”Quid de quoque viro, et cui dicas, saepe
caveto.”
”Be cautious what you say, of whom and to whom”
And now, methinks, I hear some one cry out that such restrictions are, in effect, to exclude all raillery from conversation; and, to confess the truth, it is a weapon from which many persons will do wisely in totally abstaining; for it is a weapon which doth the more mischief by how much the blunter it is. The sharpest wit therefore is only to be indulged the free use of it, for no more than a very slight touch is to be allowed; no hacking, nor bruising, as if they were to hew a carcase for hounds, as Shakspeare phrases it.
Nor is it sufficient that it be sharp, it must be used likewise with the utmost tenderness and good-nature; and, as the nicest dexterity of a gladiator is shewn in being able to hit without cutting deep, so is this of our railler, who is rather to tickle than wound.
True raillery indeed consists either in playing on peccadilloes, which, however they may be censured by some, are not esteemed as really blemishes in a character in the company where they are made the subject of mirth; as too much freedom with the bottle, or too much indulgence with women, &c.
Or, secondly, in pleasantly representing real good qualities in a false light of shame, and bantering them as ill ones. So generosity may be treated as prodigality; oeconomy as avarice; true courage as foolhardiness; and so of the rest.
Lastly, in ridiculing men for vices and faults which they are known to be free from. Thus the cowardice of A — le, the dulness of Ch — d, the unpoliteness of D — ton, may be attacked without danger of offence; and thus Lyt — n may be censured for whatever vice or folly you please to impute to him.
And, however limited these bounds may appear to some, yet, in skilful and witty hands, I have known raillery, thus confined, afford a very diverting, as well as inoffensive, entertainment to the whole company.
I shall conclude this essay with these two observations, which I think may be clearly deduced from what hath been said.
First, that every person who indulges his ill-nature or vanity at the expense of others, and in introducing uneasiness, vexation, and confusion into society, however exalted or high-titled he may be, is thoroughly ill-bred.
Secondly, that whoever, from the goodness of his disposition or understanding, endeavours to his utmost to cultivate the good-humour and happiness of others, and to contribute to the ease and comfort of all his acquaintance, however low in rank fortune may have placed him, or however clumsy he may be in his figure or demeanour, hath, in the truest sense of the word, a claim to good-breeding.
* * * * *
AN ESSAY ON THE KNOWLEDGE OF THE CHARACTERS OF ME N
I HAVE often thought it a melancholy instance of the great depravity of human nature, that, whilst so many men have employed their utmost abilities to invent systems, by which the artful and cunning part of mankind may be enabled to impose on the rest of the world, few or none should have stood up the champions of the innocent and undesigning, and have endeavoured to arm them against imposition.
Those who predicate of man in general, that he is an animal of this or that disposition, seem to me not sufficiently to have studied human nature; for that immense variety of characters, so apparent in men even of the same climate, religion, and education, which gives the poet a sufficient licence, as I apprehend, for saying that,
“Man differs more from man, than man from beast,”
could hardly exist, unless the distinction had some original foundation in nature itself. Nor is it perhaps a less proper predicament of the genius of a tree, that it will flourish so many years, loves such a soil, bears such a fruit, &c., than of man in general, that he is good, bad, fierce, tame, honest, or cunning.
This original difference will, I think, alone account for that very early and strong inclination to good or evil, which distinguishes different dispositions in children, in their first infancy; in the most uninformed savages, who can have thought to have altered their nature by no rules, nor artfully acquired habits; and lastly, in persons, who, from the same education, &c., might be thought to have directed nature the same way; yet, among all these, there subsists, as I have before hinted, so manifest and extreme a difference of inclination or character, that almost obliges us, I think, to acknowledge some unacquired, original distinction, in the nature or soul of one man, from that of another.
