ANSWER FROM THE PRESENT AGE
TO POSTERITY.
Your letter has reached me; and as I find that through imperfect intelligence you have contracted a very wrong opinion of my character, I shall endeavour to correct your mistakes. Having been told of certain prevailing follies, you impute them all to me, and would make me the author of all absurdities committed by my subjects. If, when you come to the throne, you shall undertake to be the inventor of every thing that is said and done in your dominions, you will make yourself answerable for more follies than you will find ingenuity to defend.
However, the distance between us may easily excuse your mistake; for those by whom I am surrounded are very apt to give me the honour of all the extravagant designs that become public; and, indeed, I cannot blame their credulity, for when every scribbler calls himself "the Present Age," and every projector affects to be acting under my orders, I can hardly expect that my true actions shall be always distinguished. Perhaps I might be pardoned, if, in the multitude and confusion of exploits and opinions which are said to be mine, I were sometimes, myself, to doubt what it is that I am really doing and thinking. I therefore readily excuse your misconception of my character, and shall now endeavour to give you a juster notion of me.
First, I shall say a few words of the unfair use of my name, that you may see the reason of my being so much misrepresented to you, and also may be warned of the usurpation which your own name will inevitably suffer when you occupy my place. My subjects are extremely desirous of discovering my will, and would commonly obey my slightest commands with perfect alacrity. There is a great emulation amongst them to be the first in learning my sentiments upon every occasion, and imparting them to others. But this excessive loyalty, instead of making my people obedient to my government, only induces them to believe the numberless impostors, who recommend their own inventions in my name, and thus, while my subjects are committing the wildest follies in action and opinion, they imagine themselves submitting to the wisdom of their sovereign.
The greatest part of these fictitious laws are propagated by those who write, and who are almost as numerous as you represent them. My people judge and reason by means of works, called Reviews, which are published at certain times, each of them containing doctrines adverse to those of its rivals. Every one of them affirms solemnly that I am its editor; derides the pretence of all the rest to my protection, and declares me the guardian of itself alone. Every reader pretends to know my style, and can trace it in his own Review. The truth is, that a few of the writers in these works have sagacity and opportunity to discover my real sentiments, while the others publish their own fancies as my decrees.
In addition to these Reviews certain works are published every morning and evening, that contain a faithful history of that portion of time which is called a day. Of all these, likewise, I am the professed editor: each of them claims to itself my real labour, and imputes to the others the dishonest use of my name. Each, therefore, has its sect of believers; who are convinced that they read what has been corrected and authorised, if not written, by me.
There are other compositions of a singular kind in which I am often suspected of being engaged. You must know that, in the towns of my dominions, those who are desirous of instructing their countrymen have a custom of writing their thoughts upon the walls in large letters, and liberally allowing them to be read by all who pass, so that in times of commotion every wall abounds with political wisdom, expressed in a brief, sententious style. The walls are attentively read by crowds of students; and many have no other education. There is a great variety in the style and subject of these works in the open air: religious sects are exploded, taxes are condemned, public spirit is inculcated; and there are satirical walls, which often concur to ruin some odious statesman by wit and ridicule. Sometimes the remarks of a wall are answered by that on the opposite side of the street, so that those who pass between them may see the whole controversy together. There is hardly a town in my dominions destitute of this literature. Such is believed to be my zeal for composition, that I am often supposed the author of these inscriptions. Many are the persons who receive every thing that is said upon a wall as a manifestation of "the Present Age;" and it is confidently believed that I wander about in disguise to cover the walls with knowledge, or at least that my emissaries write up sentiments by my order. Thus, when any idle boy may prescribe the opinions of the age with a piece of chalk, you cannot wonder at the extravagant doctrines which pass for mine.
I am made answerable for the outrages of innumerable books, which I have never seen; for the common stratagem to obtain readers for a book is to publish that I am the author of it. The most obscure writers endeavour to give authority to their works by declaring that they write only what I enjoin, although they have never been in my presence, nor obtained the least authentic information of my thoughts. In this manner the wildest fictions are imposed upon the country as maxims of "the Present Age."
