Horace.
Next to the phials which contain the lost reputation of authors are some which hold the decayed fame of orators; those who, in their first session of parliament, cause wonder by their eloquence; and in the second, by their silence. I also sawthe names of some orators of a lower kind; those statesmen in the open air, who distribute strange noises to any who will listen, and undertake to redress the hunger and raggedness of their hearers.
I observed on each of these phials containing the past renown of exploded men the name of the merit with which he was once supposed to be endowed, and under it the true quality, which had been erroneously construed into that merit. Thus, on the phial of one of these orators to the crowd, I read "Eloquence," as his claim to greatness; and this word, underneath, was translated into "Impudence," which was also the interpretation of many other excellencies; and I was surprised to find in how many different ways a man may be great by this single endowment. He who has not this inspiration imagines that confidence must denote the possession of something to rely upon, and ignorantly supposes, that a man cannot be assured of his own eloquence without a subject to speak upon, and words to utter; while those who are endued with this great quality lie under no such necessities, but are intrepid without any means of confidence, except their own inward vigour and alacrity.
I learned here, that this gift of impudence had been wit and humour, argument, eloquence, industry, courage, zeal for the public good, and, indeed, any other virtue convenient to the owner. However, the renown by impudence never lasts long,which seems to be the only defect of that attribute.
Having examined these phials with many reflections on the perishable nature of fame, I walked forth, and soon reached a building, which contains the good intentions that have never been executed. There is a vast accumulation of these virtuous endeavours; and I found amongst them many actions so noble, that I greatly regretted they should have been put in practice only so far as to be thought of. Some persons appeared to have entertained only two or three of these excellent projects during their lives; others had been incessantly occupied in schemes of future goodness. I found a great number of resolutions to reform voluptuous habits: many had determined to repeat a beloved vice no more after a certain time; some deferred their abstinence till the following year; and others declared that it should begin the next day. This contrivance, of beginning virtue at an appointed time, seemed to have been much practised: one man, in the month of April, had resolved that he would be good after the first of June, retaining a license for the intervening weeks.
It is a precept of Lord Bacon's, that those who are endeavouring to assume an authority over their bad habits should contrive that what they undertake at one time be neither too easy nor too difficult; since, by attempting too little, they make no progress, and by aiming at too much,they fail altogether, and are discouraged. This plan seems plausible; but I here found innumerable instances in which it had been useless: nor from these examples was I able to form any opinion as to what quantity of reformation is the most likely to be endured at one time. Some confident men had been very peremptory with their faults, and resolved to dismiss them altogether; the consequence of which was, that these faults adhered to each other, and all remained where they were. Others had been content to begin with prohibiting one little enjoyment at a time, and had found the same disobedience; while others, who had tried the moderate amendment prescribed by Lord Bacon, had succeeded no better.
There were several who, after the frequent failing of a resolution, had desisted in despair, and for the rest of their lives permitted the error to remain unmolested; but many had continued to repeat the same unsuccessful effort, and as soon as one resolution gave way, had supplied its place with another, exactly similar, so as to equal the perseverance with which the spider renews his web whenever it is swept away.
A man, who lived principally in bed, had every day entered into a determination to rise at six; one, whose health suffered by the achievements of his appetite at meals, had employed the morning of every day in a resolution to dine sparingly;a third, while he was zealously dispersing a good fortune, had not passed a day without resolving to commence a rigid scrutiny into his accounts, and to have a personal acquaintance with every shilling he possessed. A man who, by an angry temper, put both his family and himself to great inconvenience, had undertaken from that moment to be the most peaceable man alive: this resolution had wanted repairing several times every day.
Men are apt to commit the error of believing, that a resolution, once fixed in the mind, will remain there till they authorise it to leave its post. Another mistake is, the supposing that, because a certain bad inclination is not troublesome at the present moment, it can never return. Some animals have a property which naturalists call hybernation (they remain a part of every year without apparent life); and many persons do not know that their faults are amongst the creatures which undergo this intermission. From ignorance of this part of natural history, they believe a vice to be dead, and exult at having destroyed it, when it is only taking this natural rest, from which it is to have new vigour. The bad success of these persons, who all their lives were about to be excellent men, made me reflect on the deficiency of the ancient and celebrated injunction, "Know thyself," which "e cœlo descendit," and was delivered and received as comprehending allwisdom and virtue; whereas, to know our faults, and to abstain from them, are two achievements so obviously distinct, that I wonder how they could have been confounded.
It has been said, that hell is paved with good intentions; by which all efficacy seems to be denied to these unsuccessful attempts. This judgment appears to me a little too severe; and I would allow some merit to the good that we do in prospect. The chief praise, no doubt, must be given to the inexorable man who is actually virtuous; but he who makes an effort, though in vain, must, I think, be acknowledged superior to the numbers who continue to sin with perfect resignation. Moralists usually agree, that he who intends to do ill is culpable, though he should not accomplish his schemes; and I think, therefore, it is but just, that he who designs to do good, though without success, should be allowed some portion of praise.
Pursuing my journey, I arrived at a valley, in which I saw a crowd of seeming men and women, dressed in fantastic habits, and walking up and down: but one whom I there met informed me, that this was the Valley of Lost Fashions, and that the persons I saw were only dresses which had formerly reigned. I walked down into the valley; and then perceived that these dresses had no person to guide and conduct them: yet they stood upright, as if the wearers had been within, andmoved about as gracefully as they could have done under their command. The several parts of the same suit adhered together, each occupying its proper place; and the hat hovered over, as if supported by a head. These dresses were of both sexes; and I saw every variety of apparel that has inhabited England. The dresses of the different ages were mingled together: there was the scanty and simple concealment of savage times, and the several sorts of gorgeous and cumbersome robes formerly worn in our country; in looking at which, I wondered how people could ever have been induced to involve themselves in such impediments.
I here found, not only the dresses once in fashion, but also the gestures which have been practised in former ages; for every suit of clothes retained the manner and behaviour to which it had been accustomed. There were some ceremonious clothes, which were incessantly paying homage to others, and, in particular, made very low bows to every female dress which they met. Some moved with a solemn sedate pace, and others were very lively. I observed several ladies' gowns that had a great deal of vivacity.
All these dresses conducted themselves so naturally, that I could hardly be satisfied there was not a prompter within each. Seeing, therefore, an embroidered petticoat, which walked in a very stately manner, I ventured to raise it, in order to disclose whatever might be there. Tothis inquiry it made no resistance; and I found that it had none of those secrets to keep, which are usually entrusted to a petticoat.
I observed a gold-headed cane walking up and down with a great deal of medical dignity and learning, and above this, at about six feet from the ground, there floated in the air a redundant wig, as being part of the same physician.
