with none among the middle order of tradesmen, except sometimes a
silversmith, or watchmaker; ordinary profits do not content them. Hence
they are great stock-jobbers, and the business of stock-broking is very
much in their hands. One of these Jew brokers was in a coffee-house
during the time of the mutiny in the fleet, when tidings arrived that
the sailors had seized Admiral Colpoys, and had actually hanged him. The
news (which afterwards proved to be false) thunderstruck all present. If
it were true, and so it was believed to be, all hopes of accommodation
were at an end; the mutineers could only be supprest by force, and what
force would be able to suppress them? While they were silent in such
reflections, the Jew was calculating his own loss from the effect it
would produce upon the funds, and he broke the silence by exclaiming, in
Hebrew-English, _My Gott! de stokes!_ articulated with a deep sigh, and
accompanied with a shrug of shoulders, and an elevation of eyebrows, as
emphatic as the exclamation.
England has been called the hell of horses, the purgatory of servants,
and the paradise of women: it may be added that it is the heaven of the
Jews,—alas, they have no other heaven to expect!
[15] This was publicly asserted at the time, but untruly.—TR.
[16] This is not the only instance in which the author discovers a
disposition to sneer at the Portugueze, with the same kind of
illiberality in which the English too frequently indulge themselves
against the Scotch.—TR.
LETTER LXIV.
_Infidelity.—Its Growth in England, and little Extent.—Pythagoreans.—
Thomas Tryon.—Ritson.—Pagans.—A Cock sacrificed.—Thomas Taylor._
From Jew to Infidel—an easy transition, after the example of Acosta and
Spinosa.
When the barriers of religion had been broken down by the schism, a way
was opened for every kind of impiety. Infidelity was suspected to exist
at the court of the accursed Elizabeth; it was avowed at her successor's
by Lord Herbert of Cherbury; a man unfortunate in this deadly error, but
otherwise, for his genius and valour and high feelings of honour, worthy
to have lived in a happier age and country. His brother was a religious
poet, famous in his day: had they been Spaniards, the one would have
been a hero, the other a saint; but the good seed fell among thorns, and
the thorns sprung up with it and choked it. During the great Rebellion,
a small party of the leaders were Deists; fanaticism was then the
epidemic; they made no attempt to spread their principles, and were
swept away at the Restoration, which, after it had destroyed rebellion
and fanaticism, struck at the root of liberty and morals. An open
profligacy of manners had shewn itself under the reign of the first
James; it disappeared during the subsequent struggles, when all the
stronger passions and feelings were called into action: but when once
the country felt itself settled in peace, this spirit revived, and the
court of Charles exhibited a shameless indecency, of which Europe had
seen no example since the days of the Roman emperors. Yet, perhaps, the
most shocking blasphemy of this blasphemous age is the canonization of
King Charles the Martyr; for such they style him, in mockery, as it
might seem, of martyrdom, if we did not know the impudence of adulation.
His office, for his festival is regularly celebrated, applies to this
heretical king those texts of Scripture which most pointedly allude to
the sufferings and death of Christ. A poet of that reign even dared to
call him Christ the Second!—It is not true that the prayers to the most
Holy Virgin were ever addressed in the churches to Elizabeth, as
Ribadaneyra has said: but this impiety, not less shocking, and not less
absurd, is continued to this day,—and the breviary which contains it, in
the vulgar tongue, is in every person's hands.
From the time of the Revolution, in 1688, the Deists became bolder, and
ventured to attack Christianity from the press. They did it, indeed,
covertly and with decency. The infidelity of these writers bears no
resemblance to the irreligious profligacy of Charles's courtiers, in
whom disbelief was the effect of a vicious heart. It proceeded in these
from an erring reason; their books were suppressed as soon as the
tendency was discovered, and the authors sometimes punished, so that
they did little mischief. Condorcet has mentioned some of them as the
great philosophers of England; but the French are ridiculously ignorant
of English literature, and the truth is that they have no reputation,
nobody ever thinking either of them or their works. Bolingbroke alone is
remembered for his political life, so mischievous to his own country and
to Europe; his literary fame has died a natural death,—he was equally
worthless as a writer and a man.
