Chapter 10

There's a chain of causesLink'd to effects,—invincible necessityThat whate'er is, could not but so have been.3

Into such questions, however, I enter not. “Nolo altum sapere,” they be matters above my capacity: the Cobler's check shall never light on my head, “Ne sutor ultra crepidam.”4Opportunity, which makes thieves, makes lovers also, and is the greatest of all match-makers. And when opportunity came, the Doctor,

Por ubbidir chi sempre ubbidir debbeLa mente,5

acted promptly. Accustomed as he was to weigh things of moment in the balance, and hold it with as even and as nice a hand, as if he were compounding a prescription on which the life of a patient might depend, he was no shillishallier, nor ever wasted a precious minute in pro-and-conning, when it was necessary at once to decide and act.

Chi ha tempo, e tempo aspetta, il tempo perde.6

His first love, as the reader will remember, came by inoculation, and was taken at first sight. This third and last, he used to say, came by inoculation also; but it was a more remarkable case, for eleven years elapsed before there was an appearance of his having taken the infection. How it happened that an acquaintance of so many years, and which at its very commencement had led to confidence and esteem and familiarity and friendship, should have led no farther, may easily be explained. Dove, when he first saw Deborah, was in love with another person.

3DRYDEN.

4THOMASLODGE.

5PULCI.

6SERAFINO DAL'AQUILA.

He had attended poor Lucy Bevan from the eighteenth year of her age, when a tendency to consumption first manifested itself in her, till the twenty-fifth, when she sunk under that slow and insidious malady. She, who for five of those seven years, fancied herself during every interval, or mitigation of the disease, restored to health, or in the way of recovery, had fixed her affections upon him. And he who had gained those affections by his kind and careful attendance upon a case of which he soon saw cause to apprehend the fatal termination, becoming aware of her attachment as he became more and more mournfully convinced that no human skill could save her, found himself unawares engaged in a second passion, as hopeless as his first. That had been wilful; this was equally against his will and his judgment: that had been a folly, this was an affliction. And the only consolation which he found in it was, that the consciousness of loving and of being beloved, which made him miserable, was a happiness to her as long as she retained a hope of life, or was capable of feeling satisfaction in anything relating to this world. Caroline Bowles, whom no authoress or author has ever surpassed in truth and tenderness and sanctity of feeling, could relate such a story as it ought to be related,—if stories which in themselves are purely painful ought ever to be told. I will not attempt to tell it:—for I wish not to draw upon the reader's tears, and have none to spare for it myself.

This unhappy attachment, though he never spoke of it, being always but too certain in what it must end, was no secret to Mr. Bacon and his daughter: and when death had dissolved the earthly tie, it seemed to them, as it did to himself, that his affections were wedded to the dead. It was likely that the widower should think so, judging of his friend's heart by his own.

Sorrow and Time will ever paint too wellThe lost when hopeless, all things loved in vain.7

His feelings upon such a point had been expressed for him by a most prolific and unequal writer, whose poems, more perhaps than those of any other English author, deserve to be carefully winnowed, the grain, which is of the best quality, being now lost amid the heap of chaff.

Lord keep me faithful to the trustWhich my dear spouse reposed in me:To her now dead, preserve me justIn all that should performed be.For tho' our being man and wifeExtendeth only to this life,Yet neither life nor death should endThe being of a faithful friend.8

The knowledge that the Doctor's heart was thus engaged at the time of their first acquaintance, had given to Deborah's intercourse with him an easy frankness which otherwise might perhaps not have been felt, and could not have been assumed; and the sister-like feeling into which this had grown, underwent no change after Lucy Bevan's death. He meantime saw that she was so happy with her father, and supposed her father's happiness so much depended upon her, that to have entertained a thought of separating them (even if the suitableness of such a marriage in other respects had ever entered into his imagination), would have seemed to him like a breach of friendship. Yet, if Mr. Bacon had died before he opened his mind to the Doctor upon occasion of Joseph Hebblethwaite's proposal, it is probable that one of the first means of consolation which would have occurred to him, would have been to offer the desolate daughter a home, together with his hand; so well was he acquainted with her domestic merits, so highly did he esteem her character, and so truly did he admire the gifts with which Nature had endowed her,—

her sweet humourThat was as easy as a calm, and peaceful;All her affections, like the dews on roses,Fair as the flowers themselves, as sweet and gentle.9

7ROBERTLANDOR.

8WITHER.

9BEAUMONTand FLETCHER.