I was here convinced how many of the estimable qualities of human nature are comprehended in dress and gesture; for when I saw these suits of clothes walking about, each with its own grace and manner, I could not avoid feeling some respect for them as human beings. When the splendid apparel of a nobleman in Queen Elizabeth's time stalked past me with a slow solemn step, I admired its profound reflection, and political abilities; and I was several times inclined to laugh at the wit of a lively coat and waistcoat.
I think, in our estimation of those suits of clothes which discharge all the duties of this life with propriety and applause, we do not sufficiently acknowledge where the true merit lies. Lord Burleigh was so sensible of the rights of dress, that in throwing off his gown, he frequently said to it, "Lie there, Lord Treasurer," as being the real officer of state.
As I was walking about amongst these actors, I was suddenly startled by a formidable oath, which was pronounced near me; and I turnedround to see which of the garments was the profane one. I found, however, that they were not capable of such an accomplishment as swearing. Another oath, still more copious than the first, was uttered close to me, where there was no suit of clothes to be seen; and I then found that these imprecations were preserved here amongst the exploded fashions. I soon heard every variety of them uttered without anger, and, as it seemed, merely for the purpose of adding grace or vigour to the sentiments which they had accompanied. There were some poetical oaths, which seemed to come from a swearer of imagination, and others very concise and simple. Many were so obscure, that I found it impossible to discover their meaning; while some were intelligible enough. As swearing is now a dead language, we could not, without considerable study, become thoroughly versed in that literature. But I think it might admit of dispute, whether the suppression of oaths has been a wise or useful measure, since they certainly added great facility to conversation. It is known that, in the days of oaths, there were many who swore with much invention, but had little ability to converse in any other style; so that we may suppose there are persons who, by the prohibition of the only language they can speak, are excluded from all conversation, and must distinguish themselves by silence. Our ancestors applied oaths to a great variety of purposes:to enforce an argument, or supply the want of one; to evince sincerity; to ratify a sentiment; to gain time for preparation: they used them, also, as invective, wit, fancy, repartee, and, indeed, as the representatives of every beauty of speech; so that, manifestly, a great loss and barrenness must have accrued to our conversation from this supposed refinement.
But in favour of this art, we may allege an antiquity far beyond our ancestors, since we find specimens of it in the oldest writings. The orators have always used it in great abundance: it was successfully cultivated both by Demosthenes and Cicero; and it is to be observed, that it remained in the modern oratory of England after it had been exploded in conversation. In both Houses of Parliament, a well-timed "Good God!" has been frequently known to have great force, and sometimes was the chief argument that a speech contained.
Whilst I was wandering amongst the departed garments, having escaped from the oaths, I heard a voice near me exclaim, "Whatever is, is;" and very soon was added, "It is impossible for the same thing to be, and not to be." I could not conjecture whence this important intelligence came, till I met with a person, who informed me, that the maxims which have passed for truths amongst men, as soon as they are exploded, arrive in the moon, and are associated with the otherdismissed fashions. In what I had just heard, I recognised the innate ideas with which philosophers formerly stored the mind of an infant, supposing that, for our safety through life, we are born fully instructed, that "Whatever is, is," and provided, also, with some other truths equally useful.
I afterwards heard many other maxims, which once were undisputed: for in this Valley of Lost Fashions the air was filled with truths, religious, moral, political, and physical; and, finding here so much of the learning of our ancestors, I trembled for the fate of many things which are now undoubtedly true amongst us: for the reason of man is certainly as variable as his dress; and that secret power, which we call fashion, regulates opinions, as it does skirts and collars. Different doctrines come and go in succession, just as one form of apparel supplants another: a particular kind of dress is dismissed, not for any demerit, but because it has been worn for a certain time. By the same law of variety, that which has been true for several years is therefore not entitled to be true any longer; and as those who abandon a particular dress can assign no reason for it, except the example of others, so, when an opinion is universally renounced in any country, the chief part of the nation know not why they now consider it false, nor why they before believed it to be true. There are, indeed, some stubborn enemies of fashion, both in dress andreason: one man prides himself on fidelity to notions which all others have deserted, and disdains to think any thing which was not thought a century ago; another, of the same character, but differently manifested, continues to dress himself with equal firmness, resists all innovation in the brim of his hat, and never deviates in his coat or his gaiters from the example set him by his father.
It has been an eager study, with some writers, to trace the progress and succession of opinions in past ages, and to explain how one prevalent notion has been naturally derived from another; but in such speculations there is usually this imperfection, that they stop at the present time, instead of proceeding to deduce future opinions from the present. For it is singular, that men who have sagacity to demonstrate that the maxims prevalent in one age must unavoidably have followed those in the preceding, yet from our present doctrines can derive no opinions at all for the future; and can no more invent maxims to be entertained five years hence, than a milliner can invent dresses to be worn at that time.
In this assembly of the deceased fashions I found many ancient and venerable maxims, which served our ancestors for truth; and some of them, I thought, might have been retained amongst us with advantage, though many had certainly been dismissed with justice. I began to think ofcatching a few of these past truths which I most approved of, and turning them out in England; but was informed that they would immediately return to the moon. Besides the ancient truths, I found here some which had been born and had died within my own memory, and some which had been truths one year, and delusions the next.
The noise of these contending opinions, each as positive as its antagonist, each enjoying its short popularity, and thus succeeding and undermining each other like statesmen, could not fail to make me consider with regret how very little of real durable truth there is in the world. However, we have this consolation, that if truth is not to be found on the earth, its place is amply supplied by belief, which is an excellent substitute for it.
Belief has, indeed, many advantages over truth; it serves equally well to stop inquiry, and satisfy the curiosity which harasses mankind; and it may be attained without the labour and search by which truth must be pursued; for it happens fortunately that it is as easy to believe as it is difficult to know. He, too, who follows truth with a life of meditation, can seldom arrive at any firm conviction, but is continually perplexed by doubt; while the resolute believer is not disturbed in his tenets by the slightest distrust. Besides this, the truths that we can reach are but few, and the greatest part of nature is inaccessible to inquiry; while the knowledge of him who believes is unlimited: hefinds nothing obscure, but is admitted into all the secrets of the universe. This, too, must be considered, that he who, after great labour, fancies himself possessed of a truth, may, upon further discoveries, see his hypothesis taken from him; but the believer, who has a resolute mind, can by no art or reasoning be deprived of his belief. It is also a great evil of truth, that we must receive it as it is by nature, and not as we would wish it to be. On the other hand, we have it in our power to believe whatever we desire; and in our plans of the universe may take care to admit nothing to our disadvantage. This flexible nature of belief is well understood by those reasoners who, when they would refute a doctrine, consider it sufficient if they prove it to be pernicious; whence, without hesitation, it is to be false. For the reasons I have assigned, my advice to all persons is, that they leave the perplexities of truth, and resort to belief, as of much greater ease, certainty, and serenity.
