Complete Works of Laurence Sterne

by Laurence Sterne

  To what does antiquity owe all the veneration that is paid to it — to the obscurity of its origin? The ancient Greeks and Romans were perhaps neither better nor wiser than the moderns; but they lived long before them, and are consequently less known, therefore they are most esteemed, and this esteem they owe to their antiquity alone. Now between antiquity and obscurity the connexion is obvious. Why are dead languages more in repute than the living? the reasons plain, they are more obscure. To what does the mathematician owe all the pleasure he finds in solving a difficult problems? To nothing but the obscurity under which it appeared at first. In fine, the sciences which are looked upon as most important, are, by way of excellence, denominated abstrase sciences, and this sufficiently evinces the great merit of obscurity.

  MEDITATION UPON NONSENSE.

  OH, nonsence! how shall I vindicate thy injured name? how stem the torrent of prejudice, and to the world display thy various uses? Thy honourable alliance to obscurity should surely preserve thee from the disrespect of an undiscerning world. But so prejudiced are men that whilst they respect obscurity they dispise thee so near a-kin to her. At thy sacred shrine numberless authors, both antient and modern, have offered incense — I myself have often called upon thy aid, and to thy influence owe half my reputation. How oft dost thou extend benign relief to mortals? — were it not for thee a brilliant circle might sit silent for hours together. To thee the metaphysician owes his fame, and the enthusiast his oratory. The man of sense in vain may boast and glory in the powers of reason; he that has thee on his side will always be too hard for him by his fluency. Some of the most renowned philosophers have availed themselves of thee, witness the catagories of Aristotle, the substantial forms, and the occult qualities. The grave physician but for thee, would often be obliged to stop short in the midst of his harangue; the poet would be at a loss for a rhyme; and the facetious man find himself puzzled for a jest. What art thou, oh! thou great mysterious being — the way to thee we know — disputing clubs — knots of templars — coffee-houses — critics in pit, assembled on an author’s Night. All shew us where to find thee — but what’s beyond? Oh! who shall draw that veil? Thou sitest enthroned, wrapt in a cloud of fogs, such as earst graced the brows of thy Macflecknoe; but still thy aweful essences hid from man. I cannot name thee without extasy, on such a theme ’tis madness to be calm. The poet oft plunging from thought to thought to find out sense, at last in thee takes refuge — to thee the Lyric poet owes his flights; the sonneteer his tenderness; but no authors are more indebted to thee, than those that deal in controversy, for when they write nonsense who can answer them? Even critics, who pretend only to elucidate the sense of other authors, do not disdain to have recourse to thee. They oftentimes explain a meaning, till all men doubt of it, and substitute their own nonsense in the place of their author’s sense. The superficial may not perhaps have taken notice, that rhetoric owes its chief force to nonsense — yet is it not meer nonsense to address woods and rocks, to bid gliding rivers speak, and to fall into a passion with the stars. But what should above all exalt our ideas of nonsense is, that ’tis the language of lovers, and always sure to please the amiable sex, the approbation of one of whom should doubtless outweigh the censure of five hundred rigid sons of sense. ’Tis owned, that poetry owes its origin to love, lovers delight in nonsense, therefore ’tis no wonder poets should. Let me then exhort you, oh, you modern bards, (though to do you justice, you seem not to stand much in need of my admonitions) to attach yourselves to nonsense, to cultivate it to the utmost, and then you will besure to please. Here, methinks, the same impertinent critic, who has so often interrupted me, asks me, why I don’t turn poet myself? why faith, Sir, ’tis because I don’t think myself possessed of a sufficient talent for nonsense — Oh, Sir, replies my adviser, you are too modest — Sir, you are only pleased to say so. Though I sometimes make an excursion into the domains of nonsense, I never cared to take up my residence there. Prostrate I bend me before the hoary power of nonsense, which inspires the lays of our modern blank verse poets, our writers of monodies, elegies, dramatic poems, &c. but I dare not take upon me to rival their compositions, they breath so pure a spirit of nonsense, that, conscious of the weakness of my powers, I dispair of ever attaining to it. But so well is the empire of nonsense supported, that the town will never be at a loss for poets, for when it looses one, I’ll answer for it another will come in his place.