Voltaire infected this island as he did the continent—of all authors the
most mischievous and the most detestable. His predecessors had
disbelieved Christianity, but he hated Christ; their writings were
addressed to studious men; he wrote for the crowd, for women and boys,
addressing himself to their vilest and basest passions, corrupting their
morals that he might destroy their faith. Yet notwithstanding the
circulation of his worst works on dirty paper and in worn types by
travelling auctioneers and at country fairs; notwithstanding the atheism
with which the Scotch universities have spawned since the days of Hume;
and notwithstanding the union between infidelity and sedition during the
late war, which ruined the democratic party, it is remarkable how
trifling an effect has been produced. An attempt was made some twenty
years ago to establish a deistical place of worship; it fell to the
ground for want of support.—The Theophilanthropists never extended to
England. A few clerks and prentices will still repeat the jests of
Paine, and the blasphemies of Voltaire; and a few surgeons and
physicians will continue in their miserable physics or metaphysics to
substitute Nature in the place of God; but this is all. Even these, as
they grow older, conform to some of the many modes of worship in the
country, either from conviction, or for interest, or because, whatever
they may think of the importance of religion to themselves, they feel
that it is indispensable for their families. Judaism can be dangerous
nowhere unless where a large proportion of the people are concealed
Jews: but that infidelity, unrestrained as it is in this land of error,
should be able to produce so little evil, is indeed honourable to the
instincts of our nature, and to the truth of a religion, which,
mutilated and corrupted as it is, can still maintain its superiority.
Where every man is allowed to have a faith of his own, you will not
wonder if the most ludicrous opinions should sometimes be started, if
any opinions in so important a matter may be called ludicrous without
impiety. The strangest which I have yet heard is that of an
extraordinary man who had passed great part of his life in Spain. It was
his opinion that there is no God now, but that there would be one by and
by; for the organization of the universe, when it became perfect, would
produce a universal Mind or common Sensorium. A sailor, who published
the History of his Voyages, expresses his abhorrence of a watery grave,
because it would be out of reach of the sun, which else, he thought,
would revivify him in the shape of some plant or animal, such perhaps as
he might have had a sympathetic affection for while he lived.
Pythagoreans in diet have been rather more common than in faith. A
certain Thomas Tryon attempted to form a sect of such about a century
ago; the disciple who wrote his epitaph says that he almost worked his
body up into soul. But, though almost every folly seems to strike root
in England as in a congenial soil, this never could be naturalized. The
pulse diet of Shadrach, Meshech, and Abednego, would hardly become
popular in a country where Beef-eater is a title of honour, where the
soldiers march to battle with a song about roast-beef in their mouths,
instead of a prayer, and where the whole nation personify themselves by
the name of John the Bull.[17] This Tryon published a few books in his
lifetime: his sect, if he ever formed any, died with him—and he is so
nearly forgotten, that, when I heard him spoken of lately, a new book
upon the same principle being the topic of conversation, the rest of the
company were as ignorant of his existence as myself. The new book which
led to this is the work of Ritson, one of the most learned English
antiquarians, but of so unhappy a temper, that it is generally believed
he is deranged. We should think him possessed, from the evidence of this
essay, every page and almost every line of which teems with
blasphemy;—it is full of open and avowed hatred of Religion and of
Nature, and declarations that if there be a God, he must be a Being who
delights in malignity. God have mercy upon this poor wretched man, who
seems to find a heavier punishment in the wickedness of his own heart,
than earthly laws could inflict upon him!
The principle of abstaining from animal food is not in itself either
culpable or ridiculous, if decently discussed. _We_ know that in many
cases where indulgence is not sinful, abstinence is meritorious. There
is therefore nothing irreligious in the opinion, and certainly it is
favourable in some of its consequences to morality. But ultimately it
resolves itself into the political question, Whether the greater
population can be maintained upon animal or vegetable diet? It is to be
wished the Pythagoreans in England were numerous and philosophical
enough to carry on a series of experiments upon this subject, and upon
the physical effects of their system.
We who acknowledge fasting to be a duty at stated times, and an act of
devotion at others, and who have the example of the more rigid monastic
orders, shall think these people less absurd than their own countrymen
think them, and perhaps less than they really are, as the principles of
religion have nothing to do with their speculations. But what will you
say when I tell you, that there are also Pagans in the country, actual
worshippers of Jupiter and Juno, who believe in Orpheus instead of
Christ, Homer and Hesiod instead of the prophets, Plato and Plotinus
instead of the apostles? There is a story of an Englishman at Rome who
pulled off his hat to a statue of Jupiter, saying, "I beg, sir, if ever
you get into power again, you will remember that I paid my respects to
you in your adversity." Those whom I now speak of are more serious in
their faith. I have heard of one who sacrificed a cock to Esculapius, at
midnight, and upon a high place, in the midst of a large city.