The place I visited after the territory of fashions, was a house preserving the female characters that have been lost. They are kept in bottles; and upon the label of each is recorded the accident or temptation under which the character was let go; and I found much amusement in this enumeration of the disasters incident to the female reputation. One character had entered the bottle by surprise, another by perseverance; society hadbeen fatal to some, and solitude to others; some perished by flattery, others by argument; here I saw a character lost by thoughtlessness, and there by contemplation.
While I was reading the narratives of these accidents I observed a lady whom I knew to have incurred this important loss, in search of the bottle that contained her own reputation, which having found, she seized it very eagerly, when immediately it dropped from her hands and was broken. The character flowed out, resembling quicksilver in appearance, and the lady in great anxiety endeavoured to collect it, but in vain, for it escaped with the utmost agility whenever she touched it.
From this house I proceeded to another, filled also with bottles, containing the lost popularity of statesmen. I here found a well known politician who has occupied a place in the English cabinet. He told me in confidence that he had been sent to the moon to regain the lost popularity of his party. It had escaped from them, he said, in a very singular manner, and without any misconduct of theirs. He soon found the bottle he was in search of; but these bottles being fixed to their shelves he had contrived a plan for catching and detaining the popularity, which he had been told would issue forth as soon as the cork should be removed. He produced a paper bag, composed of an act of parliament, which had beendesigned for endless popularity, supposing that if he could once enclose the lost popularity of himself and his colleagues in that bag he could carry it back without any danger of losing it on the road.
Just as he was about to release the prize, and with much preparation was holding his bag ready to catch it, another statesman of a different party entered the room, and advancing to the spot produced a bag, with which he also stood ready to dispute the possession of this valuable popularity. His bag also was made out of a parliamentary bill, but it had not yet been passed, and he seemed to be confident that it would be strong enough to secure the captive.
But the first invader of the bottle seeing this new competitor desisted from his undertaking, and began to remonstrate against the interference. He said the popularity, that he was going to regain, belonged to himself and his colleagues, and no other party could have a just claim to it; their rivals, he added, ought to invent a popularity for themselves, and not attempt to steal that which others had made by their own industry. He affirmed, too, that the bag which his adversary had brought was made of paper stolen out of his desk.
To this the second politician answered, that the popularity in this bottle was not the property of one party rather than another, but the prize ofany who could gain possession of it. "You and your colleagues," said he, "have devised a convenient maxim, that whoever obtains the good will of the public is usurping something that belongs to you. You have bespoken for yourselves every benefit to the country that can be thought of, and any other man who attempts to do good is encroaching on your rights. You declare yourselves the authors of every useful law that any man may hereafter propose; you are the sole proprietors of the people's applause, and nobody can acquire approbation except by defrauding you."
In the midst of this dispute, a third statesman, armed with a bag, came to claim the contents of the bottle. He derided the pretensions of the other two, saying that no party could have popularity by just means except himself and his friends, and whatever portion other men might enjoy they must have gained by deceit. However, he was convinced that the bags of the other two would be incapable of holding the popularity, and that his own would succeed, for he said it was made out of some admirable laws. I looked at his bag, and saw it was composed of blank paper, for the laws he spoke of were yet to come, being only in his intentions, and the paper kept vacant for them.
After some farther dispute it seemed impossible that these claims to the bottle should be settled by negotiation; and the only agreement that the three statesmen could arrive at was, that the popularitybeing let loose should remain in the possession of any one of the three to whom it should be allotted by that kind of justice called a scramble, which is a mode of arbitration very useful and decisive in adjusting many political contests.
The three politicians, therefore, standing watchfully with their bags, the cork was drawn, when a loud shout of English huzzas rushed from the bottle. This was the popularity; and the first of the three statesmen lost no time in placing his bag over the mouth of the bottle, when it was instantly torn into a thousand pieces by the wild shout. The second politician had placed his bag immediately over that of his rival, to provide for this accident; but the precious huzzas escaped through it with the same ease as through the first, and left it a similar ruin. The third statesman laughed triumphantly, and held out his bag with great confidence; but not a single cry would enter it, and the whole clamour flew through an open window, and was heard gradually becoming more distant. The three baffled statesmen ran to the window, and listened eagerly to the retiring uproar, imagining sometimes that it approached them again. When at length it had quite died away, they began to dispute in which bag it ought to have been enclosed, and continued the debate for some time with much argument and anger.
As I walked along, looking for new adventures,I was surprised by the sight of a church, with a parsonage house near to it, the scene having an appearance entirely English. I approached the house, wondering at so exact a copy of things in my own world; but when I had come close to it, I was still more astonished to see the house shrink suddenly, and convert itself into the dress of a bishop, the roof dwindling to a wig, and the walls becoming robes; at the same instant the church was increased into a cathedral, which I recognised as the cathedral of Worcester. While I gazed in wonder, the cathedral underwent another change, and in a moment was that of Canterbury. Immediately afterwards the bishop's robes raised themselves, and stood upright as vigorously as if they had enclosed a real bishop, while the wig hung over them as if supported by a head. The robe then stretched out its right sleeve as being in the act of oratory. I had a great curiosity to understand this mysterious transaction, and fortunately I met with a person who was able to explain it. He told me that all this was merely a vision, which had passed through the mind of one of those contemplative persons who are usually called castle builders; that fortunate race of beings, who, if they are left alone but a few minutes, can bring to pass whatever they wish for. He said the moon was amply supplied with such meditations, the name of the dreamer being always tobe found upon the figure which he had sent there.
On learning this, I approached Canterbury Cathedral to look for the name of the person who had built it, and I found inscribed over the door the name of a young clergyman whom I knew. He had taken orders without either money or interest, and did not seem likely to benefit Christianity, otherwise than by wearing a black coat. Having, therefore, time for meditation, he had been busy in making the only kind of provision for himself that lay in his power. When I saw his name I could easily interpret his vision: in the beginning of it he had been settled in a country living, which was the church and parsonage house that had first drawn my attention; from this, by some celebrated works on divinity, he had been raised to the bishopric of Worcester, and thence transferred to Canterbury with a remarkably rapid promotion. The robes and the wig were now evidently addressing the House of Lords. In this office the lawn sleeves performed many explanatory and convincing gestures; and the wig supporting itself in the air, at a suitable distance from the robes, duly executed all that significant nodding and trembling by which such a wig usually defends the church. The dress, indeed, had every perfection of oratory except meaning. While this eloquence proceeded, hewho had attained all this preferment was probably wandering solitary and neglected.