  Primo avulso non deficit alter.

  VIRG.

  MEDITATION UPON THE ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS.

  OH! thou that canst to nonsense procure veneration, mysterious concatenation of ideas the most remote, how extensive is thy influence, and how great thy power! To thee the great owe all their distinction. His lordship fluttering in brocade may possibly not be a more respectable personage, than the porter that stands at his door, yet where e’er he goes, obsequious crowds with reverence bow before him — what can this be owing to? to the magic of a title — the ideas of worth, honour, and every kind of excellence, have, by undiscerning mortals, been connected with a title, and nothing can better prove the force of the association of ideas, as there are in nature no things more distinct than a title and real worth. The officer that struts and swears with an air of boldness and freedom, as naturally excites in the breast of each beholder the idea of courage, yet frequent experience has proved to a demonstration, that a cockade is not an infallible sign of that quality. The mind has with equal capriciousness attached the idea of grace to certain pieces of lawn properly disposed upon black. Thus is the idea of courage annexed to a habit of one colour, the idea of grace to an habit of another colour, and, what seems still more surprizing, each particular species of learning is denoted by a particular habit, thus a black gown and a square cap are infallible signs, that the person to whom they belong is a logician, metaphysician, mathematician, and a perfect master of the literae humaniores. The idea of profound knowledge in all the various branches of physic is annexed to a long wig, the idea of reports, cases, and all the quirks of the law to a quoif, and the idea of a talent for poetry to a ragged coat. Strange and unaccountable are the combinations which this extravagant coupling of ideas gives occasion to — the sagacious Locke informs us of a gentleman who could never dance except there was an old trunk in the room with him; and I myself know a dramatic poet that can never write, except one of the panes of his window be broken. But, alas! the influence of this fantastic power begins before we come into the world; and if the mother should happen to have too strong an imagination, ’tis ten to one but the child is born with the head of a dog. By this happy term, association of ideas, we are enabled to account for the most extraordinary phaenomina in the moral world; and thus Mr. Locke may be said to have found a key to the inmost recesses of the human mind.

  MEDITATION UPON CUCKOLDS.

  WHILST I meditated upon the association of ideas, I felt myself its influence, the idea of mother led me to that of wife, which led me to that of cuckold, with which it evidently has no apparent connexion. How ancient and honourable is the society of cuckolds, a society that is perhaps more extensive than any other. Each rank, from the most exalted to the lowest, has members in this society, who, like the freemasons, strive to make their badge a secret. But, oh! you heralds and antiquaries, wherefore are horns the emblem of this Society. ’Tis an inquiry altogether worthy of your researches. Cuckold has long been a term of reproach, but much might be said to prove it honourable. In Rome, that holy city, once capital of the world, and now his holiness’s place of residence, cuckolds abound more than any where else,

  Roma la santa, ma il popolo cornuto.

  Worshipful al+r+n have been so famous for their cuckoldom, that it is almost become proverbial. A common council man has been always considered in as fair a way to be an al+r+n, when dubbed a cuckold, as a nephew to become rich when his uncle is raised to the papal dignity. Here, methinks, some critic interrupts me with some such exclamation as this. Lord! one would think this author’s father was a cuckold, he i
s so earnest in composing their panegyric. Some authors upon such an occasion would answer, I wish he had been so— ’tis well known, that the celebrated athiest Vanini, was greatly concerned that his father was not a cuckold, and his mother a whore, and his reason for so extraordinary a wish, does not seem to be altogether unphilosophical. Those begot in the lusty stealth of nature, according to him, boast fiercer qualities than what compound the scanted births of the stale marriage bed. But health, and a robust constitution, are blessings only when we make a good use of them. How many a man of a robust and vigorous constitution has died at Tyburn at two and twenty, who might have lived to sixty, had his bodily frame, and consequently his passions been weaker.