My indignation is often roused by the insolent confidence with which my name is assumed. The most ignorant scribbler, who is kept alive by nonsense, will allege that he has a commission to divulge my sentiments; and if any person thinks fit to call in question what he is teaching, he exclaims against the audacity of those who presume to dispute with "the Present Age."
You will now readily suppose, that the phrase, which you justly ridicule, "the spirit of the age," was not invented by me, but by some of these pretenders to my confidence, who seem to find it so useful, forcible, and conclusive, that I think they will not soon let it fall into disuse. It is one of those epidemic phrases, of which a few are always in force to argue for those who cannot reason without them. There are several such incontestible sayings now in great authority, besides the one you have mentioned, though that I think is the most absolute. These significant phrases, which usually are not extended beyond two or three words, are abstracts of all knowledge and experience, and of vast advantage in the principal business of life, which is dispute. For not being burdensome to the mind, but easily carried about, and ready for use on all occasions, they are far more exercised than any elaborate reasoning, and they enable men of scanty education to be as ready, as copious, and as positive as those of the greatest learning, so that they have made all persons equal in argument; and thus abolished the unjust advantage which has been enjoyed by men of ability. A treatise plentifully supplied with these phrases is sure to have great success, and a politician, who makes frequent use of them, cannot fail to convince the world of his integrity.
You have been rightly informed of the exploits achieved by that formidable phrase, "The spirit of the age." Such is the eloquence of those words that there is no outrage against common sense which they cannot justify. In all the strange propositions which they are employed to maintain, it is impossible to discover any general principle or uniformity. In truth, this "spirit of the age" is a mere sound, which by universal consent is allowed to be full of argument, and may be used by any man who can speak articulately or write legibly. All which can be understood is, that those who make frequent use of this phrase ascribe to me an unlimited power over law, morality, custom, and reason. They empower me to invent a new right and wrong whenever I am tired of the old. Thus, because a ridiculous phrase has by some ingenious artist been constructed with my name, all the absurdities which this phrase may commit are supposed to be my decrees.
After what I have said I hardly need tell you that in imputing to me a corrupt taste in literature, and a neglect of every book not perfectly new, you are still confounding me with a part of my subjects. I am publicly reported to have read with delight innumerable works of which not even the names have reached me; and frequently it is said, with as much truth, that I have ordered a book to be carefully kept and recommended to you after my death.
I am supposed to be as absolute over literature as over law and government; and frequent edicts are published in my name declaring what is to be wit and sublimity for the present time. It is imagined that I have it in my power to deprive any former writers I please of all their beauties, and leave them utterly worthless; which seems a singular expedient for enriching the world; and yet I am sometimes believed to practise it. Thus not long ago a few of my subjects who write conspired together to prevent Pope from continuing to be a poet. In this design they made use of my authority, and affirmed that I had dismissed his works from my library as being poetry no longer. They said that in this I had been determined by their persuasion; for that, in an interview which I had granted, they had brought me to their opinion; and that from that time Pope had been no poet by unanswerable arguments. The truth is, no such interview was granted them; and I have never ceased to read Pope with pleasure and advantage. But this confederacy against him had some success: the discovery that we had one poet less than we had imagined was received with great exultation; and many persons acknowledged that the pleasure they had hitherto supposed themselves to find in his works was a deception, and not real pleasure.
The greatest part of my subjects endeavour to regulate their studies by mine; to read the books that I read, and be amused by the passages that amuse me. A reader would be ashamed to laugh where he supposed me to have read with gravity; and whatever entertainment a book might give him, if he were told that I had not read it he would instantly lay it aside. Yet this correspondence of our studies is altogether imaginary; for these conforming readers are unable to obtain any true intelligence of what I am doing. Thus, by my supposed example, the writings of Pope could no longer please; for there being this emulation to follow me, and this ready belief of whatever is reported of my studies, those who design that former poets shall have no genius need do no more than command in my name that the words which once were full of thought and meaning shall henceforth mean nothing.
