what time can suffice for the contemplation and worship of that
glorious, immortal, and eternal Being, among the works of whose
stupendous creation not only this globe, but even those numberless
luminaries which we may here behold spangling all the sky, though they
should many of them be suns lighting different systems of worlds,
may possibly appear but as a few atoms opposed to the whole earth
which we inhabit? Can a man who by divine meditations is admitted as
it were into the conversation of this ineffable, incomprehensible
Majesty, think days, or years, or ages, too long for the continuance
of so ravishing an honour? Shall the trifling amusements, the
palling pleasures, the silly business of the world, roll away our
hours too swiftly from us; and shall the pace of time seem sluggish to
a mind exercised in studies so high, so important, and so glorious? As
no time is sufficient, so no place is proper, for this great
concern. On what object can we cast our eyes which may not inspire
us with ideas of his power, of his wisdom, and of his goodness? It
is not necessary that the rising sun should dart his fiery glories
over the eastern horizon; nor that the boisterous winds should rush
from their caverns, and shake the lofty forest; nor that the opening
clouds should pour their deluges on the plains: it is not necessary, I
say, that any of these should proclaim his majesty: there is not an
insect, not a vegetable, of so low an order in the creation as not
to be honoured with bearing marks of the attributes of its great
Creator; marks not only of his power, but of his wisdom and
goodness. Man alone, the king of this globe, the last and greatest
work of the Supreme Being, below the sun; man alone hath basely
dishonoured his own nature; and by dishonesty, cruelty, ingratitude,
and treachery, hath called his Maker's goodness in question, by
puzzling us to account how a benevolent being should form so foolish
and so vile an animal. Yet this is the being from whose conversation
you think, I suppose, that I have been unfortunately restrained, and
without whose blessed society, life, in your opinion, must be
tedious and insipid."
"In the former part of what you said," replied Jones, "I most
heartily and readily concur; but I believe, as well as hope, that
the abhorrence which you express for mankind in the conclusion, is
much too general. Indeed, you here fall into an error, which in my
little experience I have observed to be a very common one, by taking
the character of mankind from the worst and basest among them;
whereas, indeed, as an excellent writer observes, nothing should be
esteemed as characteristical of a species, but what is to be found
among the best and most perfect individuals of that species. This
error, I believe, is generally committed by those who from want of
proper caution in the choice of their friends and acquaintance, have
suffered injuries from bad and worthless men; two or three instances
of which are very unjustly charged on all human nature."
"I think I had experience enough of it," answered the other: "my
first mistress and my first friend betrayed me in the basest manner,
and in matters which threatened to be of the worst of consequences-
even to bring me to a shameful death."
"But you will pardon me," cries Jones, "if I desire you to reflect
who that mistress and who that friend were. What better, my good
sir, could be expected in love derived from the stews, or in
friendship first produced and nourished at the gaming-table? To take
the characters of women from the former instance or of men from the
latter, would be as unjust as to assert that air is a nauseous and
unwholesome element, because we find it so in a jakes. I have lived
but a short time in the world, and yet have known men worthy of the
highest friendship, and women of the highest love."
"Alas! young man," answered the stranger, "you have lived, you
confess, but a very short time in the world: I was somewhat older than
you when I was of the same opinion."
"You might have remained so still," replies Jones, "if you had not
been unfortunate, I will venture to say incautious, in the placing
your affections. If there was, indeed, much more wickedness in the
world than there is, it would not prove such general assertions
against human nature, since much of this arrives by mere accident, and
many a man who commits evil is not totally bad and corrupt in his
heart. In truth, none seem to have any title to assert human nature to
be necessarily and universally evil, but those whose own minds
afford them one instance of this natural depravity; which is not, I am
convinced, your case."
"And such," said the stranger, "will be always the most backward
to assert any such thing. Knaves will no more endeavour to persuade us
of the baseness of mankind, than a highwayman will inform you that
there are thieves on the road. This would, indeed, be a method to
put you on your guard, and to defeat their own purposes. For which
reason, though knaves, as I remember, are very apt to abuse particular
persons, yet they never cast any reflection on human nature in
general." The old gentleman spoke this so warmly, that as Jones
despaired of making a convert, and was unwilling to offend, he
returned no answer.
The day now began to send forth its first streams of light, when
Jones made an apology to the stranger for having staid so long, and
perhaps detained him from his rest. The stranger answered, "He never
wanted rest less than at present; for that day and night were
indifferent seasons to him; and that he commonly made use of the
former for the time of his repose and of the latter for his walks
and lucubrations. However," said he, "it is now a most lovely morning,
and if you can bear any longer to be without your own rest or food,
I will gladly entertain you with the sight of some very fine prospects
which I believe you have not yet seen."
Jones very readily embraced this offer, and they immediately set
forward together from the cottage. As for Partridge, he had fallen
into a profound repose just as the stranger had finished his story;
for his curiosity was satisfied, and the subsequent discourse was
not forcible enough in its operation to conjure down the charms of
sleep. Jones therefore left him to enjoy his nap; and as the reader
may perhaps be at this season glad of the same favour, we will here
put an end to the eighth book of our history.