THE AUTHOR REGRETS THAT HE CANNOT MAKE HIMSELF KNOWN TO CERTAIN READERS; STATES THE POSSIBLE REASONS FOR HIS SECRESY; MAKES NO USE IN SO DOING OF THE LICENSE WHICH HE SEEMS TO TAKE OUT IN HIS MOTTO; AND STATING THE PRETENCES WHICH HE ADVANCES FOR HIS WORK, DISCLAIMING THE WHILE ALL MERIT FOR HIMSELF, MODESTLY PRESENTS THEM UNDER A GRECIAN VEIL.

Ἔνϑα γαρ τι δεῖ ψεῦδος λεγεσϑαι λεγἐσϑω.

HERODOTUS.

There is more gratitude in the world, than the worldly believe, or than the ungrateful are capable of believing. And knowing this, I consequently know how great a sacrifice I make in remaining incognito.

Reputation is a bubble upon the rapid stream of time; popularity, a splash in the great pool of oblivion; fame itself but a full-blown bladder, or at best a balloon. There is no sacrifice in declining them; for in escaping these you escape the impertinences and the intrusions which never fail to follow in their train. But that this book will find some readers after the Author's own heart is certain; they will lose something in not knowing who the individual is with whom they would delight to form a personal, as they have already formed a moral and intellectual friendship;

For in this world, to reckon every thing,Pleasure to man there is none comparableAs is to read with understandingIn books of wisdom, they ben so delectableWhich sound to virtue, and ben profitable.1

And though my loss is not of this kind, yet it is great also, for in each of these unknown admirers I lose the present advantage of a well-wisher, and the possible, or even probable benefit of a future friend.

1TREVISA.

Eugenius! Eusebius! Sophron! how gladly would ye become acquainted with my outward man, and commune with me face to face! How gladly would ye, Sophronia! Eusebia! Eugenia!

With how radiant a countenance and how light a step would Euphrosyne advance to greet me! With how benign an aspect would Amanda silently thank me for having held up a mirror in which she has unexpectedly seen herself!

Letitia's eyes would sparkle at the sight of one whose writings had given her new joy. Penserosa would requite me with a gentle look for cheering her solitary hours, and moving her sometimes to a placid smile, sometimes to quiet and pleasurable tears.

And you, Marcellus, from whom your friends, your country and your kind have every thing to hope, how great a pleasure do I forego by rendering it impossible for you to seek me, and commence an acquaintance with the sure presentiment that it would ripen into confidence and friendship!

There is another and more immediate gratification which this resolution compels me to forego, that of gratifying those persons who, if they knew from whom the book proceeded, would peruse it with heightened zest for its author's sake;—old acquaintance who would perceive in some of those secondary meanings which will be understood only by those for whom they were intended, that though we have long been widely separated, and probably are never again to meet in this world, they are not forgotten; and old friends, who would take a livelier interest in the reputation which the work obtains, than it would now be possible for me to feel in it myself.

“And why, Sir,” says an obliging and inquisitive reader, “should you deprive your friends and acquaintance of that pleasure, though you are willing to sacrifice it yourself?”

“Why, Sir,—do you ask?”

Ah that is the mysteryOf this wonderful history,And you wish that you could tell!2

2SOUTHEY.

“A question not to be asked,” said an odder person than I shall ever pretend to be, “is a question not to be answered.”

Nevertheless, gentle reader, in courtesy I will give sundry answers to your interrogation, and leave you to fix upon which of them you may think likely to be the true one.

The Author may be of opinion that his name, not being heretofore known to the public, could be of no advantage to his book.

Or, on the other hand, if his name were already well known, he might think the book stands in no need of it, and may safely be trusted to its own merits. He may wish to secure for it a fairer trial than it could otherwise obtain, and intend to profit by the unbiassed opinions which will thus reach his ear; thinking complacently with Benedict, that “happy are they that hear their detractions, and can put them to mending.” In one of Metastasio's dramatic epithalamiums, Minerva says,

l'onore, a cuiVenni proposta anch' ioPiu meritar, che conseguir desio;

and he might say this with the Goddess of Wisdom.

He may be so circumstanced that it would be inconvenient as well as unpleasant for him to offend certain persons,—Sir Andrew Agnewites for example,—whose conscientious but very mischievous notions he nevertheless thinks it his duty to oppose, when he can do so consistently with discretion.

He may have wagers dependent upon the guesses that will be made concerning him.

Peradventure it might injure him in his professional pursuits, were he to be known as an author, and that he had neglected “some sober calling for this idle trade.”

