Chapter i.
A wonderful long chapter concerning the marvellous; being much thelongest of all our introductory chapters.
As we are now entering upon a book in which the course of our historywill oblige us to relate some matters of a more strange and surprizingkind than any which have hitherto occurred, it may not be amiss, inthe prolegomenous or introductory chapter, to say something of thatspecies of writing which is called the marvellous. To this we shall,as well for the sake of ourselves as of others, endeavour to set somecertain bounds, and indeed nothing can be more necessary, ascritics[*] of different complexions are here apt to run into verydifferent extremes; for while some are, with M. Dacier, ready toallow, that the same thing which is impossible may be yetprobable,[**] others have so little historic or poetic faith, that theybelieve nothing to be either possible or probable, the like to whichhath not occurred to their own observation.
[*] By this word here, and in most other parts of our work, we mean every reader in the world. [**] It is happy for M. Dacier that he was not an Irishman.
First, then, I think it may very reasonably be required of everywriter, that he keeps within the bounds of possibility; and stillremembers that what it is not possible for man to perform, it isscarce possible for man to believe he did perform. This convictionperhaps gave birth to many stories of the antient heathen deities (formost of them are of poetical original). The poet, being desirous toindulge a wanton and extravagant imagination, took refuge in thatpower, of the extent of which his readers were no judges, or ratherwhich they imagined to be infinite, and consequently they could not beshocked at any prodigies related of it. This hath been strongly urgedin defence of Homer's miracles; and it is perhaps a defence; not, asMr Pope would have it, because Ulysses told a set of foolish lies tothe Phaeacians, who were a very dull nation; but because the poethimself wrote to heathens, to whom poetical fables were articles offaith. For my own part, I must confess, so compassionate is my temper,I wish Polypheme had confined himself to his milk diet, and preservedhis eye; nor could Ulysses be much more concerned than myself, whenhis companions were turned into swine by Circe, who showed, I think,afterwards, too much regard for man's flesh to be supposed capable ofconverting it into bacon. I wish, likewise, with all my heart, thatHomer could have known the rule prescribed by Horace, to introducesupernatural agents as seldom as possible. We should not then haveseen his gods coming on trivial errands, and often behaving themselvesso as not only to forfeit all title to respect, but to become theobjects of scorn and derision. A conduct which must have shocked thecredulity of a pious and sagacious heathen; and which could never havebeen defended, unless by agreeing with a supposition to which I havebeen sometimes almost inclined, that this most glorious poet, as hecertainly was, had an intent to burlesque the superstitious faith ofhis own age and country.
But I have rested too long on a doctrine which can be of no use to aChristian writer; for as he cannot introduce into his works any ofthat heavenly host which make a part of his creed, so it is horridpuerility to search the heathen theology for any of those deities whohave been long since dethroned from their immortality. LordShaftesbury observes, that nothing is more cold than the invocation ofa muse by a modern; he might have added, that nothing can be moreabsurd. A modern may with much more elegance invoke a ballad, as somehave thought Homer did, or a mug of ale, with the author of Hudibras;which latter may perhaps have inspired much more poetry, as well asprose, than all the liquors of Hippocrene or Helicon.
The only supernatural agents which can in any manner be allowed to usmoderns, are ghosts; but of these I would advise an author to beextremely sparing. These are indeed, like arsenic, and other dangerousdrugs in physic, to be used with the utmost caution; nor would Iadvise the introduction of them at all in those works, or by thoseauthors, to which, or to whom, a horse-laugh in the reader would beany great prejudice or mortification.
As for elves and fairies, and other such mummery, I purposely omit themention of them, as I should be very unwilling to confine within anybounds those surprizing imaginations, for whose vast capacity thelimits of human nature are too narrow; whose works are to beconsidered as a new creation; and who have consequently just right todo what they will with their own.
Man therefore is the highest subject (unless on very extraordinaryoccasions indeed) which presents itself to the pen of our historian,or of our poet; and, in relating his actions, great care is to betaken that we do not exceed the capacity of the agent we describe.
