Credo pudicitiam Saturno rege moratam
In terris visamque diu.
Sat. 10.
Here, perhaps, some critic, some pamphleteer, may join with the clockmaker’s out-cry, and express his surprise at seeing Yorick become the advocate of modesty. But know vile wretches, I despise your base misrepresentations, all the works of Yorick are as chaste as his sermons— ’tis you yourselves, whose impure imaginations make the obscenity you reprehend.
Into my chaste writings
Not one thought intrudes,
Less modest than the talk of prudes.
Even court ladies, who are well known to vie with nuns in continence, whose chastity is as cold as snow, though they cannot escape the tongue of calumny, may read my works without blushing; and sure the least indecent image would not fail to suffuse their lovely faces with red. I’ll still go farther, and venture to affirm they will lay these my meditations and my sermons by their bibles and prayer-books; and as my Tristram Shandy will doubtless become a book for a parlour-window, in like manner my sermons and meditations, which for their excellent morality can scarce be equalled by any thing produced by the ancients or moderns, will become books for a lady of quality’s closet, where bound in red morocco and gilt, they will remain triumphant upon the same shelves, with the bible, prayer-book, pilgrim’s progress, &c. and when I have obtained this honourable place, I’ll cry out with Horace:
Sublimi feriam sidera vertice.
My lofty top shall touch the skies.
MEDITATION UPON THE HOMUNCULUS.
IMmortal Luyenhokius, thou most profound of all philosophers! to thee we owe that astonishing discovery, which at one view presents to us the whole species enveloped in a minute particle, contained in the genitalia of our great, great, great grand-father Adam — were I here to set down the word great as often as necessary, all the stationers shops in London would hardly furnish me with paper enough; so I shall content myself with setting it down three times, since the number three has been always thought to contain something mystical. To return to the ingenious system of our profound philosopher, what can be a more amusing speculation, than thus to consider the whole human race in miniature— ’tis like iliasinnuce — or rather it puts one in mind of the acorn, in which the microscope can discover all the various ramifications of the oak. Oh! for a philosophic microscope, which in semine humano, might discover at one view the whole posterity of the man — such a discovery would be of the highest use, as a man would often see reason to avoid marrying were he before-hand presented, with a view of the children intended for him by heaven. Let us again resume our meditation, and consider this dim speck of entity, stretching itself by degrees, first enlarging itself to a foetus, than being taken ex utero, by the assistance of the obstetric art, encreasing in volume, till at last it spouts up into a man six foot high — yet, according to the opinion of the most judicious philosophers, the homunculus contains in it all the principles that enter into the constitution of the grown man — a great argument this for predestination. If the actions of men, and all that befals them in the course of their lives, depend, in a great measure, upon the principles of which their constitution is formed, it follows of consequence, that these principles being the same in the homunculus, all the future actions of the man are determined by the nature of the constituent particles of the homunculus. But to leave off philosophizing, and moralize upon a subject which suggests so many reflections — how must this view of human nature convince us of our littleness, and kill in us all the seeds of pride? If imagination may trace the noble dust of Alexander, till it find it stopping a bung-whole, why may not imagination trace that very Alexander, who conquered at Issus, Arbela, and Granicus, and who carried his presumption so far as to assume the title of son of Jupiter Ammon, and cause statutes to be erected to him as a god? why may not imagination trace that very Alexander, till it perceives him an homunculus in the genitalia of Philip, or, which seems rather more probable, of one of Philip’s domestics. Oh! ye great men of the earth, consider this, and be no longer puffed up with Pride — your beginning and your end should fully convince you of the littleness of all human grandeur. The common topick used to convince the great of their nothing is death; and we are told of a certain king of Persia, who kept a person always in his court, whose business it was to say to him every morning: Oh! king of Persia, remember thou wert born to die — but the idea of death contains in it something sublime, and men make a vanity of braving it — the king of Persia’s purpose would have been much better answered, had he kept a person to address him every morning in these words — Oh! king of Persia, remember thou wert once an homunculus. What theologian can give a better argument for humility— ’tis no longer necessary to consider men as pismires crawling upon a heap of dirt, we know that in effect they all were formerly animalcula; and since man was originally a worm, well may we, with holy Job, say to corruption, thou art my father; and to the worm, thou art my mother and my sister. Whilst I dwell upon this subject I find myself grow uneasy, I am convinced of my unimportance, and can’t hear the thoughts of having once been an homunculus. Must then I, Yorick, whose thoughts rove through enternity, who meditate upon the most abstruse and profound subjects in metaphics, physics, politics, theology, morality, &c. &c. &c. be tormented with the mortifying reflexion, that I was formerly an homunculus? What a piece of work is a man — a very sorry piece of work in my opinion; for though I am one of the species myself, I can’t possibly look upon man as the quintessence of dust. O you, formerly my fellow homunculi, now my fellow-creatures, let me address you all in a body in this pathetic exclamation, what should such fellows as we do crawling between heaven and earth — we were all formerly poor despicable homunculi.