He may be a very modest man, who can muster courage enough for publication, and yet dares not encounter any farther publicity.

Unknown, perhaps his reputationEscapes the tax of defamation,And wrapt in darkness, laughs unhurt,While critic blockheads throw their dirt;But he who madly prints his name,Invites his foe to take sure aim.3

3LLOYD.

He may be so shy, that if his book were praised he would shrink from the notoriety into which it would bring him; or so sensitive, that his mortification would be extreme, if it were known among his neighbours that he had been made the subject of sarcastic and contemptuous criticism.

Or if he ever possessed this diffidence he may have got completely rid of it in his intercourse with the world, and have acquired that easy habit of simulation without which no one can take his degree as Master of Arts in that great University. To hear the various opinions concerning the book and the various surmises concerning the author, take part in the conversation, mystify some of his acquaintance and assist others in mystifying themselves, may be more amusing to him than any amusement of which he could partake in his own character. There are some secrets which it is a misery to know, and some which the tongue itches to communicate; but this is one which it is a pleasure to know and to keep. It gives to the possessor,quasicallyspeaking, a double existence: the exoteric person mingles as usual in society, while the esoteric is like John the Giganticide in his coat of darkness, or that knight who in the days of King Arthur used to walk invisible.

The best or the worst performer at a masquerade may have less delight in the consciousness or conceit of their own talents, than he may take in conversing with an air of perfect unconcern about his own dear book. It may be sport for him to hear it scornfully condemned by a friend, and pleasure to find it thoroughly relished by an enemy.

The secrets of natureHave not more gift in taciturnity.4

Peradventure he praises it himself with a sincerity for which every reader will give him full credit; or peradventure he condemns it, for the sake of provoking others to applaud it more warmly in defence of their own favourable and pre-expressed opinion. Whether of these courses, thinkest thou, gentle reader, is he most likely to pursue? I will only tell thee that either would to him be equally easy and equally entertaining. “Ye shall know that we may dissemble in earnest as well as in sport, under covert and dark terms, and in learned and apparent speeches, in short sentences and by long ambage and circumstance of words, and finally, as well when we lie, as when we tell truth.”5

4TROILUSand CRESSIDA.

5PUTTENHAM.

In any one of the supposed cases sufficient reason is shown for his keeping, and continuing to keep his own secret.

En nous formant, nature a ses caprices,Divers penchans en nous elle fait observer.Les uns, à s'exposer, trouvent mille délices;Moi, j'en trouve à me conserver.6

And if there be any persons who are not satisfied with this explanation, I say to them, in the words of Jupiter,

—STET PRO RATIONE VOLUNTAS.

6MOLIERE.

Moreover, resting my claim to the gratitude of this generation, and of those which are to come, upon the matter of these volumes, and disclaiming for myself all merit except that of fidelity to the lessons of my philosopher and friend, I shall not fear to appropriate,mutatis mutandisand having thus qualified them, the proud words of Arrian:

᾽Αλλ᾽ ἐκεῖνο ἀναγράφω, ὅτι ἐμοὶ πατρίς τἐ, καὶ γένος, καὶ ἀρχαι, οἵδε οἱ λὁγοι εἰσι τέ—καὶ ἐπὶ τῶ δἐ οὐκ ἀπαξιῶ ἐμαυτὸν τῶν πρώτων ἐν τῇ φωνῇ τῇ Αγγλὶκῇ, εἴπερ οῦν καὶ Δανιὴλ ὅ ἰατρὸς ἐμος τῶν έν τοῖς φαρμακοις.

A PEEP FROM BEHIND THE CURTAIN.

Ha, ha, ha, now ye will make me to smile,To see if I can all men beguile.Ha, my name, my name would ye so fain know?Yea, I wis, shall ye, and that with all speed.I have forgot it, therefore I cannot show.A, a, now I have it! I have it indeed!My name is Ambidexter, I signify oneThat with both hands finely can play.KINGCAMBYSES.

But the question has been mooted in the literary and cerulean circles of the metropolis, whether this book be not the joint work of two or more authors. And this duality or plurality of persons in one authorship has been so confidently maintained, that if it were possible to yield upon such a point to any display of evidence and weight of authority, I must have been argued out of my own indivisible individuality.

Fort bien! Je le soutiens par la grande raisonQu'ainsi l'a fait des Dieux la puissance suprême;Et qu'il n'est pas en moi de pouvoir dire non,Et d'etre un autre que moi-même.1

1MOLIERE.