I now proceed to another of your complaints against me; which, however, every former Age has equally incurred. You accuse me of distributing honours unjustly, of neglecting true merit, and signalising the unworthy. In vindication of myself I beg you to consider by whom this charge against me is advanced. You will easily believe that it proceeds only from those who have been disappointed in their pretensions to my favour, since the men whom I have promoted cannot reasonably be expected to complain of their own success. Now, if, when you occupy my place, you shall make it your practice to consult the pretender himself about his qualifications, and advance every man who can attest his own merit, you will certainly be surrounded by a large crowd of illustrious persons. It would be an admirable invention for providing against a scarcity of great men during your reign. But your ingenuity in devising employments and honours must be greater than mine if you can find preferment for all who are men of merit by their own conviction.
It is known by experience that one great poet in every age is more than nature supplies; for although certain favoured periods have had two or three, there are long intervals of time without any. Yet I believe that in the course of my reign there have not been fewer than twenty writers of verse, who, in defiance of nature, have required of me that they may be great poets; and so insatiable are they, that not one of them is content to be less a poet than Milton. My rejection of these writers is called a prejudice against living poets, which judgment is said to be entirely mistaken: for Milton was once alive. Those who plead a right to all other honours exceed equally the places to be occupied, whence you can understand how it happens that I am so generally believed to have no justice or sagacity in distributing rewards.
It is true that, through the multitude of undeserving persons who assail me, a man of real merit, if he be unknown to those who are in my confidence, is unable to gain access to my favour without patience and delay. But ability, with perseverance, is sure to succeed at last. Sometimes, however, an indignant man of genius, who has obtained my notice after many attempts, can hardly forgive me his long obscurity, and seeks revenge by satirical reflections on my sagacity. But men of genius are often too arbitrary in their expectations. He who is conscious of superior endowments, but has not yet been able to manifest them, is incensed against the world because it has made no search for him; and he thinks that all men of sense ought to have been engaged in inquiring into his capacity. Though if he would consider how patiently he himself suffers the obscurity of others, having no design of undertaking such an examination into the faculties of all unknown men, he would hardly expect this eager inquiry to be made after himself.
You attribute to me a perpetual pursuit of novelty: the changes you hear of are not caused by me, but by a mischievous politician, who has great influence in my dominions; and you will be surprised to learn that this pernicious statesman is my prime minister, but he is far too powerful to be dismissed. His name is Fashion: he is the author of innumerable projects and chimeras; and such is his authority that whatever he recommends is instantly received by my whole people. He was originally a tailor, and renowned for the beauty and reception of his inventions in that art; from which success he aspired to affairs of state, and was attended still by the same greatness. In government, in literature, in morals, he is now supreme; and, indeed, I believe there is nothing exempt from his corruptions except mathematics.
Though he is remarkable for inconstancy, and for perpetually revoking what he has just introduced, yet he always persuades my people that the present scheme or custom will last for ever, and every fancy that he promulgates is embraced as a wise and durable invention. By some singular art he can make my subjects esteem or despise whatever he pleases. In all his plots he makes use of my name, and seems to enforce nothing by his own authority; indeed his skill consists in not passing for the author of his own inventions. So far am I from being able to dismiss him, that his aid is absolutely necessary to the accomplishment of all my undertakings. I depend upon him for my popularity; and whenever I design a new law, my first step is to obtain his concurrence. At my death you will find your dominions in the power of this person; and will soon have such experience of his art as to despair of discarding him from your service; for notwithstanding his great age I do not conceive it possible that I should survive him.
I disclaim the folly you impute to me of pretending to be the author of every useful thing that will descend to you; and I shall now say in a few words how far I think myself capable of really improving what was left me by my predecessor. The most honourable of my employments is to observe and encourage the studies of a few of my subjects, who with an ardent patience are searching into the laws of matter, and unfolding the universe by gradual discovery. From these labours you will obtain an enlargement, both of arts and contemplation.
The true method of discovery, from facts and not from imagination, had been pursued before I came to the throne, and it has been vigorously prosecuted under my reign and countenance. The results from it in art and knowledge will be far the most valuable gifts that you will receive from me.
Experiment, having wonderfully divulged the ways of nature, was applied to other studies—to the laws of the human understanding, and to political speculations; and wherever it has come there has been new light and certainty. I conclude that my chief glory must be from giving it encouragement and progress; and its discoveries in any kind of learning I shall transmit to you with full confidence of their utility.