MEDITATION UPON HOBBY-HORSES.
WHAT subject is there in nature so trifling to which a true genius cannot give a seeming importance? — even a broomstick requires consequence from the meditations of a Swift. To meditate seriously upon a hobb-horse may be thought extravagant. Yet, emboldened by the example of that great genius for la Bagatelle, I must try to raise the hobby-horse to a level with the broomstick; this is, indeed, an arduous undertaking; for the consequence of the former has been greatly inhanced by the witches, who have used it to ride on through the air, whereas the latter has been debased by children using it to ride on — But, oh! reader, reflect a moment, the great Ageselaus, king of Sparta, in the height of his glory, did not disdain to ride round a room with his children upon a hobby-horse; and such a mark of distinction should enoble hobby-horses from that age to the present. The example, however, has not been lost; the nobles and gentry in all nations have copied this great original, and often ride in procession upon their hobby-horses. The critick may here interpose and ask me when such procession are made? — Sir, I could inform you, but scandalum magnatum is the devil; so I shall say nothing farther upon that head. But to be more explicit, is not ambition a sort of hobby-horse, which may not improperly be compared to Clavileno, Don Quixote’s woodenhorse, raised upon, which, with his eyes, he, in conceit, wandered thro’ regions unknown before. If the hero has his hobby-horse, the poet has his — Pegasus, I’ll maintain to be nothing but a downright hobby-horse, and worse than other hobby-horses in this, that he that mounts upon it is in danger of breaking his neck. I was continuing my meditation, when I was interrupted by a visit from my uncle Toby Shandy, who came in riding upon his hobby-horse, and having lighted, and entered my room, took up my meditation, and having read it very attentively, entered into a serious expostulation with me upon the dangerous consequences of treating in so light and ludicrous a manner upon hobby-horses. Why? nephew, says he, at this rate people may at last be brought to look upon government as a hobby-horse, religion as a hobby-horse; the good of the nation as a hobby-horse; and then — and then, what will become of us all? When he had left me I deliberated, whether I had best follow his advice, or resume my meditation; and having concluded for the latter, rubbed my forehead two or three times, and stretched my head, an
expedient, pretty frequent with the authors of the age, when they find themselves at a loss for a thought; nay, ’twas a practice amongst the authors of the Augustan age, if we may believe Horace:
Saepe et caput scaberet, vivos et roderet ungues.
But after I had knocked several times for wit, and found nobody at home, I resolved to conclude my meditation, since my hobby-horse grew restive, and would carry me no farther.
MEDITATION UPON MOMUS’S GLASS.
THOU art not to learn, oh, reader! or else thy knowledge is very confined, that Momus once upon a time, proposed in a council of the gods, that every man should carry a window in his breast, that his most secret thoughts might be exposed to all others, which would prevent men from having it in their power to impose upon each other. Alas! what needs such a glass? — cannot a man of common discernment discover the thoughts and characters of men? No sooner do I fix the organ of vision, which to me answers all the purposes of the above-men-tioned glass; no sooner, I say, do I fix my organ of vision upon a person who is introduced to me, but I immediately see whether he thinks me a rogue, or an honest man, a man of sense, or a fool. At every sentence he utters the expression in his face, shews me what he will say next — Thus nature has done what Momus required; and to the great confusion of rogues, their faces are constantly telling tales of them. Sir, your most humble servant, says Mr. — I look in his face, and see he means, Sir, I don’t desire to be troubled with you — Sir, says another, any thing that lies in my power you may command — I look in his face, and see he means, if it was in my power to serve you, I would be very loth to do it — An author sometimes, with an indolent air, says, — that thing I wrote is wretched stuff— ’twas wrote in such an hurry — I look in his face, and see that this being interpreted signifies, what I write in a hurry is better than the most elaborate compositions of others. Oh! you ignorant, who are imposed upon by the words of designing men, who afterwards cheat and deceive you — Your misfortunes are intirely owing to your not having learned to read God Almighty’s hand-writing, though surely the characters he writes must be very legible. How often does a fellow by the hand of nature, marked, quoted, and signed to do a deed of shame, find means to pass himself upon the unwary for a mirrour of integrity, by no other secret but that of frequently using the cabalistical words, honour, virtue, reputation — wherefore, oh! reader, mark, and take the caution that I give thee here, if thou art not an adebt in physiognomy, if thou hast never learned the art of decyphering countenances, lay down this as a rule, and regulate thy conduct by it. Whenever the phrases, a man’s honour should be dearer to him than his life, whatever touches my reputation touches my soul, &c. are frequent in the mouth of any man, draw this conclusion, and depend upon it ‘twill never fail— ’tis a conclusion, which my own experience has always confirmed — a conclusion, easily supported too by abstract reasonings — Well, but, Sir, let us hear your conclusion; why, Sir, ’tis that the man described above is, saving your presence, a rogue.