  MEDITATION UPON THE MAN IN THE MOON.

  HORNS have got such a hold of my fancy, that I can meditate upon nothing that is not horned. Wrapt in contemplation, I raise my mind to yonder horned moon, and expatiate in ideas over the rugged surface of the orbs Newtoniana; there I behold a figure, by the vulgar called the man in the moon. But who may this illustrious personage be? — why, if you’ll have my opinion of the matter, Sir, I take him to be the very man that Diogenes sought with a lanthorn in broad day-light. If we may give credit to Ariosto, all things lost upon earth are treasured up in the moon, and it seems to admit of no doubt that the person sought after upon earth, has long since been lost. Many reasons concur to confirm me in this opinion, among others the extraordinary ignorance of this man, with regard to whatever passes upon earth. Nothing is commoner than for one who declares his ignorance of any thing, than to add, I know no more of it than the man in the moon, a sufficient proof that the said man has long since ceased to be conversant with the things of this world. A celebrated philosopher of antiquity — every scholar must know I mean Plutarch, has wrote a very learned treatise upon this same man in the moon, or rather face in the moon; but if you ask me what he would be at in this treatise, I really know no more than the man in the moon. Bishop Wilkins ’tis well known had formerly a strong inclination to pay this man a visit, and ‘twere to be wished, that some flying machine had been invented for that purpose; for doubtless if we could see, and converse with the man in the moon, we should find him more knowing than is generally thought.

  MEDITATION UPON THE MONADES OF LEIBNITZ.

  ONCE engaged in sublime and and elevated speculations, I cannot bring myself down to meditate upon sublunary things. A race of intelligent beings, called Monades, engage my attention — here somebody will probably be inquisitive to know what these Monades are — the great philosopher of Germany will inform you, Sir, they are beings which seem to hold a medium between body and spirit, consciousness of their unity, forms their essence, and by their knowledge of eternal truths, they are members of the everlasting city of God. They are called Monades from the Greek adjective in non-Latin alphabet , which signifies alone, as every smatterer in Greek knows, as well as Leibnitz him. But what is this etymology founded upon? — why, Sir, ’tis founded upon this, every Monade has a right to say, I am myself alone. But here you’ll ask me what right had Leibnitz to create such beings? what proof could he give of their existence? Lord! Lord! what a restraint you would lay upon philosophers. If you deny them the privilege of framing hypotheses, you reduce them to a level with other men. What proof could Descartes give in favour of his vortices and subtile matter? yet to these he owes his reputation as a philosopher. The fancy of a philosopher should be as unconfined as that of a poet or a painter. By scrupulously following phaenomina, he reduces himself to the rank of a mechanic. Commend me to Flud and Paracelsus, who have devised aerial beings enough to people a new creation. But to return to our Monades, they are, says Leibnitz, mirrours of the universe, and so indeed are men too, though they reflect its parts very imperfectly. Men too are mirrours that are liable to be sullied in reflecting the objects by which they pass, and, like other mirrours, they are subject to be broken, in both which articles ’tis possible they are surpassed by Monades. There is reason to think, that these beings have some intercourse with mankind, and ’tis not impossible, that our dreams may be suggested by them. ’Tis likely too that we owe to them those impulses, and that glimmering insight into futurity, which so many have experienced. Not to mention the daemon of Socrates, ’tis well known that Descartes in all his undertakings had some foreknowledge, whether the event would be favourable to him or not. I shall add but one instance more, and that is Ozanam the mathematician’s prediction, concerning his own death, which was fulfilled a few days after, exactly in the manner he had foretold it. Here I doubt not but the critics will accuse me of credulity and superstition, but what care I? this is an atheistical age, and whoever believes any thing out of the common road is sure of being stigmatized as superstitious — nay, there are certain persons who call themselves moral philosophers, who look upon every man as superstitious who believes the Christian religion.

  MEDITATION UPON VIRTÚ.