It is true that from this sort of philosophy in politics I do not expect that general peace and wisdom through my dominions which some people foretell, though still I promote the study, and acknowledge the truths from it. But some of my subjects imagine, that by their researches of this kind all public factions, violences, and disasters, will speedily cease. They think they are effecting this tranquillity, by observing more accurately than before the rules according to which wealth is distributed and society conducted, and also by explaining those rules to all mankind. Through their instructions every man is to renounce his present emulation with those above him, and his hope of improving his own condition by disturbance. The people are no longer to strive through party spirit for things not really beneficial to them; politicians are not to make parties for themselves by inventing fallacious disputes for the people. In the room of these troubles, in which the world has hitherto been employed, all men are to occupy and delight themselves in viewing the peaceful operation of these newly discovered rules. Such is to be the prosperity from modern calculation; but I confess I have little confidence in the judgment of those who are convinced that the world is just going to be wise. I enter into no engagement, therefore, to leave you my dominions in any such tranquillity; and, instead of that, I can promise only one thing,—to make your government wiser; which is, that for your instruction my reign shall contribute its just share of follies to those already known, and preserved under the name of history. I am sure your efforts will not be wanting to increase the collection.
Through the progress of experiment, therefore, every age must now excel that which preceded it, in all such knowledge as experiment can discover. In that only I pretend to surpass my predecessor; but from my undoubted superiority in such knowledge some of my subjects would assert a pre-eminence in all other particulars. These persons seem to imagine, that because they live in an age of experiment every fancy that enters into their thoughts must infallibly be true, and they arrogate great sagacity to themselves on account of discoveries made by others while they are alive. These are the statesmen who urgently desire that every thing should be destroyed, and made again on a different plan.
But having said thus much against the lovers of novelty, I must observe, that I equally disapprove of another sect, who see ruin in every alteration. You are to understand that, for some time past, my kingdom has been divided by a great dispute concerning the efficacy of change. One side maintain that there can be no peace, commerce, or fertility, under a government which is the same for six months together, and they recommend change to the people as something that they can feed upon; while their adversaries contend that the only virtue and benefit of a law consists in its never being altered, and they exclaim against the cruelty of those who would deprive the people of any inconvenience that their ancestors submitted to. These two parties are equally excluded from my favour.
But, perhaps, I have now said enough to vindicate myself from your accusations; if not, I must wait for justice till you succeed to my place, and then your experience will soon acquit me.
THE
SLEEPER AND THE SPIRIT.
A DIALOGUE.
SLEEPER.
Merciful Heaven! what has happened to me? Surely I must be dead, for I am suddenly divided into two persons: here is my mind, which thinks, and there lies my body on that couch. I slipped out of it without knowing how; yet it cannot be dead, for it breathes, and looks like a sleeping man. But how happens it that I am in two parts, and that one half of me sleeps while the other half looks at it?
SPIRIT.
It is no more than has happened to you very often before.
SLEEPER.
Who is it that speaks? Ah! it is not a being of this world: then I am dead; may God forgive my offences.
SPIRIT.
You may defer your repentance to another opportunity, for you are not dead, but merely asleep.
SLEEPER.
Doubtless I listen to one whom I must believe; yet this sleep appears to me very singular. I lay down on that couch from weariness, and felt the approach and weakness of sleep, when suddenly I found myself two persons; and here I am talking and reasoning apart from the other portion of me, which is asleep. According to my past observation, this is not a common way of going to sleep.
SPIRIT.
You have never slept in any other way; but I will explain the mystery. The mind of man is from a divine origin, but subject to numberless infirmities by confinement within the body; and were it never released during life it would become altogether worthless. To prevent this, sleep has been contrived, which is not, as mortals suppose, a suspension of the mind, but a separation of it from the body, and by these continual escapes it is cleared from some of the evils which it contracts. During this freedom, which you call sleep, the mind converses with heavenly beings as you now do with me, and sees many things that recall it to its purity.
SLEEPER.
May I venture then to ask why I do not remember to have conversed with any heavenly being before? I have great success in sleeping, but have enjoyed no such interviews as you describe.
SPIRIT.