Here, methinks, I am interrupted by an impertinent coxcomb, who tells me, with a sneer, that were he to form a judgment of me from the frontispiece of my sermons, he should take me for a sly, knavish, medling priest — Sir, did you ever see me in propriâ personâ, upon my word, Sir, that print has not the least resemblance to Yorick.
MEDITATION UPON DIGRESSIONS.
PEACE be with the manes of that charitable author, who to the great relief of his brethren, first invented that admirable expedient of digressing from the matter in hand — nothing can be more convenient to a writer, who is hereby enabled to quit his subject, when it excites any disagreeable idea in him — when he has said so much of it that he begins to grow weary of it, or has so little to say of it, that he cannot fill the quantity of paper proposed by any other method — but who amongst the critical tribe shall be so audacious as to wagg his tongue against digressions, which have been enobled by the practice of the ancients, whose authority is of so much greater weight in critical matters, than that of the fathers in religion. The satires and epistles of the excellent Horace may be looked upon as a collection of digressions, and oft with a truely poetical licence, the bard digresses in a digression. Oh! the agreeable, desultory manner of digressions to the reader, no less agreeable than the writer, since neither the former or the latter care to be at the trouble of a continued attention. Talk not then you pedants of your method, cite not the stagerite in praise of lucid order — The rambling Montagne, who wrote from the ebullitions of his heart, will be read and admired, when all the dry didactic dissertations of the schools shall be forgotten. Oh, happy methodists! (though your sect derives its name from method) your discourses consist entirely of digressions, and those so unconnected, that at the end of the sermon ’tis impossible to tell what it turned upon. Digressions too take place in philosophy; and ost we find the mind of a philosopher turns aside in a curve, flies off in a tangent, or springs up in a spiral line. Nature itself delights in digressions, and so little is she pleased with a sameness in things, that no two objects exactly alike can be seen. Such is the frame of the universe,
Where order in variety we see,
And where tho’ all things differ, all agree.
But the great energy of digressions was never fully known till I published my Tristram Shandy, which consists entirely of digressions. A rare atchievement in literature, and almost equal to that of a celebrated wit of the last age, who wrote a dissertation consisting entirely of adverbs. In fine, digressions have an admirable effect in every thing but morality, and there, indeed, they are of the most dangerous consequence — if you doubt of this the triple-tree at Tyburn will convince you, where every quarter wretches meet an hapless end, meerly for having made a digression in morality. Allied to morality are politics, for politics consist in morality, as it regards communities; and here digressions too are equally pernicious. For oftentimes the ruin of states is owing to the ministers digressing from common honesty; that man is sure to incur censure who makes a false step in his conduct; and what is a false step but a digression? But digression’s dangerous in morality and politics, make all the beauty and spirit of composition, witness that admirable treatise of Dr. Swift, entitled, A tritical Essay, to which I have been much indebted in all my writings. The example being set, I hope to see the day when every new book shall be a labyrinth of digressions; from whence the reader shall vainly try to extricate himself, and wherein the authors shall heap digression on digression to the end of the chapter.
MEDITATION ON OBSCURITY IN WRITING.
FROM wandering in the mazes of digression, we descend naturally to the Bathos of the obscure and unintelligible. O, venerable obscurity! how many authors owe their fame to thee from the mystic Jacob Behmen, down to the jocose Tristram Shandy. The more unintelligible an author is that pleases, the greater must his genius be no doubt. The meanest may please when he makes himself understood; but he must surely be a superlative genius who pleases, whilst his readers do not understand a word he writes. Obscurity! thy influence is equal in the jocose, the serious, and the sublime — the jest most pleases when it is most deep **** would make a stoick laugh; but then the shades imbrowned with deepened gloom, and breathing nodding horror over the green mantle of the ouzy plains — Lord, cries some critic, what do you mean by all this stuff? I shall answer your question, Sir, by telling you a story, ’tis very possible you may not have heard, as critics now a days are not very knowing, that a certain philosopher (I really have forgot his name) went about the streets of Athens with something hid under his cloak, and being asked by an impertinent passenger (Sir, I ask pardon) what he concealed under his cloak? answered, with all the composure of a philosopher, I hide it that you may not know. In like manner, I, Mr. Critic, write that I may not be understood. You must know, Sir, that men have but two ends in view in speaking or writing, viz. to make others understand their meaning, or else to keep their meaning concealed. I have generally the latter in view when I write. Obscurity was always my idol, and surely great must be its ex
cellence, since one of its greatest enemies has been obliged to acknowledge, that ’tis the characteristic of a silly man and a silly book to be easily seen through. It follows then of course, that obscurity is the characteristic of a wiseman and a shrewd book. To what did all the sages of antiquity, who so long governed mankind by their superiority of intellects, owe their success — to obscurity? — In what does the whole merit of a riddle consist in, obscurity? — To what do the stars owe all their brightness? to the obscurity of the firmament? And in fine, what must the renown of the most famous heroes end in — obscurity?
Complete Works of Laurence Sterne Page 124