Sometimes I have been supposed to be the unknown Beaumont of some equally unknown Fletcher,—the moiety of a Siamese duplicate; or the third part of a Geryonite triplicity; the fourth of a quaternion of partners, or a fifth of a Smectymnuan association. Nay, I know not whether they have not cut me down to the dimensions of a tailor, and dwindled me into the ninth part of an author!

Me to be thus served! me, who am an integral, to be thus split into fractions! me, a poor unit of humanity, to be treated like a polypus under the scissars of an experimental naturalist, or unnaturalist.

The reasons assigned in support of this pluri-personal hypothesis are, first, the supposed discrepancy of humour and taste apparent in the different parts of the book. Oh men ignorant of humorology! more ignorant of psychology! and most ignorant of Pantagruelism!

Secondly, the prodigal expenditure of mottoes and quotations, which they think could only have been supported by means of a pic-nic contribution. Oh men whose diligence is little, whose reading less, and whose sagacity least of all!

Yet looking at this fancy of the Public,—a creature entertained with many fancies, beset with many tormenting spirits, and provided with more than the four legs and two voices which were hastily attributed to the son of Sycorax;—a creature which, though it be the fashion of the times to seek for shelter under its gaberdine, is by this good light, “a very shallow monster,” “a most poor credulous monster!”—I say looking at this fancy of the Public in that temper with which it is my wish to regard every thing, methinks I should be flattered by it, and pleased (if any thing flattering could please me) by having it supposed upon such grounds, that this book, like theSatyre Menippée, is the composition of severalbons et gentils esprits du tems,—dans lequel souz paroles et allegations pleines de raillerie, ils boufonnerent, comme en riant le vray se peut dire;and whichils firent, selon leurs humeurs, caprices et intelligences, en telle sorte qu'il se peut dire qu'ils n'ont rien oublié de ce qui se peut dire pour servir de perfection à cet ouvrage, qui bien entendu sera grandement estimé par la posterité.2

2CHEVERNY.

The same thing occurred in the case of Gulliver's Travels, and in that case Arbuthnot thought reasonably; for, said he, “if this Book were to be decyphered merely from a view of it, without any hints, or secret history, this would be a very natural conclusion: we should be apt to fancy it the production of two or three persons, who want neither wit nor humour; but who are very full of themselves, and hold the rest of mankind in great contempt; who think sufficient regard is not paid to their merit by those in power, for which reason they rail at them; who have written some pieces with success and applause, and therefore presume that whatever comes from them must be implicitly received by the public. In this last particular they are certainly right; for the superficial people of the Town, who have no judgment of their own, are presently amused by a great name: tell them, by way of a secret, that such a thing is Dr. Swift's, Mr. Pope's, or any other person's of note and genius, and immediately it flies about like wild-fire.”3

3GULLIVERdecyphered.

If the Book of the Doctor, instead of continuing to appear, as it originally went forth,simplex munditiis, with its own pithy, comprehensive, and well-considered title, were to have a name constructed for it of composite initials, like the joint-stock volume of the five puritanical ministers above referred to, once so well known, but now preserved from utter oblivion by nothing but that name,—vox et præterea nihil;—if, I say, the Book of the Doctor were in like manner to be denominated according to one or other of the various schemes of bibliogony which have been devised for explaining its phenomena, the reader might be expected in good earnest to exclaim,

Bless us! what a word onA title page is this!

For among other varieties, the following present themselves for choice:—

Isdis.Roso.Heta.Harco.Samro.Grobe.Theho.Heneco.Thojama.Johofre.Reverne.Hetaroso.Walaroso.Rosogrobe.Venarchly.Satacoroso.Samrothomo.Verevfrawra.Isdisbendis.Harcoheneco.Henecosaheco.Thehojowicro.Rosohenecoharco.Thehojowicrogecro.Harcohenecosaheco.Satacoharcojotacohenecosaheco.

And thus, my Monster of the Isle, while I have listened and looked on like a spectator at a game of blind-man's-buff, or at a blindfold boat-race, have you, with your errabund guesses, veering to all points of the literary compass, amused the many-humoured yet single-minded Pantagruelist, the quotationipotent mottocrat, the entire unit, the single and wholehomo, who subscribes himself,

with all sincerity and good will,Most delicate Monster,and with just as much respect as you deserve,not your's, or any body's humble Servant,(saving always that he is the king's dutiful subject)and not your's, but his own, to command,KEWINT-HEKA-WERNER.

END OF VOL. III.

LONDON:PRINTED BY W. NICOL, 51, PALL MALL.

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