I now found that I was in the territory allotted to these castles; and proceeding a little farther, I was surrounded by visionary sights, the several objects changing every instant as the dream went on. In the midst of these chimeras I observed a beautiful woman seated, and was surprised by her not taking the least notice of any thing round her; but on going behind her I saw a name inscribed on the back of her neck, and so discovered that she was herself a castle. The name was that of a young lady endued with a very homely person, who being unable to acquiesce in the face and shape imposed upon her, had secretly provided herself with another form more to her taste. What I now saw, therefore, was the figure which she had appointed to personate her in her imaginary actions. This elegant apparition was a dark beauty when I first observed her, but soon after became suddenly fair, the lady in the course of her dream having chosen a new complexion. She was at first in an evening dress; but in an instant a riding habit grew over her, and she was on horseback with a very graceful seat. Soon after she resumed the evening dress and was dancing.
At the same time I saw a lawyer's wig and gown, and by the eloquent gestures of the sleeves and the forcible nods of the wig, I perceived thatit was pleading a cause. This was the apparel of a young lawyer, which, finding no employment in court, was frequently exercised in the imagination of the wearer.
While I was examining these visions a sudden wind sprung up and swept them away. Canterbury Cathedral glided along in a very majestic manner, and the wig and gown continued to argue as far as I could see them. Amongst the fictitious actions here, which I had time to observe, were many pairs of young men and women engaged in very agreeable conversation. These were the dreams of those hapless persons, who, unable to obtain a real accomplishment of their tenderness, have recourse to imagination, where no accident or prohibition can interrupt their interviews. But I must here warn those who practise such clandestine meetings, that since the road to the moon has been opened their private meditations are no longer safe. An action only thought of has formerly been judged secure from the most inquisitive; but now, when all have access to the moon, where the tenderest visions are thus exposed, it will be advisable to dream with great caution. I here saw two or three young ladies of my acquaintance engaged in confederacies of which the world has had no suspicion, and the apparitions bore an exact resemblance to the ladies themselves. It is true that in one of these chimerical scenes of tenderness two figures mustconcur, and, therefore, it cannot be known which of the two has transacted the vision; but a probable conjecture may often be formed by those who know them. I have thought it right to give this warning to the builders of castles, who have hitherto been secure against curiosity, and in all their forbidden meetings have enjoyed an exemption from the common danger of discovery. Their privilege of secrecy is now lost; and henceforth, when they wish to retire for the customary enjoyment, they will do well to remember that all they are to think of must be acted also before the eyes of profane and satirical observers.
The castles being blown away from me, I walked forward reflecting on the happy lot of those who build castles, and are thus enabled to determine what events shall happen to them. There are many persons so dull, that through life they have no incidents except those which really occur; and if an advantage, which they desire, does not actually take place, they are quite unable to obtain the enjoyment of it. These persons cannot conceive the life of a castle builder. He is the only man who can set fortune at defiance, being entirely the master of his own destiny. He does not, therefore, distribute prosperity to himself in that sparing and imperfect manner which fortune always observes: he is subject neither to delay nor disappointment in his undertakings; and instead of needing the labour and perseverancewhich are necessary to others for success, he can accomplish all that he wishes in walking about, in sitting still, or at full length. The best gifts of fortune are not comparable to his fictions; for in real life there is always something defective to impair the happiest lot, but he who lives in vision takes care to exclude every circumstance that could disturb his serenity. It is to be considered, too, that an actual event can happen only once, but in imagination the same fortunate casualty may be repeated as often as it is wished for. It has always been a complaint that the successes of life are followed by satiety; but an able builder of castles is never satisfied. Those who are subservient to real occurrences are perpetually stopped in their designs by an obstacle called impossibility, but this is no impediment to a true visionary: he can recover a fortune which has been squandered, recall a lost friend to life, and restore ruined health to vigour. It is true that those who devote themselves to the pursuit of these fancies are soon disqualified for the real affairs and successes of life, but so great is the happiness by a proficiency in dreaming that they can willingly relinquish all other advantages.
I was now attracted by the loudest valley that I had yet heard, and was told by one whom I met, that it contained the disputes of conversation, so that I no longer wondered at the great eagerness and confusion of voices. I soon arrived at theplace, and walked into these controversies, which are divided into separate districts according to the subjects of them.
I first found myself in the political disputes to which every place of resort and conversation throughout England had contributed. Clamours on public affairs were assembled in this spot from the clubs of London, the coffee-rooms of all the towns in the kingdom, the dinner tables of country gentlemen, and innumerable other places where men talk for the welfare of their country; and since every Englishman is both a statesman and an orator, it may be imagined there is here a noble exhibition of eloquence. I heard with some amusement these voices talking with all the zeal of men engaged in a public duty; for most of those who are politicians in private believe that their country cannot prosper if they are silent. I listened to several of those who are statesmen out of history, and in their reasonings about present events always argue two hundred years back. I heard the dispute of two voices, which contrived to embroil Hampden in all the transactions of the present time. There were many other reasoners who combated on the events of former ages with as much zeal and anger as they could have done on the laws which concerned their own property. Indeed, few Englishmen are neutral readers of history: almost all enrol themselves as party men in all contests since Elizabeth, and with greatfidelity adhere to their friends in every page. A true Englishman is persuaded that his own credit depends on the reputation of certain statesmen of past times, in whose designs he is so deeply engaged that he must share their praise or ignominy, and he is defending his own character when he decries their adversaries, who must be villains before he can be an honest man.
After listening to these historical disputes, I advanced a few steps, and found myself in modern times, where all the late vicissitudes were debated with much indignation. I heard animadversions on certain politicians, in voices which by an earnest sincerity of tone betrayed suffering for the want of office.
I amused myself here with observing the several arts of controversy which are practised by private disputants, and perhaps are in greatest perfection on political subjects, such as a louder voice than the adversary may be willing or able to arrive at; a sudden anger, which may make him silent from fear or decency; the not hearing any thing that he says, a resolution which must baffle the best reasoner; the beginning to talk while he is in the crisis of his argument. I found here an admirable expedient for making an argument unanswerable, which is to repeat it till the adversary is tired of answering it. Another artifice, much practised in this place, was, that when one disputant had urged something inconvenient, theother, with great confidence, would say something wholly foreign to the question, as if in answer, and then the surprise and silence of the first, while he considers how this can be applied to the subject, must be construed into a defeat.
There are other arts, perhaps, not less victorious than these, as a contemptuous silence, and disdaining to argue any longer; a smile of superiority, a look of having much more to say were it worth the trouble, a pretended yielding to the adversary, as if encouraging him to talk, and expose his ignorance.