The great apostle of the Heathen gods is one Thomas Taylor. He openly
avows his belief, saying, in a page prefixed to one of his works, which
he dedicates to the Sacred Majesty of Truth,—"Mr Thomas Taylor, the
Platonic philosopher, and the modern Plethon, consonant to that
philosophy, professes polytheism." For many years he has been labouring
indefatigably to propagate this faith by the most unexceptionable means,
that of translating the Heathen philosophers, and elucidating their most
mysterious parts. His doctrines have made little or no progress, not
because they are too nonsensical, for in these cases the more nonsense
the better, but because they are too obscure, and require too much
attention to be understood, if, indeed, they be not altogether
unintelligible. His fame, however, has reached the Continent. Early in
the French Revolution the Marquis Valedi came over to visit him: he
called at his house, dressed in white like an aspirant; fell at his feet
to worship the divine restorer of the Platonic philosophy; rose up to
put a bank note of twenty pounds in his hand as an offering, and
insisted upon being permitted to live in the house with him, that he
might enjoy every possible opportunity of profiting by his lessons. In
vain did the philosopher represent the want of room in his house, his
method of living, the inconvenience to himself and to his pupil. Nothing
would satisfy the marquis,—if there was no other room, he would have a
bed put up in the study where they were conversing:—away he went to
order it, and was immediately domesticated.—After some little time it
was discovered that he was disposed to worship the wife instead of the
husband, and here ended the Platonism. They parted, however, in
friendship. Valedi had left France to escape from a young wife, because,
he said, she had no soul: he went back to take a part in the Revolution.
Taylor saw him in the diligence as he was setting off; he was in
complete regimentals, with a fierce cocked hat,—and his last words were,
"I came here Diogenes, and I return Alexander." His fate was like that
of many wiser and better men; he perished by the guillotine, being one
of the twenty-two who suffered with Brissot.
Transmigration forms a part of this Pythagorean Platonist's creed. He
says of Julian the Apostate, "The greatness of his soul is so visible in
his writings, that we may safely believe what he asserted of himself,
that he had formerly been Alexander the Great."
[17] _Juan el Toro._ It is needless to comment upon this passage; there
may, however, be some readers who do not know that Beef-eater is a
corruption of _Buffetier_, _Buffet_ is a cup-board—or side-board
displayed. _Beau-fait._—TR.
LETTER LXV.
_Eagerness of the English to be at war with Spain._
It is amusing enough to hear these people talk of the pride of the
Spaniards, when they themselves are as proud as the Portugueze. The
Dons, as they call us, are, in their conception, very haughty, jealous
to excess, and terribly revengeful, but honourable and right rich;
therefore they like to deal with us in time of peace, and the slightest
rumour of war makes every sailor in the service think he is infallibly
about to make his fortune. So whenever the government begin by going to
war with France, it is calculated upon that war with Spain will follow.
They reserve it as a sweetener for the nation; when the people begin to
be weary of their burthens, and to suspect that no good can come of a
contest carried on without vigour, without system, and in fact without
object or means, a declaration against Spain puts them in good humour,
the seamen come from their hiding-places, and pirates swarm out from
every sea-port.
There is certainly nothing like national enmity between England and
Spain, each nation is too honourable not to do justice to the character
of the other. They speak of our weakness with a contemptuous pride,
which sometimes excites a Spaniard's shame, but more frequently his
indignation; but in their sober and settled judgment they avow that it
is the interest of England to see us strengthened rather than
humiliated, and that their wishes accord with their true policy. They
say, and say truly, that Spain and Portugal, united and in health, would
form an excellent counterpoise to the power of France; that our
peninsula seems made by Nature to be a powerful empire, and that it
would be to the advantage of Europe that it should again become so. Yet
upon the slightest pretext for quarrelling with us all this would be
forgotten; the prospect of plunder would intoxicate the people, the
government would do any thing to gratify the sailors, and the
buccaneering would begin again. They forget that in proportion as they
weaken Spain they derange still more the balance of power: they forget
that by cutting off the communication between the two countries, they
compel us to use our own manufactures instead of theirs, thus teaching
us to become independent of them, and doing for us what we ought to do
for ourselves; and they forget also that war forces us to become again a
military nation, and disciplines a navy, which only wants discipline to
contend once more for the sovereignty of the seas.
After all, if a balance were struck, England would find little reason
for triumph. Our gunboats have injured the commerce of England more than
the navy of England can hurt the trade of Spain. A galleon in the course
of a seven years' war is but a poor compensation for Gibraltar seven
years blockaded, and the straights lined with armed vessels, like a
defile, which came out like greyhounds upon every merchant ship, and
insulted and endangered their three-deckers.
But never were a people so easily duped. They believe one and all that
their last war with us was exceedingly glorious, because, by the
cowardice of some of our captains and the insubordination of others, our
fleet suffered that unfortunate defeat off Cape St Vincent. They do not
remember how we beat their famous Nelson from Teneriffe, where he left a
limb behind him as a relic to show that he had been there. They forget
their disgraceful repulse at Ferrol, and their still more disgraceful
attempt upon Cadiz, when, in spite of the governor's admirable letter,
which stated the situation of the town, and in spite of the destructive
consequences of victory to themselves, if they had been victorious,
their troops were actually embarked in the boats for the purpose of
inflicting the curse of war upon a people then suffering pestilence and
famine. England ought to regard it as the happiest event of the war that
the commander recalled his orders in time, either for shame or humanity,
or more truly under the impulse of a merciful Providence; for had the
disease once found way into that fleet, powerful as it was, all
discipline would have been at an end; no port could have refused
admittance to such an armament, and the pestilence would have been
spread from one extremity of the Mediterranean to the other, and to
England herself at last.
