well as an “inward eye,”[1] a voice
distinct from that of conscience. It is the companion, if not “the
bliss of solitude;”[1] and though he sometimes employs it to deceive
himself, it gives him good counsel perhaps quite as often, calls him
to account, reproves him for having left unsaid what he ought to have
said, or for having said what he ought not to have said, reprehends or
approves, admonishes or encourages. On this occasion it was a joyful
and gratulatory voice, with which the Doctor spake mentally, first to
Nobs and afterwards to himself, as he rode back to Doncaster.
[Footnote 1: WORDSWORTH.]
By this unuttered address the reader would perceive, if he should
haply have forgotten what was intimated in some of the ante-initial
chapters, and in the first post-initial one, that the Doctor had a
horse, named Nobs; and the question Who was Nobs, would not be
necessary, if this were all that was to be said concerning him. There
is much to be said; the tongue that could worthily express his merits,
had need be like the pen of a ready writer; though I will not say of
him as Berni or Boiardo has said of
_quel valeroso e bel destriero,_
Argalia's horse, Rubicano, that
_Un che volesse dir lodando il vero,
Bisogno aria di parlar piu ch' umano._
At present, however, I shall only say this in his praise, he was
altogether unlike the horse of whom it was said he had only two
faults, that of being hard to catch, and that of being good for
nothing when he was caught. For whether in stable or in field, Nobs
would come like a dog to his master's call. There was not a better
horse for the Doctor's purpose in all England; no, nor in all
Christendom; no, nor in all Houyhnhnmdom, if that country had been
searched to find one.
_Cæsarem vehis_, said Cæsar to the Egyptian boatman. But what was that
which the Egyptian boat carried, compared to what Nobs bore upon that
saddle to which constant use had given its polish bright and brown?
_Virtutem solidi pectoris hospitam
Idem portat equus, qui dominum._[2]
Nobs therefore carried—all that is in these volumes; yea, and as all
future generations were, according to Madame Bourignon, actually as
well as potentially, contained in Adam,—all editions and translations
of them, however numerous.
[Footnote 2: CASIMIR.]
But on that evening he carried something of more importance; for on
the life and weal of his rider there depended from that hour, as far
as its dependence was upon anything earthly, the happiness of one of
the best men in the world, and of a daughter who was not unworthy of
such a father. If the Doctor had been thrown from his horse and
killed, an hour or two earlier, the same day, it would have been a
dreadful shock both to Deborah and Mr. Bacon; and they would always
have regretted the loss of one whose company they enjoyed, whose
character they respected, and for whom they entertained a feeling of
more than ordinary regard. But had such a casualty occurred now, it
would have been the severest affliction that could have befallen them.
Yet till that hour Deborah had never thought of Dove as a husband, nor
Dove of Deborah as a wife,—that is, neither had ever looked at the
possibility of their being one day united to each other in that
relation. Deborah liked him, and he liked her; and beyond this sincere
liking neither of them for a moment dreamt that the inclination would
ever proceed. They had not fallen in love with each other; nor had
they run in love, nor walked into it, nor been led into it, nor
entrapt into it; nor had they caught it.
How then came they to be in love at last? The question may be answered
by an incident which Mr. John Davis relates in his Travels of Four
Years and a Half in the United States of America. The traveller was
making his way “faint and wearily” on foot to a place called by the
strange name of Frying Pan,—for the Americans have given all sorts of
names, except fitting ones, to the places which they have settled, or
discovered, and their Australian kinsmen seem to be following the same
absurd and inconvenient course. It will occasion, hereafter, as much
confusion as the sameness of Mahommedan proper names, in all ages and
countries, causes in the history of all Mahommedan nations. Mr. Davis
had walked till he was tired without seeing any sign of the place at
which he expected long before to have arrived. At length he met a lad
in the wilderness, and asked him, “how far, my boy, is it to Frying
Pan?” The boy replied, “you be in the Pan now.”
So it was with the Doctor and with Deborah;—they found themselves in
love, as much to their surprize as it was to the traveller when he
found himself in the Pan, and much more to their satisfaction. And
upon a little after reflection they both perceived how they came to be
so.
There's a chain of causes
Link'd to effects,—invincible necessity
That whate'er is, could not but so have been.[3]
Into such questions, however, I enter not. “_Nolo altum sapere_,” they
be matters above my capacity: the Cobler's check shall never light on
my head, “_Ne sutor ultra crepidam._”[4] Opportunity, which makes
thieves, makes lovers also, and is the greatest of all match-makers.