BOOK IX
CONTAINING TWELVE HOURS
Chapter 1
Of those who lawfully may, and of those who may not, write such
histories as this
Among other good uses for which I have thought proper to institute
these several introductory chapters, I have considered them as a
kind of mark or stamp, which may hereafter enable a very indifferent
reader to distinguish what is true and genuine in this historic kind
of writing, from what is false and counterfeit. Indeed, it seems
likely that some such mark may shortly become necessary, since the
favourable reception which two or three authors have lately procured
for their works of this nature from the public, will probably serve as
an encouragement to many others to undertake the like. Thus a swarm of
foolish novels and monstrous romances will be produced, either to
the great impoverishing of book-sellers, or to the great loss of
time and depravation of morals in the reader; nay, often to the
spreading of scandal and calumny, and to the prejudice of the
characters of many worthy and honest people.
I question not but the ingenious author of the Spectator was
principally induced to prefix Greek and Latin mottos to every paper,
from the same consideration of guarding against the pursuit of those
scribblers, who having no talents of a writer but what is taught by
the writing-master, are yet nowise afraid nor ashamed to assume the
same titles with the greatest genius, than their good brother in the
fable was of braying in the lion's skin.
By the device therefore of his motto, it became impracticable for
any man to presume to imitate the Spectators, without understanding at
least one sentence in the learned languages. In the same manner I have
now secured myself from the imitation of those who are utterly
incapable of any degree of reflection, and whose learning is not equal
to an essay.
I would not be here understood to insinuate, that the greatest merit
of such historical productions can ever lie in these introductory
chapters; but, in fact, those parts which contain mere narrative only,
afford much more encouragement to the pen of an imitator, than those
which are composed of observation and reflection. Here I mean such
imitators as Rowe was of Shakespear, or as Horace hints some of the
Romans were of Cato, by bare feet and sour faces.
To invent good stories, and to tell them well, are possibly very
rare talents, and yet I have observed few persons who have scrupled to
aim at both: and if we examine the romances and novels with which
the world abounds, I think we may fairly conclude, that most of the
authors would not have attempted to show their teeth (if the
expression may be allowed me) in any other way of writing; nor could
indeed have strung together a dozen sentences on any other subject
whatever. Scribimus indocti doctique passim,* may be more truly said
of the historian and biographer, than of any other species of writing;
for all the arts and sciences (even criticism itself) require some
little degree of learning and knowledge. Poetry, indeed, may perhaps
be thought an exception; but then it demands numbers, or something
like numbers: whereas, to the composition of novels and romances,
nothing is necessary but paper, pens, and ink, with the manual
capacity of using them. This, I conceive, their productions show to be
the opinion of the authors themselves: and this must be the opinion of
their readers, if indeed there be any such.
*--Each desperate blockhead dares to write:
Verse is the trade of every living wight.- MR. FRANCIS
Hence we are to derive that universal contempt which the world,
who always denominates the whole from the majority, have cast on all
historical writers who do not draw their materials from records. And
it is the apprehension of this contempt that hath made us so
cautiously avoid the term romance, a name with which we might
otherwise have been well enough contented. Though, as we hive good
authority for all our characters, no less indeed than the vast
authentic doomsday-book of nature, as is elsewhere hinted, our labours
have sufficient title to the name of history. Certainly they deserve
some distinction from those works, which one of the wittiest of men
regarded only as proceeding from a pruritus, or indeed rather from a
looseness of the brain.
But besides the dishonour which is thus cast on one of the most
useful as well as entertaining of all kinds of writing, there is
just reason to apprehend, that by encouraging such authors we shall
propagate much dishonour of another kind; I mean to the characters
of many good and valuable members of society; for the dullest writers,
no more than the dullest companions, are always inoffensive. They have
both enough of language to be indecent and abusive. And surely if
the opinion just above cited be true, we cannot wonder that works so
nastily derived should be nasty themselves, or have a tendency to make
others so.
To prevent therefore, for the future, such intemperate abuses of
leisure, of letters, and of the liberty of the press, especially as
the world seems at present to be more than usually threatened with
them, I shall here venture to mention some qualifications, every one
of which are in a pretty high degree necessary to this order of
historians.
The first is, genius, without a full vein of which no study, says
Horace, can avail us. By genius I would understand that the power or
rather those powers of the mind, which are capable of penetrating into
all things within our reach and knowledge, and of distinguishing their
essential differences. These are no other than invention and judgment;
and they are both called by the collective name of genius, as they are
of those gifts of nature which we bring with us into the world.
Concerning each of which many seem to have fallen into very great
errors; for by invention, I believe, is generally understood a
creative faculty, which would indeed prove most romance writers to
have the highest pretensions to it; whereas by invention is really
meant no more (and so the word signifies) than discovery, finding out;
or to explain it at large, a quick and sagacious penetration into
the true essence of all the objects of our contemplation. This I
think, can rarely exist without the concomitancy of judgment; for
how we can be said to have discovered the true essence of two
things, without discerning their difference, seems to me hard to
conceive. Now this last is the undisputed province of judgment, and
yet some few men of wit have agreed with all the dull fellows in the
world in representing these two to have been seldom or never the
property of one and the same person.
But though they should be so, they are not sufficient for our
purpose, without a good share of learning; for which I could again
cite the authority of Horace, and of many others, if any was necessary
to prove that tools are of no service to a workman, when they are
not sharpened by art, or when he wants rules to direct him in his
work, or hath no matter to work upon. All these uses are supplied by
learning; for nature can only furnish with capacity; or, as I have
chose to illustrate it, with the tools of our profession; learning
must fit them for use, must direct them in it, and lastly, must
contribute part at least of the materials. A competent knowledge of
history and of the belleslettres is here absolutely necessary; and