Thus without asserting, in general, that man is a deceitful animal; we may, I believe, appeal for instances of deceit to the behaviour of some children and savages. When this quality therefore is nourished and improved by education, in which we are taught rather to conceal vices than to cultivate virtues; when it hath sucked in the instruction of politicians, and is instituted in the Art of thriving, it will be no wonder that it should grow to that monstrous height to which we sometimes see it arrive. The Art of thriving being the very reverse of that doctrine of the Stoics, by which men were taught to consider themselves as fellow citizens of the world, and to labour jointly for the common good, without any private distinction of their own: whereas this, on the contrary, points out to every individual his own particular and separate advantage, to which he is to sacrifice the interest of all others; which he is to consider as his Summum Bonum, to pursue with his utmost diligence and industry, and to acquire by all means whatever. Now when this noble end is once established, deceit must immediately suggest itself as the necessary means; for, as it is impossible that any man endowed with rational faculties, and being in a state of freedom, should willingly agree, without some motive of love or friendship, absolutely to sacrifice his own interest to that of another, it becomes necessary to impose upon him, to persuade him that his own good is designed, and that he will be a gainer by coming into those schemes, which are, in reality, calculated for his destruction. And this, if I mistake not, is the very essence of that excellent art, called the Art of Politics.
Thus while the crafty and designing part of mankind, consulting only their own separate advantage, endeavour to maintain one constant imposition on others, the whole world becomes a vast masquerade, where the greatest part appear disguised under false vizors and habits; a very few only showing their own faces, who become, by so doing, the astonishment and ridicule of all the rest.
But however cunning the disguise be which a masquerader wears; however foreign to his age, degree, or circumstance, yet if closely attended to, he very rarely escapes the discovery of an accurate observer; for Nature, which unwillingly submits to the imposture, is ever endeavouring to peep forth and show herself; nor can the cardinal, the friar, or the judge, long conceal the sot, the gamester, or the rake.
In the same manner will those disguises, which are worn on the greater stage, generally vanish, or prove ineffectual to impose the assumed for the real character upon us, if we employ sufficient diligence and attention in the scrutiny. But as this discovery is of infinitely greater consequence to us; and as, perhaps, all are not equally qualified to make it, I shall venture to set down some few rules, the efficacy (I had almost said infallibility) of which, I have myself experienced. Nor need any man be ashamed of wanting or receiving instructions on this head; since that open disposition, which is the surest indication of an honest and upright heart, chiefly renders us liable to be imposed on by craft and deceit, and principally disqualifies us for this discovery.
Neither will the reader, I hope, be offended, if he should here find no observations entirely new to him. Nothing can be plainer, or more known, than the general rules of morality, and yet thousands of men are thought well employed in reviving our remembrance, and enforcing our practice of them. But though I am convinced there arc many of my readers whom I am not capable of instructing on this head, and who are, indeed, fitter to give than receive instructions, at least from me, yet this essay may perhaps be of some use to the young and unexperienced, to the more open, honest, and considering part of mankind, who, either from ignorance or inattention, are daily exposed to all the pernicious designs of that detestable fiend, hypocr
isy.
I will proceed, therefore, without farther preface, to those diagnostics which Nature, I apprehend, gives us of the diseases of the mind, seeing she takes such pains to discover those of the body. And first, I doubt whether the old adage of Fronti nulla fides, be generally well understood; the meaning of which is commonly taken to be, that “no trust is to be given to the countenance.” But what is the context in Juvenal?
— “Quis cnim non vicus àbundat Tristibus obscœnis?”
— “What place is not filled with austere libertines?”
Now, that an austere countenance is no token of purity of heart, I readily concede. So far otherwise, it is, perhaps, rather a symptom of the contrary. But the satirist surely never intended by these words, which have grown into a proverb, utterly to depreciate an art, on which so wise a man as Aristotle hath thought proper to compose a treatise.
The truth is, we almost universally mistake the symptoms which Nature kindly holds forth to us; and err as grossly as a physician would, who should conclude, that a very high pulse is a certain indication of health; but sure the faculty would rather impute such a mistake to his deplorable ignorance than conclude from it that the pulse could give a skilful and sensible observer no information of the patient’s distemper.