As soon as the mind has returned into its body, which you call waking, it forgets all these adventures, and, therefore, every time of sleeping it is surprised at its separation as something new. At night you may see the minds of men rising out of their bodies as they fall asleep. All their faults remain in the body; and the minds, being free from bad inclinations, lament to each other the several imperfections of the bodies to which they are joined, earnestly desiring death to set them at liberty. The minds of rival statesmen avow to each other the plots which they are preparing, and deplore their contemptible employments. In these conversations they are apt suddenly to disappear, being summoned back into the body by waking; and when the night is over they all vanish. In the day there are a few wandering minds of those, who, like you, have been surprised by sleep through fatigue or idleness.
SLEEPER.
But whence proceed our dreams, if the sleeping body has no mind in it?
SPIRIT.
Dreams are the fancies of the mind at its first return to the body in waking, when it has lost its separate being, and is not yet quite settled in combination. These visions pass in a few seconds of time, though appearing of long duration. In reality you dream only at the time of waking.
SLEEPER.
Sleep must be the best part of human life; it is far better to be a pure spirit, and converse with heavenly beings, than to be busy in the miserable undertakings of men. Henceforth I shall obtain as much sleep as possible.
SPIRIT.
But you are to forget what now passes as soon as you are in your body again.
SLEEPER.
Ah! you told me so before. But now that I am free, I should wish to use my time to advantage, and gain some knowledge, however soon I may lose it again.
SPIRIT.
Your body seems effectually asleep, and not likely to want you very soon: if you please, you can accompany me in my present employment, which will give you some insight into the management of human life.
SLEEPER.
What is your employment, and what are you? For you have encouraged me to ask questions by answering them.
SPIRIT.
Not long ago I was a man like yourself. Out of those who die, a few of the most meritorious are selected to perform certain duties in the management of mankind. I having lived virtuously was appointed, at my death, to one of these offices; and my present employment is to prevent men from being too happy.
SLEEPER.
Is that the vocation of heavenly beings? Surely they can distribute nothing but good.
SPIRIT.
But there is evil in the world; whence does it come?
SLEEPER.
I know not; chiefly, I believe, from men themselves.
SPIRIT.
Thus it is that men reason. You suppose that no being higher than yourselves can have a disposition to hurt you. Animals might use the same argument: an ill used horse might say, "Man is a creature of divine race, and far superior to me; he cannot, therefore, inflict pain and mischief, and, doubtless, is not the author of the whipping and spurring which I feel; this discipline must have another origin; perhaps I am in some way the cause of it myself." You say, "God is the cause of all things. There is much misery in the world, but God is not the cause of misery."
SLEEPER.
Will you instruct me better in the origin of evil, and the cause of its being inflicted on man.
SPIRIT.
When a misfortune befalls you, the best philosophy is to consider how it may be removed, and not whence it came. But I have told you, that my office here is to prevent men from being too happy. A certain number of blessings and misfortunes is allotted to mankind, and if constant care were not taken to enforce a just distribution, the lot of some mortals would be composed altogether of blessings, and others would provide themselves with nothing but miseries. Certain spirits are appointed to correct the unequal possessions of men, and transfer happiness from those who have too much to those who want it. This is now my occupation.
SLEEPER.
I am glad to hear that you give happiness to some while you take it away from others; that reconciles me to your office. But with all this care, how happens it that the advantages of life are so unequally dispensed? You do not appear to succeed very well in your endeavours to be just.
SPIRIT.
The inequality of happiness amongst men is not so great as you imagine. Superiority is very short, for we speedily correct it. But you shall see my operations. You observe that I carry a pair of scales, and two small boxes: in the scales I weigh the lot of every person within my province, placing his miseries in one scale, and his advantages in the other; then if they are not evenly balanced, I take something from the heaviest scale, or add something to the lightest. When the man has his due share of good and bad fortune, the scales are exactly even.
SLEEPER.
By what contrivance can you weigh such things as blessings and calamities? When the advantage to be weighed is ten thousand acres of land, you must find it an unwieldy burden for so small a scale. I should imagine, too, there would be equal difficulty in weighing a cheerful temper, or any other quality of mind.
SPIRIT.
All the advantages and misfortunes of life have certain representatives, which are easily weighed. I have a number of them in these two boxes: one box contains the blessings which I have taken from those who had more than their weight of happiness; the other holds the evils from which I have eased the miserable. Open that box, which contains evil, and examine the troubles you find in it.