Nor is possibility alone sufficient to justify us; we must keeplikewise within the rules of probability. It is, I think, the opinionof Aristotle; or if not, it is the opinion of some wise man, whoseauthority will be as weighty when it is as old, "That it is no excusefor a poet who relates what is incredible, that the thing related isreally matter of fact." This may perhaps be allowed true with regardto poetry, but it may be thought impracticable to extend it to thehistorian; for he is obliged to record matters as he finds them,though they may be of so extraordinary a nature as will require nosmall degree of historical faith to swallow them. Such was thesuccessless armament of Xerxes described by Herodotus, or thesuccessful expedition of Alexander related by Arrian. Such of lateryears was the victory of Agincourt obtained by Harry the Fifth, orthat of Narva won by Charles the Twelfth of Sweden. All whichinstances, the more we reflect on them, appear still the moreastonishing.
Such facts, however, as they occur in the thread of the story, nay,indeed, as they constitute the essential parts of it, the historian isnot only justifiable in recording as they really happened, but indeedwould be unpardonable should he omit or alter them. But there areother facts not of such consequence nor so necessary, which, thoughever so well attested, may nevertheless be sacrificed to oblivion incomplacence to the scepticism of a reader. Such is that memorablestory of the ghost of George Villiers, which might with more proprietyhave been made a present of to Dr Drelincourt, to have kept the ghostof Mrs Veale company, at the head of his Discourse upon Death, thanhave been introduced into so solemn a work as the History of theRebellion.
To say the truth, if the historian will confine himself to what reallyhappened, and utterly reject any circumstance, which, though never sowell attested, he must be well assured is false, he will sometimesfall into the marvellous, but never into the incredible. He will oftenraise the wonder and surprize of his reader, but never thatincredulous hatred mentioned by Horace. It is by falling into fiction,therefore, that we generally offend against this rule, of desertingprobability, which the historian seldom, if ever, quits, till heforsakes his character and commences a writer of romance. In this,however, those historians who relate public transactions, have theadvantage of us who confine ourselves to scenes of private life. Thecredit of the former is by common notoriety supported for a long time;and public records, with the concurrent testimony of many authors,bear evidence to their truth in future ages. Thus a Trajan and anAntoninus, a Nero and a Caligula, have all met with the belief ofposterity; and no one doubts but that men so very good, and so verybad, were once the masters of mankind.
But we who deal in private character, who search into the most retiredrecesses, and draw forth examples of virtue and vice from holes andcorners of the world, are in a more dangerous situation. As we have nopublic notoriety, no concurrent testimony, no records to support andcorroborate what we deliver, it becomes us to keep within the limitsnot only of possibility, but of probability too; and this moreespecially in painting what is greatly good and amiable. Knavery andfolly, though never so exorbitant, will more easily meet with assent;for ill-nature adds great support and strength to faith.
Thus we may, perhaps, with little danger, relate the history ofFisher; who having long owed his bread to the generosity of Mr Derby,and having one morning received a considerable bounty from his hands,yet, in order to possess himself of what remained in his friend'sscrutore, concealed himself in a public office of the Temple, throughwhich there was a passage into Mr Derby's chambers. Here he ove
rheardMr Derby for many hours solacing himself at an entertainment which hethat evening gave his friends, and to which Fisher had been invited.During all this time, no tender, no grateful reflections arose torestrain his purpose; but when the poor gentleman had let his companyout through the office, Fisher came suddenly from his lurking-place,and walking softly behind his friend into his chamber, discharged apistol-ball into his head. This may be believed when the bones ofFisher are as rotten as his heart. Nay, perhaps, it will be credited,that the villain went two days afterwards with some young ladies tothe play of Hamlet; and with an unaltered countenance heard one of theladies, who little suspected how near she was to the person, cry out,"Good God! if the man that murdered Mr Derby was now present!"manifesting in this a more seared and callous conscience than evenNero himself; of whom we are told by Suetonius, "that theconsciousness of his guilt, after the death of his mother, becameimmediately intolerable, and so continued; nor could all thecongratulations of the soldiers, of the senate, and the people, allaythe horrors of his conscience."