In the same manner, I conceive the passions of men do commonly imprint sufficient marks on the countenance; and it is owing chiefly to want of skill in the observer that physiognomy is of so little use and credit in the world. —
But our errors in this disquisition would be little wondered at, if it was acknowledged, that the few rules, which generally prevail on this head, are utterly false, and the very reverse of truth. And this will perhaps appear, if we condescend to the examination of some particulars. Let us begin with the instance, given us by the poet above, of austerity; which, as he shows us, was held to indicate a chastity, or severity of morals, the contrary of which, as himself shows us, is true.
Among us, this austerity, or gravity of countenance, passes for wisdom, with just the same equity of pretension. My Lord Shaftesbury tells us that gravity is of the essence of imposture. I will not venture to say, that it certainly denotes folly, though I have known some of the silliest fellows in the world very eminently possessed of it. The affections which it indicates, and which we shall seldom err in suspecting to lie under it, are pride, i 11-nature, and cunning. Three qualities, which when we know to be inherent in any man, we have no reason to desire any farther discovery to instruct us, to deal as little and as cautiously with him as we are able.
But though the world often pays a respect to these appearances, which they do not deserve; they rather attract admiration than love, and inspire us rather with awe than confidence. There is a countenance of a contrary kind, which hath been called a letter of recommendation; which throws oir arms open to receive the poison, divests us of all kind of apprehension, and disarms us of all caution: I mean that glavering sneering smile, of which the greater part of mankind are extremely fond, conceiving it to be the sign of good-nature; whereas this is generally a compound of malice1 and fraud, and as surely indicates a bad heart, as a galloping pulse doth a fever.
Men are chiefly betrayed into this deceit, by a gross, but common mistake of good-humour for good-nature. Two qualities, so far from bearing any resemblance to each other, that they are almost opposites. Good-nature is that benevolent and amiable temper of mind, which disposes us to feel the misfortunes, and enjoy the happiness of others; and, consequently, pushes us on to promote the latter, and prevent the former; and that without any abstract contemplation on the beauty of virtue, and without the allurements or terrors of religion. Now good-humour is nothing more than the triumph of the mind, when reflecting on its own happiness, and that, perhaps, from having compared it with the inferior happiness of others.
If this be allowed, I believe we may admit that glavering smile, whose principal ingredient is malice, to be the symptom of good-humour. And here give me leave to define this word malice, as I doubt, whether it be not in common speech so often confounded with env}r, that common readers may not have very distinct ideas between them; but as envy is a repining at the good of others, compared with our own, so malice is a rejoicing at their evil, on the same comparison. And thus it appears to have a very close affinity to the malevolent disposition, which I have above described under the worcl good-humour; for nothing is truer, than that observation of Shakespeare; — ,— “A man may smile, and smile, and be a villain.”
But how alien must this countenance be to that heavenly frame of soul, of which Jesus Christ Himself was the most perfect pattern; of which blessed person it is recorded, that He never was once seen to laugh, during His whole abode on earth. And what indeed hath good-nature to do with a smiling countenance? It would be like a purse in the hands of a miser, which he could never use. For admitting, that laughing at the vices and follies of mankind is entirely innocent (which is more, perhaps, than we ought to admit), yet, surely, their miseries and misfortunes are no subjects of mirth; and with these Quis non vicus abundat? the world is so full of them, that scarce a day passes without inclining a truly good-natured man rather to tears than merriment.
Mr. Hobbes tells us, that laughter arises from pride, which is far from being a good-natured passion. And though I would not severely discountenance all indulgence of it, since laughter, while confided to vice and folly, is no very cruel punishment on the object, and may be attended with good consequences to him; yet, we shall, I believe, find, on a carcful examination into its motive, that it is not produced from good-nature. But this is one of the first efforts of the mind, which few attend to, or, indeed, are capable of discovering; and however self-love may make us pleased with seeing a blemish in another, which we are ourselves free from, yet compassion, on the first reflection of any unhappiness in the object, immediately puts a stop to it in good minds. For instance; suppose a person well-drest should tumble in a dirty place in the street; I am afraid there are few who would not laugh at the accident: Now, what is this laughter, other than a convulsive ecstasy, occasioned by the contemplation of our own happiness, compared with the unfortunate person’s? a pleasure which seems to savour of ill-nature; but as this is one of those first, and as it were spontaneous motions of the soul, which few, as I have said, attend to, and none can prevent; so it doth not properly constitute the character. When we come to reflect on the uneasiness this person suffers, laughter, in a good and delicate mind, will begin to change itself into compassion; and in proportion as this latter operates on us, we may be said to have more or less good-nature; but should any fatal consequence, such as a violent bruise, or the breaking of a bone, attend the fall, the man, who should still continue to laugh, would be entitled to the basest and vilest appellation with which any language can stigmatise him.
