A CONVERSATION WITH MISS GRAVEAIRS.
_Operi suscepto inserviendum fuit_; so Jacobus Mycillus pleadeth for
himself in his translation of Lucian's Dialogues, and so do I; I must
and will perform my task.
BURTON.
“It does not signify, Miss Graveairs! you may flirt your fan, and
overcloud that white forehead with a frown; but I assure you the last
chapter could not be dispensed with. The Doctor used to relate the
story himself to his friends; and often alluded to it as the most
wholesome lesson he had ever received. My dear Miss Graveairs, let not
those intelligent eyes shoot forth in anger arrows which ought to be
reserved for other execution. You ought not to be displeased; ought
not, must not, can not, shall not!”
“But you ought not to write such things, Mr. Author; really you ought
not. What can be more unpleasant than to be reading aloud, and come
unexpectedly upon something so strange that you know not whether to
proceed or make a full stop, nor where to look, nor what to do? It is
too bad of you, Sir, let me tell you! and if I come to any thing more
of the kind, I must discard the book. It is provoking enough to meet
with so much that one does not understand; but to meet with any thing
that one ought not to understand is worse. Sir, it is not to be
forgiven; and I tell you again that if I meet with any thing more of
the same kind I must discard the book.”
“Nay, dear Miss Graveairs!”
“I must Mr. Author; positively I must.”
“Nay, dear Miss Graveairs! Banish Tristram Shandy! banish Smollett,
banish Fielding, banish Richardson! But for the Doctor,—sweet Doctor
Dove, kind Doctor Dove, true Doctor Dove, banish not him! Banish
Doctor Dove, and banish all the world!—Come, come, good sense is
getting the better of preciseness. That stitch in the forehead will
not long keep the brows in their constrained position; and the
incipient smile which already brings out that dimple, is the natural
and proper feeling.”
“Well, you are a strange man!”
“Call me a rare one, and I shall be satisfied. ‘O rare Ben Jonson’ you
know was epitaph enough for one of our greatest men.”
“But seriously why should you put any thing in your book, which if not
actually exceptionable exposes it at least to that sort of censure,
which is most injurious?”
“That question, dear Madam, is so sensibly proposed that I will answer
it with all serious sincerity. There is nothing exceptionable in these
volumes; ‘Certes,’ as Euphues Lily has said, ‘I think there be more
speeches here which for gravity will mislike the foolish, than
unseemly terms which for vanity, may offend the wise.’ There is
nothing in them that I might not have read to Queen Elizabeth if it
had been my fortune to have lived in her golden days; nothing that can
by possibility taint the imagination, or strengthen one evil
propensity, or weaken one virtuous principle. But they are not
composed like a forgotten novel of Dr. Towers's to be read aloud in
dissenting families instead of a moral essay, or a sermon; nor like
Mr. Kett's Emily to complete the education of young ladies by
supplying them with an abstract of universal knowledge. Neither have
they any pretensions to be placed on the same shelf with Cœlebs. But
the book is a moral book; its tendency is good, and the morality is
both the wholesomer and pleasanter because it is not administered as
physic, but given as food. I don't like morality in doses.”
“But why, my good Mr. Author, why lay yourself open to censure?”
“Miss Graveairs, nothing excellent was ever produced by any author who
had the fear of censure before his eyes. He who would please posterity
must please himself by chusing his own course. There are only two
classes of writers who dare do this, the best and the worst,—for this
is one of the many cases in which extremes meet. The mediocres in
every grade aim at pleasing the public, and conform themselves to the
fashion of their age whatever it may be.”
My Doctor, like the Matthew Henderson of Burns, was a queer man, and
in that respect I his friend and biographer, humbly resemble him. The
resemblance may be natural, or I may have caught it,—this I pretend
not to decide, but so it is. Perhaps it might have been well if I had
resolved upon a farther designation of Chapters, and distributed them
into Masculine and Feminine; or into the threefold arrangement of
virile, feminile and puerile; considering the book as a family
breakfast, where there should be meat for men, muffins for women, and
milk for children. Or I might have adopted the device of the
Porteusian Society, and marked my Chapters as they (very usefully)
have done the Bible, pointing out what should be read by all persons
for edification, and what may be passed over by the many, as
instructive or intelligible only to the learned.
Here however the book is,—
An orchard bearing several trees,
And fruits of several taste.[1]
Ladies and Gentlemen, my gentle Readers, one of our liveliest and most
popular old Dramatists knew so well the capricious humour of an
audience that he made his Prologue say
He'd rather dress upon a Triumph-Day
My Lord Mayor's Feast, and make them sauces too,
Sauce for each several Mouth; nay further go,
He'd rather build up those invincible Pies
And Castle-Custards that affright all eyes,—
Nay, eat them all and their artillery,—
Than dress for such a curious company,
One single dish.
But I, gentle Readers, have set before you a table liberally spread.
It is not expected or desired that every dish should suit the palate
of all the guests, but every guest will find something that he likes.
You, Madam, may prefer those boiled chicken, with stewed celery,—or a
little of that fricandeau;—the Lady opposite will send her plate for
some pigeon pye. The Doctor has an eye upon the venison—and so I see
has the Captain.—Sir, I have not forgotten that this is one of your
fast days—I am glad therefore that the turbot proves so good,—and that
dish has been prepared for you. Sir John, there is garlic in the
fricassee. The Hungarian wine has a bitterness which every body may
not like; the Ladies will probably prefer Malmsey. The Captain sticks
to his Port, and the Doctor to his Madeira.—Sir John I shall be happy
to take Sauterne with you.—There is a splendid trifle for the young
folks, which some of the elders also will not despise:—and I only wish
my garden could have furnished a better dessert; but considering our
climate, it is not amiss.—Is not this entertainment better than if I
had set you all down to a round of beef and turnips?
If any thing be set to a wrong taste
'Tis not the meat there, but the mouth's displaced;
Remove but that sick palate all is well.[2]
[Footnote 1: MIDDLETON and ROWLEY'S Spanish Gipsey.]
[Footnote 2: BEN JONSON.]
Like such a dinner I would have my book,—something for every body's
taste and all good of its kind.
It ought also to resemble the personage of whom it treats; and
If ony whiggish whingin sot
To blame the Doctor dare, man;
May dool and sorrow be his lot
For the Doctor was a rare man![3]
[Footnote 3: BURNS.]
Some whiggish sots I dare say will blame him, and whiggish sots they
will be who do!
“_En un mot; mes amis, je n'ai entrepris de vous contenter tous en
general, ainsi uns et autres en particulier; et par special,
moymême._”[4]
[Footnote 4: PASQUIER.]