Being tired of politics, I wandered through the valley, and heard innumerable subjects debated. I here found a proof that nature leaves no creature altogether without defence; for when she does not empower a man to argue, she enables him to be angry.
I had occasion to consider the extravagance of those philosophers, who from time to time have embraced a singular project of bringing all the world to one opinion, for I observed here how naturally our friend, by maintaining one side of a question, provokes us to undertake the other. And yet this wild design of making men unanimous is still entertained by certain persons, who believe that they are appointed to think for all the world, and that mankind have nothing to do but think after them. It is true, they allow, that men arenow stubborn; but the age of thinking alike will arrive.
I remarked, in this valley, that there is nothing so efficacious in prolonging and enforcing a controversy as for men not to know what they are disputing about. There were also many instances of another endless way of reasoning, when two disputants agree without suspecting it, and in different words contend vehemently for the same thing.
I found in this valley a great number of what may be called domestic disputes, being those contests in which some families pass all their leisure and retirement. I listened to some of these, and greatly admired the invention of the reasoners, and their vigilance in seizing opportunities for a difference of opinion. I heard a lady and six daughters debating whether a certain person had grey eyes or hazel: the mother and two daughters contended for the hazel, while the four others supported grey. Both sides maintained their own hypothesis with great vehemence, dexterity, and strength of argument. Each reasoner insisted on her own superior opportunities of information, for one had seen the eyes most frequently, but another had viewed them in the most advantageous light. Neither party could gain a proselyte from the other. I heard another family disputing with equal earnestness, whether a certain person, latelydead, had been good-natured or not. I listened to several other controversies of the same kind, as acute, angry, and useful, as many famous disputes amongst scholars and divines.
Being at last quite weary of all this wrangling, I continued my journey, and soon reached a building that contains lost experience, being the opportunities which men have neglected of becoming wise at their own expense. Over the door is a statue representing Experience. It is the figure of an old man, expressing very significantly the pretence to wisdom, from a long life, appearing to be in the act of imparting caution, and asserting a title to know more than others, from having lived longer. This figure reminded me of several old men whom I have known to gain great confidence in their own opinion from a long seclusion, supposing themselves practised in the conduct of life by a continuance of infirmity and decay, and concluding that by an absence of twenty years from the world they must understand it better than those who are still conversant with it. Most old men need to be told that the being alive is not experience, and that the longer their old age has been, the more time they have had to forget.
I entered the building, and found one large room of the same appearance as I have before described, being full of bottles, which preserve the wasted experience. Each bottle had a label giving a history of its contents. This room mademe consider how erroneous is the common opinion concerning the efficacy of experience. It is usually said, that we are not to be taught by what happens to others, but only by what befalls ourselves, yet I think most who reflect on their lives must confess that the warnings they give themselves are to little purpose. To prove the vanity of experience, I would have any man consider how often he has failed to effect that improvement in his own character or conduct, which he now promises himself shall be very soon concluded. When we have every day endeavoured not to do a thing, and have yet done it every day for some years past, we are still convinced that to-morrow it really will be omitted; such is the authority of experience over our judgment. A stone, says Aristotle, being thrown up a thousand times does not learn to ascend. In many laudable endeavours, men benefit no more by experience than the stone, but still come back to the same place. I think, therefore, it may be said that experience has just force enough to make men lament that they are doing wrong, but not enough to make them do right.
In this room I saw many persons examining their own bottles, where they found the follies which they had diligently repeated after learning the bad consequences of them. They all were struck with melancholy at finding how many occasions of becoming prudent they had neglected.Gamblers found here the frequent losses and turns of fortune which had warned them of ruin, and in defiance of which they had proceeded with admirable resolution. The spendthrift was reproached with having still forgotten the want and difficulty which many times in his life had admonished him of the habits by which he was now a beggar.
I read with some amusement the histories on many of these bottles. One of them containing the wasted experience of a friend of mine, a member of parliament, records his endeavours to be an orator. Though every experiment has been conclusive in favour of silence, he still persists in his design of being the first orator in the House of Commons. Next to this bottle is one, which proves that experience has no greater force against poetry. It belongs to the author of a yearly volume, the reception of which every year has bid him desist from being a poet, but has not retarded the composition for the year following.
I observed a gentleman of my acquaintance studying attentively the label of his own bottle, which was covered with a long narration of neglected warnings, for he is thoroughly conversant with almost every enterprise of imprudence. He told me that he should take possession of his bottle, and carrying it to the earth make use of it to resist temptations; for he had seen another man drink a small quantity out of his bottle, bywhich he was immediately inspired with experience, and resolute against all follies. My friend, therefore, intended to have recourse to his bottle upon every urgent occasion, and so keep himself prudent as long as its contents lasted. I have since inquired the success of his scheme, and learned that at first, on the approach of any dangerous allurement, he applied himself to his bottle, and by a few drops mixed with water was quite fortified against it, having a painful remembrance and awe of former evils. While the influence of his draught continued, he remembered only the satiety and weariness of pleasure, with every inconvenience and shame of his several transgressions. These visions of prudence soon passed away, and each separate temptation required a new draught. But when the first charm of temperance was over, another difficulty occurred; for when an opportunity of being frail was expected, it required as much firmness to drink from the bottle as to resist without drinking. He still, however, continued this excellent medicine; but took care to be austere only when there was no occasion of enjoyment, and when any pleasure was near, he carefully abstained from the bottle. Timing his draughts thus judiciously, he still benefits by past experience.
Not long after I had quitted this house, I arrived at a valley which yielded a sound quite different from all the rest, not resembling either the humanvoice or any instrument that I had ever heard. Being told that it was the valley of Cant I did not wonder that it should give an unintelligible noise. I entered the valley, and found myself in the midst of these sounds, which I had been unable to interpret, and I then discovered that they were the religious tones which have prevailed in England since the first introduction of cant. There were no articulate words, but only tones in every variety of zeal and devotion.
I found here a gentleman very learned in antiquities, who was delighted with this multitude of noises; for he said that the most eloquent and faithful historian being unable to describe a sound, we have had no real knowledge of the tones of different sects, though we read much about them, but here he had found the authentic whining of every persuasion in past times. He listened attentively, endeavouring to assign the tones to their respective ages, which he imagined himself able to do with great exactness, though I knew not by what rules he was guided. He declared he should catch specimens of all these sounds, and shut them up in a box, so as to have by him all the tones in which our ancestors have served God, and thus supply a great defect in history.