From what hath been said, I think we may conclude, that a constant, settled, glavering, sneering smile in the countenance, is so far from indicating goodness, that it may be with much confidence depended on as an assurance of the contrary.
But I would not be understood here to speak with the least regard to that amiable, open, composed, cheerful aspect, which is the result of a good conscience, and the emanation of a good heart; of both which, it is an infallible symptom; and may be the more depended on, as it cannot, I believe, be counterfeited, with any reasonable resemblance, by the nicest power of art.
Neither have I an eye towards that honest, hearty, loud chuckle, which shakes the sides of aldermen and squires, without the least provocation of a jest; proceeding chiefly from a full belly; and is a symptom (however strange it may seem) of a very gentle and inoffensive quality, called dullness, than. which nothing is more risible; for, as Mr. Pope, with exquisite pleasantry, says;
— “Gentle Dulness ever loves a joke:”
i e one of her own jokes. These are sometimes performed by the foot, as by leaping over heads, or chairs, or tables, kicks in the b — ch, &c.; sometimes by the hand, as by slaps in the face, pulling off wigs
, and infinite other dexterities, too tedious to particularise; sometimes by the voice, as by holloaing, huzzaing, and singing merry (i e dull) catches, by merry (i e dull) fellows.
Lastly, I do by no means hint at the various laughs, titters, tehes, &c., of the fair sex, with whom, indeed, this essay hath not any thing to do; the knowledge of the characters of women being foreign to my intended purpose; as it is in fact a science to which I make not the least pretension.
The smile or sneer which composes the countenance I have above endeavoured to describe, is extremely different from all these; but as I have already dwelt pretty long on it, and as my reader will not, I apprehend, be liable to mistake it, I shall wind up my caution to him against this symptom, in part of a line of Horace
— “Hic niger est j hune tu caveto.”
There is one countenance, which is the plainest instance of the general misunderstanding of that adage, Fronti nulla fides. This is a fierce aspect, which hath the same right to signify courage, as gravity to denote wisdom, or a smile goodnature; whereas experience teaches us the contrary, and it passes among most men for the symptom only of a bully.
But I am aware, that I shall be reminded of an assertion which I set out with in the beginning of this essay, viz.: “That nature gives us as sure symptoms of the diseases of the mind, as she doth those of the body.” To which, what I have now advanced, may seem a contradiction. The truth is, nature doth really imprint sufficient marks in the countenance, to inform an accurate and discerning eye; but, as such is the property of few, the generality of mankind mistake the affectation for the reality; for, as Affectation always overacts her part, it fares with her as with a farcical actor on the stage, whose monstrous overdone grimaces are sure to catch the applause of an insensible audience; while the truest and finest strokes of nature, represented by a judicious and just actor, pass unobserved and disregarded. In the same manner, the true symptoms being finer, and less glaring, make no impression on our physiognomist; while the grosser appearances of affectation are sure to attract his eye, and deceive his judgment. Thus that sprightly and penetrating look, which is almost a certain token of understanding; that cheerful composed serenity, which always indicates good-nature; and that fiery cast of the eyes, which is never unaccompanied with courage, are often overlooked; while a formal, stately, austere gravity, a glavering fawning smile, and a strong contraction of the muscles, pass generally on the world for the virtues they only endeavour to affect.
Complete Fictional Works of Henry Fielding Page 411
