There is nothing that more betrays a base, ungenerous spirit than the
giving of secret stabs to a man's reputation. Lampoons and satires, that
are written with wit and spirit, are like poisoned darts, which not only
inflict a wound, but make it incurable. For this reason I am very much
troubled when I see the talents' of humour and ridicule in the possession
of an ill-natured man. There cannot be a greater gratification to a
barbarous and inhuman wit, than to stir up sorrow in the heart of a
private person, to raise uneasiness among near relations, and to expose
whole families to derision, at the same time that he remains unseen and
undiscovered. If, besides the accomplishments of being witty and ill-
natured, a man is vicious into the bargain, he is one of the most
mischievous creatures that can enter into a civil society. His satire
will then chiefly fall upon those who ought to be the most exempt from
it. Virtue, merit, and everything that is praiseworthy, will be made the
subject of ridicule and buffoonery. It is impossible to enumerate the
evils which arise from these arrows that fly in the dark; and I know no
other excuse that is or can be made for them, than that the wounds they
give are only imaginary, and produce nothing more than a secret shame or
sorrow in the mind of the suffering person. It must indeed be confessed
that a lampoon or a satire do not carry in them robbery or murder; but at
the same time, how many are there that would not rather lose a
considerable sum of money, or even life itself, than be set up as a mark
of infamy and derision? And in this case a man should consider that an
injury is not to be measured by the notions of him that gives, but of him
that receives it.
Those who can put the best countenance upon the outrages of this nature
which are offered them, are not without their secret anguish. I have
often observed a passage in Socrates's behaviour at his death in a light
wherein none of the critics have considered it. That excellent man
entertaining his friends a little before he drank the bowl of poison,
with a discourse on the immortality of the soul, at his entering upon it
says that he does not believe any the most comic genius can censure him
for talking upon such a subject at such at a time. This passage, I
think, evidently glances upon Aristophanes, who writ a comedy on purpose
to ridicule the discourses of that divine philosopher. It has been
observed by many writers that Socrates was so little moved at this piece
of buffoonery, that he was several times present at its being acted upon
the stage, and never expressed the least resentment of it. But, with
submission, I think the remark I have here made shows us that this
unworthy treatment made an impression upon his mind, though he had been
too wise to discover it.
When Julius Caesar was lampooned by Catullus, he invited him to a supper,
and treated him with such a generous civility, that he made the poet his
friend ever after. Cardinal Mazarine gave the same kind of treatment to
the learned Quillet, who had reflected upon his eminence in a famous
Latin poem. The cardinal sent for him, and, after some kind
expostulations upon what he had written, assured him of his esteem, and
dismissed him with a promise of the next good abbey that should fall,
which he accordingly conferred upon him in a few months after. This had
so good an effect upon the author, that he dedicated the second edition
of his book to the cardinal, after having expunged the passages which had
given him offence.
Sextus Quintus was not of so generous and forgiving a temper. Upon his
being made Pope, the statue of Pasquin was one night dressed in a very
dirty shirt, with an excuse written under it, that he was forced to wear
foul linen because his laundress was made a princess. This was a
reflection upon the Pope's sister, who, before the promotion of her
brother, was in those mean circumstances that Pasquin represented her. As
this pasquinade made a great noise in Rome, the Pope offered a
considerable sum of money to any person that should discover the author
of it. The author, relying upon his holiness's generosity, as also on
some private overtures which he had received from him, made the discovery
himself; upon which the Pope gave him the reward he had promised, but, at
the same time, to disable the satirist for the future, ordered his tongue
to be cut out, and both his hands to be chopped off. Aretine is too
trite an instance. Every one knows that all the kings of Europe were his
tributaries. Nay, there is a letter of his extant, in which he makes his
boast that he had laid the Sophi of Persia under contribution.
Though in the various examples which I have here drawn together, these
several great men behaved themselves very differently towards the wits of
the age who had reproached them, they all of them plainly showed that
they were very sensible of their reproaches, and consequently that they
received them as very great injuries. For my own part, I would never
trust a man that I thought was capable of giving these secret wounds; and
cannot but think that he would hurt the person, whose reputation he thus
assaults, in his body or in his fortune, could he do it with the same
security. There is indeed something very barbarous and inhuman in the
ordinary scribblers of lampoons. An innocent young lady shall be exposed
for an unhappy feature; a father of a family turned to ridicule for some
domestic calamity; a wife be made uneasy all her life for a
misinterpreted word or action; nay, a good, a temperate, and a just man
shall be put out of countenance by the representation of those qualities
that should do him honour; so pernicious a thing is wit when it is not
tempered with virtue and humanity.
I have indeed heard of heedless, inconsiderate writers that, without any
malice, have sacrificed the reputation of their friends and acquaintance
to a certain levity of temper, and a silly ambition of distinguishing
themselves by a spirit of raillery and satire; as if it were not
infinitely more honourable to be a good-natured man than a wit. Where
there is this little petulant humour in an author, he is often very
mischievous without designing to be so. For which reason I always lay it
down as a rule that an indiscreet man is more hurtful than an ill-natured
one; for as the one will only attack his enemies, and those he wishes ill
to, the other injures indifferently both friends and foes. I cannot
forbear, on this occasion, transcribing a fable out of Sir Roger
L'Estrange, which accidentally lies before me. A company of waggish boys
were watching of frogs at the side of a pond, and still as any of them
put up their heads, they would be pelting them down again with stones.
"Children," says one of the frogs, "you never consider that though this
be play to you, 'tis death to us."
As this week is in a manner set apart and dedicated to serious thoughts,
I shall indulge myself in such speculations as may not be altogether
unsuitable to the season; and in the meantime, as the settling in
ourselves a charitable frame of mind is a work very proper for the time,
I have in this paper endeavoured to expose that particular breach of
charity which has been generally overlooked by divines, because they are
but few who can be guilty of it.