And when opportunity came, the Doctor,
_Por ubbidir chi sempre ubbidir debbe
La mente,_[5]
acted promptly. Accustomed as he was to weigh things of moment in the
balance, and hold it with as even and as nice a hand, as if he were
compounding a prescription on which the life of a patient might
depend, he was no shillishallier, nor ever wasted a precious minute in
pro-and-conning, when it was necessary at once to decide and act.
_Chi ha tempo, e tempo aspetta, il tempo perde._[6]
His first love, as the reader will remember, came by inoculation, and
was taken at first sight. This third and last, he used to say, came by
inoculation also; but it was a more remarkable case, for eleven years
elapsed before there was an appearance of his having taken the
infection. How it happened that an acquaintance of so many years, and
which at its very commencement had led to confidence and esteem and
familiarity and friendship, should have led no farther, may easily be
explained. Dove, when he first saw Deborah, was in love with another
person.
[Footnote 3: DRYDEN.]
[Footnote 4: THOMAS LODGE.]
[Footnote 5: PULCI.]
[Footnote 6: SERAFINO DA L'AQUILA.]
He had attended poor Lucy Bevan from the eighteenth year of her age,
when a tendency to consumption first manifested itself in her, till
the twenty-fifth, when she sunk under that slow and insidious malady.
She, who for five of those seven years, fancied herself during every
interval, or mitigation of the disease, restored to health, or in the
way of recovery, had fixed her affections upon him. And he who had
gained those affections by his kind and careful attendance upon a case
of which he soon saw cause to apprehend the fatal termination,
becoming aware of her attachment as he became more and more mournfully
convinced that no human skill could save her, found himself unawares
engaged in a second passion, as hopeless as his first. That had been
wilful; this was equally against his will and his judgment: that had
been a folly, this was an affliction. And the only consolation which
he found in it was, that the consciousness of loving and of being
beloved, which made him miserable, was a happiness to her as long as
she retained a hope of life, or was capable of feeling satisfaction in
anything relating to this world. Caroline Bowles, whom no authoress or
author has ever surpassed in truth and tenderness and sanctity of
feeling, could relate such a story as it ought to be related,—if
stories which in themselves are purely painful ought ever to be told.
I will not attempt to tell it:—for I wish not to draw upon the
reader's tears, and have none to spare for it myself.
This unhappy attachment, though he never spoke of it, being always but
too certain in what it must end, was no secret to Mr. Bacon and his
daughter: and when death had dissolved the earthly tie, it seemed to
them, as it did to himself, that his affections were wedded to the
dead. It was likely that the widower should think so, judging of his
friend's heart by his own.
Sorrow and Time will ever paint too well
The lost when hopeless, all things loved in vain.[7]
His feelings upon such a point had been expressed for him by a most
prolific and unequal writer, whose poems, more perhaps than those of
any other English author, deserve to be carefully winnowed, the grain,
which is of the best quality, being now lost amid the heap of chaff.
Lord keep me faithful to the trust
Which my dear spouse reposed in me:
To her now dead, preserve me just
In all that should performed be.
For tho' our being man and wife
Extendeth only to this life,
Yet neither life nor death should end
The being of a faithful friend.[8]
The knowledge that the Doctor's heart was thus engaged at the time of
their first acquaintance, had given to Deborah's intercourse with him
an easy frankness which otherwise might perhaps not have been felt,
and could not have been assumed; and the sister-like feeling into
which this had grown, underwent no change after Lucy Bevan's death. He
meantime saw that she was so happy with her father, and supposed her
father's happiness so much depended upon her, that to have entertained
a thought of separating them (even if the suitableness of such a
marriage in other respects had ever entered into his imagination),
would have seemed to him like a breach of friendship. Yet, if Mr.
Bacon had died before he opened his mind to the Doctor upon occasion
of Joseph Hebblethwaite's proposal, it is probable that one of the
first means of consolation which would have occurred to him, would
have been to offer the desolate daughter a home, together with his
hand; so well was he acquainted with her domestic merits, so highly
did he esteem her character, and so truly did he admire the gifts with
which Nature had endowed her,—
her sweet humour
That was as easy as a calm, and peaceful;
All her affections, like the dews on roses,
Fair as the flowers themselves, as sweet and gentle.[9]
[Footnote 7: ROBERT LANDOR.]
[Footnote 8: WITHER.]