I did not stay long amongst these strange noises, which at different times have served as piety, but passing further into the valley, I found cant under another representation. I was surroundedby a vast multitude of faces, or appearances of faces, which hovered in the air without being allied to bodies, or any other visible support. These faces were employed in the different contortions and grimaces which have been thought acceptable to God by adherents of the several sects. I was not a little amused by the violent endeavours of these faces; I saw features let out to an immoderate length; eye-brows with wonderful skill conveyed to a place far remote from that where nature had settled them: and eyes most ingeniously put out of sight without the lids being shut. Some of these artists had great advantages from nature in uncommon gifts of ugliness, and others had by industry supplied their natural defects in that endowment.
Being soon satisfied with this morality I left the faces frowning for their faith, and walking on saw a crowd of hands in the air performing their office also in the rites of cant. Some pairs of hands appeared to be preaching, and others praying; some were held upwards for a time, then stretched out, probably to the conviction of all who listened; some were clasped together with a violent effort of the muscles.
As soon as I had walked out of the district of hands, I found the air darkened by a flight of religious tracts, a crowd of which hovered round me in the air. When I appeared amongst them they rushed to me and opened themselves beforemy eyes that I might read them, struggling and contending with each other for the preference. Many of these tracts had been great travellers, and bore on the outside the names of the places they had visited. Some of them had preached in the East Indies, others in the West; and I felt a pride in considering how great a part of the world we supply with cant; nor is there the least fear of our stock being exhausted.
In another part of the valley I found a book recording the designs of cant, which are not yet completed. The first I cast my eye upon was a project to suppress eating, drinking, and breathing on a Sunday, particularly amongst tradesmen. Rabelais mentions some people whose practice was to breakfast on yawning; but this proposed law would make it serve for breakfast and dinner too on one day in every week. It appeared that the authors of this design have great hopes of persuading parliament very soon to enforce yawning on Sunday, and also of inducing people voluntarily to devote fifty-two days of the year to that laudable exercise, most advantageous to the public and most pleasing to heaven.
After this valley I came to another, whence issued a great uproar, which I found was the debates of parliament. I was soon in the midst of them, and heard a formidable din on various subjects, together with the many sounds of acquiescenceand dissent. English orators will be pleased to find their speeches preserved in this manner; for it may spare them the expense and solicitation by which they must obtain a place in certain volumes for what they have said. I observed here several renowned senators who listened with exemplary attention to their own harangues. The speeches are preserved by this valley more faithfully than they can be by printing; for they are uttered without the loss of a single hesitation, repetition, or any other beauty with which they were first delivered. A speech, by losing these delays loses much of its length, which is now acknowledged the chief merit of oratory, as appears by the practice in both our houses of parliament. Cicero being asked which oration of Demosthenes he thought the best, answered, "The longest." All speeches are now estimated by the same rule, but our English orators far excel the ancients in duration; and we have many who, on any important subject, are at least two hours more eloquent than Demosthenes. In judging of speeches by their length there is this great convenience, that there can be no dispute about the superiority of one to another; for when speeches were praised according to the force of reasoning, choice of words, and other particulars once in esteem, it was impossible from the difference of taste in men that they should agree which of two speeches had those merits inthe greatest perfection; but now the preference between two orations can make no question, provided the clock be carefully consulted.
I may mention in this place a project which I have devised for greatly improving the debates in parliament, and freeing the despatch of business. In explaining my plan, I must confess that it is borrowed, having been practised in the following case with great success. A married woman once complained to a female friend of the bitter and incessant disputes between herself and her husband, and asked advice about the means of avoiding them. Her friend answered that she had in her possession a certain water, of singular virtue in preventing quarrels between married people, and she would give her a bottle of it, with instructions for using it to that excellent purpose. Having filled a bottle with the peaceful liquid, she presented it to her friend, desiring that whenever her husband was beginning to be angry and contentious, she would fill her mouth with this water, and keep it there till he had become perfectly quiet. Soon after, the wife came back to have the bottle replenished, and to thank her friend for the miraculous cure and peace effected in her household, for the water had put an end to all disputes. Now I have been informed by a great chemist that the water of the Thames has the same wonderful property; and my contrivance is, that every member of parliament, at the beginningof each debate, should hold a sufficient quantity of it in his mouth, until the question be passed. I am convinced that this practice would infinitely improve the deliberations of our senate, by preventing the delays of business, and the perplexing of many subjects.
In the building which I next entered, the lost friendships of English people are preserved. I found a large room filled with urns of a beautiful shape, each of which contains a past friendship. On the outside of the urn is inscribed the cause which alienated the two friends, the duration of their kindness, with some other circumstances. I became melancholy at surveying this great assemblage of urns, and reflecting on the instability of friendship. When we lose our kindness towards a friend, we commonly pass into the contrary emotion, and entertain something like aversion towards him. Two men thus altered cannot meet without uneasiness; and I believe most people very early in life can name several whose presence reproaches them in this manner.
There is often no reason to be assigned for these separations: we formerly loved our friend without knowing why, and now his voice, his countenance, his gestures give us offence, which is equally inexplicable. We may be mortified that our judgment in reasoning is so liable to vary at different times of our life; but perhapsthis want of firmness in our affections is still more lamentable.
It is said by Swift that every man is born with a certain portion of friendship, which he is to distribute amongst those he lives with, so that he cannot give to one without taking from another. I think there is some truth in this observation; and it may explain the cessation of many friendships, which otherwise would be very mysterious. There are some who pretend to have an unlimited stock of this commodity, and are liberal in bestowing it upon all who approach them; but this alacrity in loving only confirms the maxim of Swift: for the little value of the kindness, which in this case falls to the share of each, proves that friendship is not to be so divided.
On many of these urns I read the causes of estrangement. Some friends had lost their kindness for each other by being too long separate, others by being too long together; some by having different interests, and others by pursuing the same thing.
Lord Bacon says that admonition is the chief office and benefit of friendship; but I found here numberless instances of friends having been divided for ever by too faithful an execution of this office.
In wandering about when I had left the house of friendship I approached a valley, which I learned was the receptacle of lost vanity, and Iwas surprised to hear of such a place, because I had always thought that this endowment is never lost, but remains with a man till his death. Having often seen it in full vigour after the decay of strength, memory, benevolence, and almost every faculty, I had supposed that where it once is it must be inseparable from a human being, and consequently that it wanted no asylum in the moon.
I had always thought it the chief mitigation of old age, that whoever is in that difficulty, though he should lose every other ease, can still keep his vanity, which is certainly the principal comfort of life.
But I found there was here a valley full of this excellent attribute without any loss to the owners; for the vanity kept in this place is the fruitless ostentation of those who erroneously believe themselves admired, and are at the pains to assume a superiority which is altogether groundless.