SLEEPER.
Will they not take the opportunity to seize upon me?
SPIRIT.
Fear not; they are quite harmless.
SLEEPER.
They are nothing in appearance but little weights, such as a druggist uses; but I see they are inscribed with the names of the calamities which they represent; one is poverty, another sickness. You have relieved the world from many inconveniences, but I hope you will keep them safe in this box, and not let them out again to plague mankind.
SPIRIT.
I keep them to bestow upon those whose misfortunes are too light. Sometimes I rectify the scales by taking away good, and sometimes by adding evil, as may best suit the particular case. But come, I am wasting time, follow me, and you shall see this weighing performed. We will walk through this wall into the next house.
SLEEPER.
How wonderful! We have indeed passed through the wall, and I felt not the least obstruction.
SPIRIT.
Walls are built against the body only, and cannot confine the mind. Here is a young woman who has just attained to widowhood. Look at her head, and you find your sight is so much altered that you can now see through her skull into the brain. You may observe in the brain two cells, one of which contains the weights that represent blessings, and the other those that stand for calamities. These things are invisible to anatomists. I can take her weights out of these cells without her perceiving it. I put them into their respective scales.
SLEEPER.
The scale of misery descends.
SPIRIT.
Yet there are only two weights in it, and the other scale is supplied with many blessings. The two misfortunes are the death of her husband and the tooth-ache. She must be relieved from one of these vexations.
SLEEPER.
Surely the death of her husband is past remedy: I conclude you cannot restore him to life.
SPIRIT.
No; but I can provide another. I have taken the dead husband out of the scale, and you observe it is very little raised; the tooth-ache preponderates against all these advantages. Now, I will put back the death, and take away the tooth-ache; the scale rises, and the two are now exactly adjusted. The tooth-ache was the heaviest calamity of the two, and almost prevented the husband's death from being felt; but now it is taken away, he is properly lamented. I will put this tooth-ache into my box: it seems a victorious one, and will serve to bring some very fortunate person to a reasonable state of uneasiness.
SLEEPER.
But the death of this lady's husband will every day become a less grievance, and the balance will soon be disturbed.
SPIRIT.
Yes; but I shall visit her again soon, and if I find her a very happy widow, may perhaps restore her tooth-ache. We will proceed to another house.
SLEEPER.
Here is a beautiful young woman, and her countenance is so happy that I think she must need a large supply of affliction.
SPIRIT.
The scales will soon decide that.
SLEEPER.
I was right; see how happy she is!
SPIRIT.
The chief weight, I think, is her beauty. I take that out of the scale, and see how it rises! and now her misfortunes are far too heavy, though no more than a few common troubles: her beauty is her happiness. I could easily deprive her of that, for in my box is a bad small-pox, but that is not my usual management. When I find one great predominant advantage, my delight is not to take that away, but to prevent the enjoyment of it by some importunate vexation. Now I think I cannot by any artifice more ingeniously divert this lady from the contemplation and joy of her beauty than by inserting in her the tooth-ache which I gained from the widow. I therefore restore her beauty to the scale, and commit to the other scale the pain out of the widow's jaw. The balance is exact; now it will be a doubt whether this girl is more happy by her beauty or miserable by her tooth-ache. That is just what human life is intended to be.
SLEEPER.
I have often thought there was a law against happiness, and admired the art with which men are prevented from being quite fortunate, but I never had the sagacity to discover the means by which this is effected. I cannot forbear thinking it would be more suitable to the greatness of the Deity that this distribution of good and evil should be by a command, and not by a pair of scales.
SPIRIT.
Providence is pleased to employ subordinate agents. Besides, it is only a weakness of the human mind that makes you admire most what is done without visible means. But I must proceed to another house. Here is a man whose weights I lately adjusted with great difficulty, and I do not doubt they require new regulation.
SLEEPER.
His cell of misfortunes is amply supplied, and his stock of blessings consists of one: you must open your box of good in his favour.
SPIRIT.
Let us first weigh his present condition. Here is a ruined fortune, loss of friends, infirm health, a faithless wife, with many other smaller calamities. I load the scale with them, and now we shall see what struggle the single blessing will make against them in the other scale. It outweighs them all.
SLEEPER.