[Footnote 9: BEAUMONT and FLETCHER.]
INTERCHAPTER XII.
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.
There is more gratitude in the world, than the worldly believe, or
than the ungrateful are capable of believing. And knowing this, I
consequently know how great a sacrifice I make in remaining incognito.
Reputation is a bubble upon the rapid stream of time; popularity, a
splash in the great pool of oblivion; fame itself but a full-blown
bladder, or at best a balloon. There is no sacrifice in declining
them; for in escaping these you escape the impertinences and the
intrusions which never fail to follow in their train. But that this
book will find some readers after the Author's own heart is certain;
they will lose something in not knowing who the individual is with
whom they would delight to form a personal, as they have already
formed a moral and intellectual friendship;
For in this world, to reckon every thing,
Pleasure to man there is none comparable
As is to read with understanding
In books of wisdom, they ben so delectable
Which sound to virtue, and ben profitable.[1]
And though my loss is not of this kind, yet it is great also, for in
each of these unknown admirers I lose the present advantage of a
well-wisher, and the possible, or even probable benefit of a future
friend.
[Footnote 1: TREVISA.]
Eugenius! Eusebius! Sophron! how gladly would ye become acquainted
with my outward man, and commune with me face to face! How gladly
would ye, Sophronia! Eusebia! Eugenia!
With how radiant a countenance and how light a step would Euphrosyne
advance to greet me! With how benign an aspect would Amanda silently
thank me for having held up a mirror in which she has unexpectedly
seen herself!
Letitia's eyes would sparkle at the sight of one whose writings had
given her new joy. Penserosa would requite me with a gentle look for
cheering her solitary hours, and moving her sometimes to a placid
smile, sometimes to quiet and pleasurable tears.
And you, Marcellus, from whom your friends, your country and your kind
have every thing to hope, how great a pleasure do I forego by
rendering it impossible for you to seek me, and commence an
acquaintance with the sure presentiment that it would ripen into
confidence and friendship!
There is another and more immediate gratification which this
resolution compels me to forego, that of gratifying those persons who,
if they knew from whom the book proceeded, would peruse it with
heightened zest for its author's sake;—old acquaintance who would
perceive in some of those secondary meanings which will be understood
only by those for whom they were intended, that though we have long
been widely separated, and probably are never again to meet in this
world, they are not forgotten; and old friends, who would take a
livelier interest in the reputation which the work obtains, than it
would now be possible for me to feel in it myself.
“And why, Sir,” says an obliging and inquisitive reader, “should you
deprive your friends and acquaintance of that pleasure, though you are
willing to sacrifice it yourself?”
“Why, Sir,—do you ask?”
Ah that is the mystery
Of this wonderful history,
And you wish that you could tell![2]
[Footnote 2: SOUTHEY.]
“A question not to be asked,” said an odder person than I shall ever
pretend to be, “is a question not to be answered.”
Nevertheless, gentle reader, in courtesy I will give sundry answers to
your interrogation, and leave you to fix upon which of them you may
think likely to be the true one.
The Author may be of opinion that his name, not being heretofore known
to the public, could be of no advantage to his book.
Or, on the other hand, if his name were already well known, he might
think the book stands in no need of it, and may safely be trusted to
its own merits. He may wish to secure for it a fairer trial than it
could otherwise obtain, and intend to profit by the unbiassed opinions
which will thus reach his ear; thinking complacently with Benedict,
that “happy are they that hear their detractions, and can put them to
mending.” In one of Metastasio's dramatic epithalamiums, Minerva says,
_l'onore, a cui
Venni proposta anch' io
Piu meritar, che conseguir desio;_
and he might say this with the Goddess of Wisdom.
He may be so circumstanced that it would be inconvenient as well as
unpleasant for him to offend certain persons,—Sir Andrew Agnewites for
example,—whose conscientious but very mischievous notions he
nevertheless thinks it his duty to oppose, when he can do so
consistently with discretion.
He may have wagers dependent upon the guesses that will be made
concerning him.
Peradventure it might injure him in his professional pursuits, were he
to be known as an author, and that he had neglected “some sober
calling for this idle trade.”
He may be a very modest man, who can muster courage enough for
publication, and yet dares not encounter any farther publicity.
Unknown, perhaps his reputation
Escapes the tax of defamation,
And wrapt in darkness, laughs unhurt,
While critic blockheads throw their dirt;
But he who madly prints his name,
Invites his foe to take sure aim.[3]
[Footnote 3: LLOYD.]