When I arrived at the edge of the valley, I saw first a crowd of what I conceived to be young men employed in very singular movements; but on walking amongst them, I found they were only the outsides of men, or rather apparitions. They were all dressed with exact propriety; and I soon discovered that these shadows represented the elaborate behaviour of that race of men who claim greatness from a superiority in movingabout. Each of these figures was engaged in executing the gestures peculiar to it in walking along a street, in entering a room, in bowing, and in every other momentous transaction. They went through their arts very rapidly, so as to make a great confusion in the different duties and situations of life. Their gestures passed from the park to the opera, and thence to a ball-room without the least delay, the exploits of each place being performed with wonderful despatch. Many of these figures smiled perpetually, and some with great skill. It was a ridiculous thing to see them bowing without any provocation, and performing other gestures, which there was nothing to justify.
They had no voice, but they moved their lips, and greatly excelled in conversation so far as it is a beauty to the eye. But all the gifts exhibited here had been lost by the dulness of mankind, the superiority of these men being of such a nature that no one could discover the grounds upon which they reasoned.
I had a wish to take one of these actors a prisoner, thinking he might be an useful warning to certain young men of my acquaintance. I therefore seized the one of greatest pretensions, and compressed him till he was concealed within the palms of my hands, but, notwithstanding this restraint, I felt him endeavouring to continue his exercises. I then suddenly let him go, when, being instantly restored to his size and shape, hebegan without delay to renew the practice of his accomplishments. Supposing, therefore, that he would not lose his energy by a temporary confinement, I again pressed him into a small compass and secured him in a pocket-book. When, at my return to the earth, he was released to his right dimensions, he retained all his vigour, and still he goes through his manœuvres without cessation.
When I advanced farther into this valley I found it filled with a great variety of characters, innumerable shapes of people being engaged in a rapid exhibition of their several kinds of vanity, all being transacted in silence, for none of the apparitions could speak. I was amused by the loftiness and pretence of these shadows: here and there I saw a learned lady dictating to all round with authoritative gestures, nodding with great erudition, and sometimes stretching out an instructive finger. Several shapes of young men wandered about quite unable to suppress their greatness through having spoken once in parliament. The authors, too, are very abundant here: I remarked the appearance of a man which seemed to labour extremely with its dignity, and I discovered that the person whom it represented had fought a duel the day before. One figure sat with a look of greatness, but quite immovable: this was the ostentatious reserve of one of those men who would impose their silence upon theworld as learning and superiority, and so much mistake the reception given them as to construe dislike into respect. This error, indeed, is not at all uncommon: every one must know people who fancy themselves universally esteemed only because they put a visible constraint on every company they enter.
When I looked at the great crowd assembled here, all believing themselves admired, and all really despised, I could not help considering how very little admiration there is in the world, and how many are in pursuit of it. If we except the few solitary men of remarkable genius, who in the vast crowd that is left obtains any real admiration? Still the belief of being admired is what gives life all its spirit. Mankind is in a perpetual plot to obtain applause, and yet every one prides himself on detecting vanity, and denies to all others what he expects from them. He who in conversation hears any thing ostentatiously spoken remarks the vanity of it to his neighbour, who secretly imputes to him an equal vanity for pretending to this quick discernment of a fault.
Being now told that I was near the valley of lost labour, I walked towards it, expecting a very large collection of curiosities, if here were the efforts of all those Englishmen, who have been laborious to no purpose. The end of the valley, where I entered, was occupied by a vast crowd of students. Innumerable shapes or apparitionsof men were here reading for future eminence, being destined to no other reward than the remembrance of their industry. Each of them fixed his eyes on his book with great zeal, removing them from time to time as if to enjoy a vision of his future greatness. I could not avoid some melancholy thoughts at seeing the pale resolute faces of these persons, who had given up their health and pleasure for the sake of disappointment, and I considered how much endeavour there is in the world, and how little reward.
These shadows appeared to be of various ages, some not arrived at manhood, and others far advanced in life, representing the different periods at which men desist from trying to be great. Some had given up renown as soon as they became men, others did not despair to the end of their lives, but in their old age were still preparing to be famous in spite of experience. He who means to be eminent usually fixes an early time for the first appearance of his genius: the time arrives, and his genius has not yet appeared, but this is no just cause of despair; for he has only fallen into the common error of expecting a too hasty success, and he gives a new allowance of time with the same confidence as before. In the mean time he has a comfort, that early fame is often pernicious, and his greatness will be more secure by beginning later. He is also encouraged by the celebrated men who were unknown till long afterhis age,—a reflection which has supported many a pensive candidate for fame. These hopes and alleviations occur at certain cheerful moments, but there are many hours when the hardship of not being famous is bitterly felt. And despair, though often deferred, must come at last, in which emergency consolation is to be sought in the notorious injustice of the world, and its ignorance of merit. The sufferer in this disaster has not mistaken his own abilities, but the judgment of other men: he has failed, not from a deficiency of true genius, but from the want of some dexterity, or fraudulent art, without which genius cannot be manifested. Thus a man encourages himself in his youthful hopes by the sagacity of the world, which insures success to real ability, and afterwards in his despair he comforts himself by the dulness of the world, which denies all opportunity to genius. After the final disappointment, therefore, he is still a great man in secret, and corrects the injustice of the world, by privately maintaining himself in his true rank. I believe it is little suspected how many of these concealed men of genius there are.
Having passed through these laborious readers, I came to a company of writers equally industrious. A crowd was here afflicted in the composition of books never to be read. Amongst these authors, I saw two or three of my acquaintance, whom I had never suspected of such practices, socarefully had they concealed their infirmity, intending, probably, to surprise the world with the sudden appearance of a great work; but through the inexorable temper of booksellers, or some other impediment, the surprise had never occurred.
The sight of these unsuspected writers confirmed an opinion I have long had, that the clandestine authors are a very numerous race. And whatever mortification there may be in finding that what we have written is not to be a book, yet a writer of this kind has great advantages by his concealment; for his work, not spreading beyond himself, he is sure of unanimous approbation, and is the only author who can securely write without censure. Besides which, while his works are confined to his desk, he may assign that to himself as an excuse for their not having been read; but he who by publication has given men an opportunity of reading him, which they have declined, has no justification. To my friends, therefore, who must write, I recommend secrecy as the best art to defend their works from censure, ridicule, neglect, feeble praise, and other calamities incident to a book.
In examining these appearances of authors, I observed that there were some of every rank in life; many of them betrayed that they could not be clothed without difficulty, while several seemed to belong to the highest order of society. All gave proofs of being affected by the force andmerit of what they were writing; some appeared ready to weep for the distress which they were causing in a romance; and others were much diverted by their own wit. I saw two or three authors who could not contain their laughter at every new sentence that came from their pens. The works were of various kinds, with which all these persons were trying to enrich the world. I looked over the shoulders of some, and saw poems and novels, politics, history, divinity, and every other undertaking.