  FROM so extraordinary a subject as that of my last meditation, the transition is easy to virtú, for the distinguishing character of the virtuoso is to delight in things strange and uncommon. The word virtú then has an extensive signification, and seems to take in the whole Encylopedia of arts and sciences, and every thing but virtue, with which it has nothing in common, but the resemblance of sound. The man of virtú addicts himself to natural philosophy, or rather to unnatural philosophy, since he thinks nothing that is not out of the ordinary course of nature worthy of his researches. A lusus naturae is the grand object of his attention — Pray, Sir, what is a lusus naturae, faith I don’t know; and its my opinion, that the gentlemen of the royal society do not know themselves. All I know of it is, that it is something made by nature in a gamesome mood; for dame nature has her frolicks as well as other females. The virtuoso is smitten with works of art as well as nature, and painters, fidlers, architects, statuaries have no greater benefactors than men of fortune who profess virtú. These are as favourable to the race of artists as destructive to frogs and glewworms. Some may perhaps infer, that I put artists upon a level with insects, that is far from my thoughts, I always esteem the arts, and when I despise an artist ’tis not on account of his art. His whole excellence often consists in that; and I have known many an excellent fidler, who when he had ceased playing was fit for nothing but to be shut up in a case, like his instrument. From artists, let us return to the encouragers of arts. How is the public obliged to those generous noblemen, who, by their subscriptions, support the Italian opera amongst us? and how much is their generosity enhanced by the consideration, that perhaps not three of them understand the language of the performers? This may by some be thought to reflect upon their taste; but in my opinion, it should give us the most advantageous idea of it; for surely it must require more taste to be pleased with a tune, when one does not understand the words of a song, then when one does. Our noble virtuosi must be acknowledged to surpass those of all other countries in taste, though it has been maliciously insinuated by some, that they have often bought pictures as pieces of Guido, Raphael, &c. when they were no more done by them than by Protegenes or Apelles. But this even supposing it true, proves nothing at all against the justness of their taste. Did not Michael Angelo take in all the connaisseurs of Italy by his statue of Cupid, which they persisted in looking upon as an antique, till he produced the arm which he had cut off, before he buried it in the ruins of an ancient temple? Did not Muretus impose upon that great critic Scaliger, by an imitation of the ancient comic poets, which the latter, with all his sagacity, cited as a passage of Trabea? But to put the taste of our nobility and gentry out of all dispute, does not the unparallel’d encouragement they have given to the life and opinions of Tristram Shandy, sufficiently evince, that they are possessed of the highest discernment?

  MEDITATION UPON CONSCIENCE.

  FROM a fashionable subject, I am led I know not how to meditate upon one that seems to be grown quite out of fashion. Conscience has long since been kicked out of doors by honour, which supplies its place amongst people of q
uality, whilst conscience is obliged to fly for refuge to the vulgar, and is well off if he can find a refuge even there. Those in low life generally take after their betters, insomuch, that many shopkeepers have excluded conscience as a troublesome companion. Several tradesmen I could name who have made fortunes by using conscience as their coin. Conscience has sometimes been known to make cowards in the army and navy; and if we may believe the poet, it makes cowards of us all. Legislators have in all ages found it a most convenient scare-crow, and would never have been able to lead whole nations as they have done, if they had not taken men by their weak side, I mean by their conscience. By molding this at their pleasure they have made people act and think as they pleased, and it was no hard matter for them to mold it at discretion, as ’tis of a very flexible nature in the vulgar and ignorant, who finding it difficult to think for themselves, are glad to throw that weight upon other’s shoulders.

  In Roman catholic countries the insufficiency of conscience to direct the actions of men has been so sensibly felt, that nobody thinks himself obliged to watch over his own conscience, but that affair is left to the management of confessors and directors. Casuits have been of great service to people of tender consciences, by marking out the limitations of each virtue, and shewing men how little good they might do, and at the same time preserve a good conscience; but I shall here finish my meditation, as I have already said enough in all conscience on this subject.