He may be so shy, that if his book were praised he would shrink from
the notoriety into which it would bring him; or so sensitive, that his
mortification would be extreme, if it were known among his neighbours
that he had been made the subject of sarcastic and contemptuous
criticism.
Or if he ever possessed this diffidence he may have got completely rid
of it in his intercourse with the world, and have acquired that easy
habit of simulation without which no one can take his degree as Master
of Arts in that great University. To hear the various opinions
concerning the book and the various surmises concerning the author,
take part in the conversation, mystify some of his acquaintance and
assist others in mystifying themselves, may be more amusing to him
than any amusement of which he could partake in his own character.
There are some secrets which it is a misery to know, and some which
the tongue itches to communicate; but this is one which it is a
pleasure to know and to keep. It gives to the possessor, _quasically_
speaking, a double existence: the exoteric person mingles as usual in
society, while the esoteric is like John the Giganticide in his coat
of darkness, or that knight who in the days of King Arthur used to
walk invisible.
The best or the worst performer at a masquerade may have less delight
in the consciousness or conceit of their own talents, than he may take
in conversing with an air of perfect unconcern about his own dear
book. It may be sport for him to hear it scornfully condemned by a
friend, and pleasure to find it thoroughly relished by an enemy.
The secrets of nature
Have not more gift in taciturnity.[4]
Peradventure he praises it himself with a sincerity for which every
reader will give him full credit; or peradventure he condemns it, for
the sake of provoking others to applaud it more warmly in defence of
their own favourable and pre-expressed opinion. Whether of these
courses, thinkest thou, gentle reader, is he most likely to pursue? I
will only tell thee that either would to him be equally easy and
equally entertaining. “Ye shall know that we may dissemble in earnest
as well as in sport, under covert and dark terms, and in learned and
apparent speeches, in short sentences and by long ambage and
circumstance of words, and finally, as well when we lie, as when we
tell truth.”[5]
[Footnote 4: TROILUS and CRESSIDA.]
[Footnote 5: PUTTENHAM.]
In any one of the supposed cases sufficient reason is shown for his
keeping, and continuing to keep his own secret.
_En nous formant, nature a ses caprices,
Divers penchans en nous elle fait observer.
Les uns, à s'exposer, trouvent mille délices;
Moi, j'en trouve à me conserver._[6]
And if there be any persons who are not satisfied with this
explanation, I say to them, in the words of Jupiter,
—STET PRO RATIONE VOLUNTAS.
[Footnote 6: MOLIERE.]
Moreover, resting my claim to the gratitude of this generation, and of
those which are to come, upon the matter of these volumes, and
disclaiming for myself all merit except that of fidelity to the
lessons of my philosopher and friend, I shall not fear to appropriate,
_mutatis mutandis_ and having thus qualified them, the proud words of
Arrian:
᾽Αλλ᾽ ἐκεῖνο ἀναγράφω, ὅτι ἐμοὶ πατρίς τἐ, καὶ γένος, καὶ ἀρχαι, οἵδε
οἱ λὁγοι εἰσι τέ—καὶ ἐπὶ τῶ δἐ οὐκ ἀπαξιῶ ἐμαυτὸν τῶν πρώτων ἐν τῇ
φωνῇ τῇ Αγγλὶκῇ, εἴπερ οῦν καὶ Δανιὴλ ὅ ἰατρὸς ἐμος τῶν έν τοῖς
φαρμακοις.
INTERCHAPTER XIII.
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.
But the question has been mooted in the literary and cerulean circles
of the metropolis, whether this book be not the joint work of two or
more authors. And this duality or plurality of persons in one
authorship has been so confidently maintained, that if it were
possible to yield upon such a point to any display of evidence and
weight of authority, I must have been argued out of my own indivisible
individuality.
_Fort bien! Je le soutiens par la grande raison
Qu'ainsi l'a fait des Dieux la puissance suprême;
Et qu'il n'est pas en moi de pouvoir dire non,
Et d'etre un autre que moi-même._[1]
[Footnote 1: MOLIERE.]
Sometimes I have been supposed to be the unknown Beaumont of some
equally unknown Fletcher,—the moiety of a Siamese duplicate; or the
third part of a Geryonite triplicity; the fourth of a quaternion of
partners, or a fifth of a Smectymnuan association. Nay, I know not
whether they have not cut me down to the dimensions of a tailor, and
dwindled me into the ninth part of an author!