Leaving the authors, and advancing farther into the valley of lost labour, I saw a crowd of young men, who with much energy were throwing their bodies into many different postures. At first I could not imagine the purpose of this peculiar diligence, but soon discovered that these young men were in the practice of oratory, and that all the strange attitudes I saw were for parliament. As I approached the orators, I found they were reciting speeches to these gestures, each having a mirror before him, to direct that part of eloquence which lies in the arms and legs. All of them argued vehemently with their limbs, and I lamented that so many convincing gestures should have been lost.
After seeing many other lost labours, which it would be tiresome to enumerate, I left the valley, and before I had gone far, observed a pretty woman, with a disconsolate countenance, sitting torest herself, as it appeared, from some fruitless search. I asked whether I could assist her in finding what she wanted, and she gladly accepted of my aid, informing me that she was in quest of her husband's affection, which she had unaccountably lost, two years after their marriage, and had vainly attempted to regain. She had been told that somewhere near the place where she now sat there was a receptacle for the lost affection both of husbands and wives, but she had not yet succeeded in finding it. I comforted her with observing, that a place which should contain all the lost love of married people must be of considerable extent, and therefore easily found.
We walked on together, and making inquiries, were directed to a large building where the affection which has dropped out of the bosoms of married people is preserved in the shape of small hearts, white and shining, like alabaster. On each is an inscription, recording the fault of the wife or husband, by which it had been lost. On one male heart I read "Decay of beauty," that being the wife's misconduct, by which this heart had been estranged from her. Almost every heart alleged some excellent reason for the ceasing of affection, such as a hasty temper, jealousy, dulness, vivacity, scolding, growing old, the having been marriedtwoyears, with many other equally good causes for the discontinuance of domestic kindness. On some of the hearts was a blank,and no reason assigned for the alienation, which intimated that the affection of the husband or wife had not been extinguished by any violence, but had gone out of itself.
I saw a considerable number both of men and women searching for the hearts that they desired to regain. There is no name on any of these hearts, but all people were enabled to discover that which had once loved them, by a very singular property in the heart; for when they took hold of that which had formerly entertained a kindness for them, it instantly began to beat and palpitate violently, though to the eye it appeared common alabaster; but if it had never felt any passion for them it remained perfectly still.
There was an old man who seized every female heart that he met with; and as I came up to him, I heard him mutter, "This certainly beats a little." He then requested me to feel the heart, which he held in his hand, and give my judgment whether there was any thing amounting to a real palpitation while he held it. I could not perceive the least motion, except from the trembling of his hands, which greatly mortified him. He told me he had been married late in life to a young woman, who had very soon become extremely cool towards him, though he had done nothing to displease her, and always spoke to her with the greatest kindness. I represented to him that unless he was quite sure he had once been reallypossessed of her heart it was vain to search for it here; but he declared he was confident that when he married the lady her heart was his own, though it escaped from him in so singular a manner soon after. He then continued to try all the hearts in his way, imagining a palpitation in each.
One male heart was vehemently disputed by half-a-dozen women, each of whom pleaded a lawful claim to it, and, indeed, it actually beat whichever of them held it, thus owning a passion for them all. One of them was wife to this heart; but her right was contested by the others, on the pretence that the palpitation of the heart when she touched it was much weaker than when it was held by any of them. There were many other hearts, both male and female, which, having been pluralists, were disputed by many competitors, each of whom was able to produce a real palpitation.
I was informed that somebody had invented a method by which these hearts might restore the lost affection; and as the wife whom I accompanied had found the heart of her husband, I explained to her the invention, which she has since practised with complete success. According to the direction given her, she dissolved the heart in a certain liquid, and, keeping it in a bottle, secretly mixed a small quantity with whatever her husband drank. The effect was, that after the first draught he intimated some return of kindness, which still increasedas he proceeded through the bottle; and when he had drank the whole heart he had resumed all his former affection.
When I had left this building, I soon arrived at another which contains groundless fears. I entered it, and found, as in many others, a spacious room filled with bottles, containing the apprehensions that have troubled mankind without necessity. On studying the labels of these bottles, I thought the fears of men little less wild and visionary than their hopes; and it appeared to me that the worst calamities of life are those which are never to happen. Moralists have often praised the concealment of the future from man as a most ingenious invention against approaching evils; but since we are so much tormented by evils that are not coming, I think this ignorance is but an imperfect security.
I diverted myself in reading the terrors with which these bottles are stored. Every gale of wind supplies them with apprehensions from those who are at sea; and I was surprised to observe how many people there are who, in a thunder-storm on shore, are fully convinced that the lightning will choose their persons in preference to every other spot where it could light. Great numbers in a trifling sickness had suffered all the horrors of approaching death. I knew not before how many there are who use the precaution of beingalways uneasy, and have so much foresight as to lose all the comfort of life.
One part of this room is assigned to public fears, which are contained in large urns. These are the apprehensions which have seized a great part of our nation from time to time. There is great variety in the nature of them. At one time a small party of men are suddenly convinced that all the rest of the nation are soon to be mad by agreement at the same instant, leaving only themselves in possession of reason: every thing they see tends to a general insanity; and by the expectation of this event they are much harassed, as is reasonable. Sometimes those who are earnest in religion apprehend that the people, at a stated time, are going to disbelieve Christianity and abolish it. And sometimes the farmers of England are seized with a belief that parliament, instigated by a bad ministry, intends to pass a law forbidding the practices of ploughing and sowing, to the manifest injury of agriculture.
These epidemic fears are so frequent in England that every body must remember a great number of them. Sometimes they seem to invade the country of their own accord, and at other times are contrived by the invention and industry of certain statesmen,—for one of these terrors has often power to ruin or secure a ministry; so that the great wisdom of state in England is a skill in prompting and regulating fears. I know notwhether there is more art or fortune in the beginning and progress of a fear: very able men often undertake to be the authors of one without any success; and in spite of the reasoning with which they tell the world to be afraid, not a man will consent to feel any alarm. Sometimes a most plausible apprehension is invented, and sent into the world with the countenance of eminent men, and every other advantage for its promotion, and yet it can obtain no credit, but is almost immediately lost, while, at another time, a terror is obscurely raised, and, although without probability, favour, or any arts of advancement, it is instantly spread and established.
It is vain to oppose a successful fear: a wise minister attacked by one will enrol himself under it, and be as much terrified as any body. These apprehensions differ much in duration, the life of some being only a few weeks, and others lasting for many months, or even for some years.