It must be something of extraordinary value: is it philosophy, or religion?
SPIRIT.
No; this little weight is inscribed with the word "Vanity;" that is the possession which makes him a happy man in spite of so many evils. Whoever is sufficiently vain has no need of any other advantages.
SLEEPER.
But upon what grounds is he vain? He has neither fortune, friends, nor health, and I cannot discover that he has any beauty. Is he a man of genius, or what endowments has he to justify this pretence?
SPIRIT.
None at all: but you must have observed that men are not vain by force of reasoning; a man of true authentic vanity wants no argument to support it. And there is no happiness comparable to this: the peace of mind from vanity far excels that from benevolence, from a clear conscience, or any other such possession.
SLEEPER.
Do you mean to take part of this man's vanity away, since it is too heavy for his present disadvantages?
SPIRIT.
No; we are not permitted to alter the disposition of any person, but only to interfere with circumstances and events. I must leave this man a preponderance of good; for if I were to empty my box of evils they would not overcome his complacency.
SLEEPER.
Yet notwithstanding the happiness of this man, I do not envy him; his enjoyment is a mere fiction.
SPIRIT.
So is all the happiness of man. You never can assign any reason for your joy except that certain things affect you with certain emotions. Who is to decide what kind of happiness is pretended, and what real? If you resolve not to be imposed upon, and to accept of no happiness till you are satisfied it is not a fallacy, you will pass a melancholy life. Vanity is as valid a good as any other. But come, we must proceed. Here is a poor clergyman who has become the father of ten children on no better grounds than a small curacy.
SLEEPER.
And in addition to these troubles he is advanced in life. I hope if you have any preferment in your box you will bestow it upon him.
SPIRIT.
Let us first consult the scales whether he is sufficiently provided for already. Here are several calamities,—poverty, a wife with bad health, the neglect of former friends, with some others. But you see he has also a stock of blessings; I will put both into the scales: the blessings are much the heaviest.
SLEEPER.
What can they be? This curate must have great sagacity in the discovery of blessings, if he can detect any in his own condition.
SPIRIT.
These blessings are all of the same kind; they are all hopes.
SLEEPER.
Do hopes pass for real blessings?
SPIRIT.
Why not? You see by the scales that the happiness they impart is greater than the misery from all these calamities. We will try the hopes singly against the evils. I empty the scales, then I put into one the clergyman's poverty, his heaviest grievance, and in the other scale I place a hope of future wealth. You see the hope prevails over the affliction: he has more pleasure in hoping to be rich than grief in being poor. Then here is the bad health of his wife, and here a hope that she may speedily have new strength; the hope, again, is the heaviest. But besides these hopes of relief from particular calamities, here are many other fictions which he is accustomed to enjoy in his hours of leisure. Here is a hope that his third son, now a school-boy, and designed for the bar, may be a Judge at the age of forty-two; and this weight hopes that a certain nobleman may accidentally hear him preach, and may be charmed by his doctrine, language, and manner, so as to bestow upon him a rich living with an excellent house.
SLEEPER.
The old clergyman seems able to hope in contempt of probability.
SPIRIT.
That which cannot possibly happen may serve very well to hope for; a man has no invention who must be satisfied that an event may take place before he can hope for it. This clergyman, through his skill in hoping, has a store of blessings in his own imagination; and whatever misfortune occurs he can find an equivalent advantage. I have a painful disorder in my box which I think will be urgent enough to interrupt his visions. I will bestow it upon him: his contrivance will be to hope for a cure, but it will give him some real substantial pangs that cannot be so reasoned away. We will now pass on.
SLEEPER.
Here is a young man who looks happy.
SPIRIT.
Suspend your judgment till we have weighed his condition. He has both calamities and blessings: I have put both into the scales.
SLEEPER.
His happiness descends: I was right.
SPIRIT.
Nevertheless I shall leave him without correction; for I think his present joy will soon rectify itself by causing a speedy vexation. Here is the weight which now carries down his scale: it is a novel which he has lately published with general admiration. After a time he will send forth another book; but the truth is, that he has lavished on the first work all the thoughts that he had amassed during his life, and, therefore, his second production will repeat the same incidents and observations awkwardly disguised, by being expressed worse than before. This book he will publish with great confidence; but will soon discover that one work of an author is not admired for the merit of another, and his happiness will be at an end. His present delight will be sufficiently corrected by his future mortification, without any assistance from my box. Let us go on.