Me to be thus served! me, who am an integral, to be thus split into
fractions! me, a poor unit of humanity, to be treated like a polypus
under the scissars of an experimental naturalist, or unnaturalist.
The reasons assigned in support of this pluri-personal hypothesis are,
first, the supposed discrepancy of humour and taste apparent in the
different parts of the book. Oh men ignorant of humorology! more
ignorant of psychology! and most ignorant of Pantagruelism!
Secondly, the prodigal expenditure of mottoes and quotations, which
they think could only have been supported by means of a pic-nic
contribution. Oh men whose diligence is little, whose reading less,
and whose sagacity least of all!
Yet looking at this fancy of the Public,—a creature entertained with
many fancies, beset with many tormenting spirits, and provided with
more than the four legs and two voices which were hastily attributed
to the son of Sycorax;—a creature which, though it be the fashion of
the times to seek for shelter under its gaberdine, is by this good
light, “a very shallow monster,” “a most poor credulous monster!”—I
say looking at this fancy of the Public in that temper with which it
is my wish to regard every thing, methinks I should be flattered by
it, and pleased (if any thing flattering could please me) by having it
supposed upon such grounds, that this book, like the _Satyre
Menippée_, is the composition of several _bons et gentils esprits du
tems,—dans lequel souz paroles et allegations pleines de raillerie,
ils boufonnerent, comme en riant le vray se peut dire_; and which _ils
firent, selon leurs humeurs, caprices et intelligences, en telle sorte
qu'il se peut dire qu'ils n'ont rien oublié de ce qui se peut dire
pour servir de perfection à cet ouvrage, qui bien entendu sera
grandement estimé par la posterité._[2]
[Footnote 2: CHEVERNY.]
The same thing occurred in the case of Gulliver's Travels, and in that
case Arbuthnot thought reasonably; for, said he, “if this Book were to
be decyphered merely from a view of it, without any hints, or secret
history, this would be a very natural conclusion: we should be apt to
fancy it the production of two or three persons, who want neither wit
nor humour; but who are very full of themselves, and hold the rest of
mankind in great contempt; who think sufficient regard is not paid to
their merit by those in power, for which reason they rail at them; who
have written some pieces with success and applause, and therefore
presume that whatever comes from them must be implicitly received by
the public. In this last particular they are certainly right; for the
superficial people of the Town, who have no judgment of their own, are
presently amused by a great name: tell them, by way of a secret, that
such a thing is Dr. Swift's, Mr. Pope's, or any other person's of note
and genius, and immediately it flies about like wild-fire.”[3]
[Footnote 3: GULLIVER decyphered.]
If the Book of the Doctor, instead of continuing to appear, as it
originally went forth, _simplex munditiis_, with its own pithy,
comprehensive, and well-considered title, were to have a name
constructed for it of composite initials, like the joint-stock volume
of the five puritanical ministers above referred to, once so well
known, but now preserved from utter oblivion by nothing but that
name,—_vox et præterea nihil_;—if, I say, the Book of the Doctor were
in like manner to be denominated according to one or other of the
various schemes of bibliogony which have been devised for explaining
its phenomena, the reader might be expected in good earnest to
exclaim,
Bless us! what a word on
A title page is this!
For among other varieties, the following present themselves for
choice:—
Isdis.
Roso.
Heta.
Harco.
Samro.
Grobe.
Theho.
Heneco.
Thojama.
Johofre.
Reverne.
Hetaroso.
Walaroso.
Rosogrobe.
Venarchly.
Satacoroso.
Samrothomo.
Verevfrawra.
Isdisbendis.
Harcoheneco.
Henecosaheco.
Thehojowicro.
Rosohenecoharco.
Thehojowicrogecro.
Harcohenecosaheco.
Satacoharcojotacohenecosaheco.
And thus, my Monster of the Isle, while I have listened and looked on
like a spectator at a game of blind-man's-buff, or at a blindfold
boat-race, have you, with your errabund guesses, veering to all points
of the literary compass, amused the many-humoured yet single-minded
Pantagruelist, the quotationipotent mottocrat, the entire unit, the
single and whole _homo_, who subscribes himself,
with all sincerity and good will,
Most delicate Monster,
and with just as much respect as you deserve,
not your's, or any body's humble Servant,
(saving always that he is the king's dutiful subject)
and not your's, but his own, to command,
KEWINT-HEKA-WERNER.
END OF VOL. III.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY W. NICOL, 51, PALL MALL.