They wonder that no expedition was sent against our American
possessions; not in the least doubting that Mexico and Peru would have
fallen into their hands—as if we had not sent back their Drake and their
Raleigh with shame, and as if the age of their Raleighs and Drakes was
not over! After the overthrow of Dumouriez and his party in France,
Miranda came over to England, hoping to be employed in some such wise
project against his native country. As quacks of every kind, political
as well as physical, flourish in this island, it is surprising that his
tales were not listened to as well as those of the French emigrants; for
the ignorance of this nation with respect to the history and present
state of our colonies is profound. They do not know that after having
destroyed the bloody and execrable idolatry of the American Indians, we
imparted to them our arts, our language, and our religion; and that the
spiritual conquests of our missionaries were not less rapid, nor less
extraordinary, than the victories of Cortes and Pizarro. In the
sixteenth century, the language, history, and customs of Mexico and Peru
were elucidated in books printed in the country, and now, in the
nineteenth, nothing issues from the press in Jamaica and the other
English islands, except a few miserable newspapers; every number of
which contains something disgraceful to the English character and to
human nature. I have seen some of these precious publications. They
abound with notices which show with what propriety these islanders cry
out against the cruelty of the Spanish conquerors. Pompey, or Oroonoko,
or Quashee, (for these heretics never baptise their slaves!) is
advertised as a run-away: he is to be known by the brand of a hot iron
upon his breast or forehead, the scars of the whip, and perhaps the mark
of his fetters;—and it is sometimes added that he is supposed to be
harboured by his wife—harboured by his wife! This phrase alone is
sufficient for national infamy.
It amuses me to hear these people talk of their West Indian possessions.
England has as great an idea of her own importance and power, as a
one-eyed man has of the magnitude of his nose, when the candle is on his
blind side.
LETTER LXVI.
_Excursion to Greenwich.—Watermen.—Patent Shot Tower.—Albion
Mills.—Essex Marshes._
The English say that their palaces are like hospitals, and their
hospitals like palaces; and the exterior of St James's and of Greenwich
justifies the saying. I have seen this magnificent asylum for old
seamen, which is so justly the boast of the nation.
As it was my wish to see the whole course of the river through the
metropolis, I breakfasted at the west end of the town with W. who had
promised to accompany me, and we took boat at Westminster bridge. From
no part of the river are so many fine objects to be seen as from this.
On one side are the groves and palace of the Primate at Lambeth; on the
other, the residence of the Speaker, which is now repairing in
collegiate style; the abbey; and Westminster-Hall, the great court of
justice, whose prodigious size and greater antiquity render it an object
not less venerable and impressive than the minster. The boats which ply
upon the Thames are admirably constructed; long, light, and sharp, they
almost fly through the water. They are numbered and registered; the
watermen wear a badge, and have a particular costume—any deviation from
the ordinary English dress is an improvement;—the fares, like those of
the hackney coachmen, are regulated by law, and it is the cheapest as
well as the pleasantest mode of conveyance. On Sundays they are
forbidden to ply[18]—one of the stupid and superstitious interdictions
this of Calvinism—for Sunday is the very day on which they would find
the most employ. They sit idly upon the bench before the alehouse-door
by the water-side, cursing the regulation which keeps them idle; and the
unlucky person whose way lies along the river must toil through dust and
heat, a double distance perhaps, because forsooth no manner of work is
to be done upon the sabbath day.
The banks of the river are not made ornamental to the city: a few
streets come down to it at right angles, but none are built parallel
with the water. The first remarkable object below the bridge is a tower
constructed for making shot by a new process: the history of its
invention is curious. About five-and-twenty years ago a Mr Watts was
engaged in this trade: his wife dreamt that she saw him making shot in a
new manner, and related her dream to him: he thought it worth some
attention, made the experiment, and obtained a patent for the invention,
which he afterwards sold for ten thousand pounds. A range of buildings
called the Adelphi, which are the handsomest in London, because they are
faced with a composition having the appearance of stone,—Somerset House,
a magnificent public building, of which the work goes on so slowly, that
one half the edifice will in the natural course of decay become a ruin
before the other is finished,—and the gardens of the Temple, one of the
law-colleges or inns of court as they are called, give some interest to
this part of the river: the shores are every where choaked with barges,
of which a great number are laden with earth-coal.