But now, on the other hand, should I tell my reader, that I had knowna man whose penetrating genius had enabled him to raise a largefortune in a way where no beginning was chaulked out to him; that hehad done this with the most perfect preservation of his integrity, andnot only without the least injustice or injury to any one individualperson, but with the highest advantage to trade, and a vast increaseof the public revenue; that he had expended one part of the income ofthis fortune in discovering a taste superior to most, by works wherethe highest dignity was united with the purest simplicity, and anotherpart in displaying a degree of goodness superior to all men, by actsof charity to objects whose only recommendations were their merits, ortheir wants; that he was most industrious in searching after merit indistress, most eager to relieve it, and then as careful (perhaps toocareful) to conceal what he had done; that his house, his furniture,his gardens, his table, his private hospitality, and his publicbeneficence, all denoted the mind from which they flowed, and were allintrinsically rich and noble, without tinsel, or external ostentation;that he filled every relation in life with the most adequate virtue;that he was most piously religious to his Creator, most zealouslyloyal to his sovereign; a most tender husband to his wife, a kindrelation, a munificent patron, a warm and firm friend, a knowing and achearful companion, indulgent to his servants, hospitable to hisneighbours, charitable to the poor, and benevolent to all mankind.Should I add to these the epithets of wise, brave, elegant, and indeedevery other amiable epithet in our language, I might surely say,
_--Quis credet? nemo Hercule! nemo; Vel duo, vel nemo;_
and yet I know a man who is all I have here described. But a singleinstance (and I really know not such another) is not sufficient tojustify us, while we are writing to thousands who never heard of theperson, nor of anything like him. Such _rarae aves_ should be remittedto the epitaph writer, or to some poet who may condescend to hitch himin a distich, or to slide him into a rhime with an air of carelessnessand neglect, without giving any offence to the reader.
In the last place, the actions should be such as may not only bewithin the compass of human agency, and which human agents mayprobably be supposed to do; but they should be likely for the veryactors and characters themselves to have performed; for what may beonly wonderful and surprizing in one man, may become improbable, orindeed impossible, when related of another.
This last requisite is what the dramatic critics call conversation ofcharacter; and it requires a very extraordinary degree of judgment,and a most exact knowledge of human nature.
It is admirably remarked by a most excellent writer, that zeal can nomore hurry a man to act in direct opposition to itself, than a rapidstream can carry a boat against its own current. I will venture tosay, that for a man to act in direct contradiction to the dictates ofhis nature, is, if not impossible, as improbable and as miraculous asanything which can well be conceived. Should the best parts of thestory of M. Antoninus be ascribed to Nero, or should the worstincidents of Nero's life be imputed to Antoninus, what would be moreshocking to belief than either instance? whereas both these beingrelated of their proper agent, constitute the truly marvellous.
Our modern authors of comedy have fallen almost universally into theerror here hinted at; their heroes generally are notorious rogues, andtheir heroines abandoned jades, during the first four acts; but in thefifth, the former become very worthy gentlemen, and the latter womenof virtue and discretion: nor is the writer often so kind as to givehimself the least trouble to reconcile or account for this monstrouschange and incongruity. There is, indeed, no other reason to beassigned for it, than because the play is drawing to a conclusion; asif it was no less natural in a rogue to repent in the last act of aplay, than in the last of his life; which we perceive to be generallythe case at Tyburn, a place which might indeed close the scene of somecomedies with much propriety, as the heroes in these are most commonlyeminent for those very talents which not only bring men to thegallows, but enable them to make an heroic figure when they are there.
Within these few restrictions, I think, every writer may be permittedto deal as much in the wonderful as he pleases; nay, if he thus keepswithin the rules of credibility, the more he can surprize the readerthe more he will engage his attention, and the more he will charm him.As a genius of the highest rank observes in his fifth chapter of theBathos, "The great art of all poetry is to mix truth with fiction, inorder to join the credible with the surprizing."
For though every good author will confine himself within the bounds ofprobability, it is by no means necessary that his characters, or hisincidents, should be trite, common, or vulgar; such as happen in everystreet, or in every house, or which may be met with in the homearticles of a newspaper. Nor must he be inhibited from showing manypersons and things, which may possibly have never fallen within theknowledge of great part of his readers. If the writer strictlyobserves the rules above-mentioned, he hath discharged his part; andis then intitled to some faith from his reader, who is indeed guiltyof critical infidelity if he disbelieves him.
For want of a portion of such faith, I remember the character of ayoung lady of quality, which was condemned on the stage for beingunnatural, by the unanimous voice of a very large assembly of clerksand apprentices; though it had the previous suffrages of many ladiesof the first rank; one of whom, very eminent for her understanding,declared it was the picture of half the young people of heracquaintance.
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