SLEEPER.
Here is a man in a crisis of the gout; so I judge from the ornaments on his foot, and the efforts of his face. By the twisting of his person, and other contrivances, he seems hardly able to support the attack. Surely you will give him some mitigation.
SPIRIT.
If the scales determine so. Yes, you see his troubles descend without delay. I will take out his gout.
SLEEPER.
Still the scale is too low; then that is not his principal grievance, notwithstanding all these endeavours.
SPIRIT.
This is the chief weight—jealousy of his wife: I have relieved the scale from that and replaced the gout, and now you see the scales are brought to that balance and hesitation by which human life is represented. This man is married to a handsome woman, whose fidelity he has perpetually been doubting from no cause except his own sagacity. His fits of gout have been urgent, but his fits of suspicion have given him still more pain. I have put his jealousy into my box, and being free from that disease, he will be sufficiently cheerful under his gout. Now come into another house.
SLEEPER.
Here is a young man, and if he is not a fortunate person, the eye is not a judge of happiness; I never saw a countenance more overjoyed. And now a beautiful woman has entered the room with a face equally happy. They seem to be married. I fear their enjoyment requires disturbance out of the box.
SPIRIT.
Yes; you see how the happy scale goes down with the husband's weights: I will now question the wife; her transgression is as great. I believe the suspicion, which I have just acquired from the gouty man will exactly rectify this excess. I bestow on the husband this endowment of jealousy, and now the scales are perfectly even; and there is this advantage, that the husband's jealousy will disturb the wife as much as himself, and so correct the weights of both at the same time. We may now leave them, and advance.
SLEEPER.
Here is a man of my acquaintance, who has been very unfortunate in the loss of wealth, and the death of his children, yet he has always been cheerful. I should like to know by what art?
SPIRIT.
We can soon discover that. I have put the troubles you mention, with some others, into the scale, and against them here is only one advantage, yet it outweighs them easily. It is inscribed, "A contented Temper." I never have so much difficulty in adjusting the balance as when this blessing occurs. No misfortune can prevail against it. If I deprive this man of every pretext for being cheerful, he will remain a happy person. He has one child left; I take away the weight representing it, and the child will soon die, but it has little effect on the scales: almost immediately after the death he will be as much delighted as ever, under pretence of resignation to the will of God, but in truth because he knows not how to grieve. But I will try again to obtain redress against him. In my box is that complaint which you call tic douleureux: I obtained it from an old man in whose possession it had been for thirty years; but at last, several additional calamities accruing to him, he was able to part with this. It is a specimen of great vigour, and will have recourse to its victim so frequently as to disturb the most resolute cheerfulness. You see by the scales that it will contend with this man's happy temper, though not overcome it. We must leave him some advantage, for his disposition is incurable.
SLEEPER.
I have observed something that I must ask you to explain. I fancy I can see a thread ascending from the head of this man, and going I know not where; but it is so fine and delicate that I hardly can be sure of it.
SPIRIT.
You are right; most men have a thread of this kind annexed to their heads: we call them party threads; they are much used in the government of mankind. Follow me, and I will show you what becomes of the other ends of these threads, for we are now near the place where they are collected together. Here it is: you see a number of webs not unlike the webs of a spider. Each of these webs is a party, political or religious, for there is no difference between the two.
SLEEPER.
I cannot say I understand how these webs can have any thing to do with politics or religion.
SPIRIT.
You may observe that innumerable threads branch off from each web, and every one of those threads grows into a man's head, so that a multitude of men are thus united and tied together in what is called a party. Men are governed and controlled in a wonderful manner by these threads; for an influence passes along them from the web like a current of electricity. When a new party is wanted a web is woven, which immediately darts out its threads on every side; and when any thread approaches a man with whose understanding it has a certain affinity, it grows into his brain and remains there, whence he becomes one of the party. Sometimes a web decays, and the threads from it vanish, upon which the party is at an end. No efforts of the ablest politicians can keep men united when their web is gone, and they are no longer tied together. Sometimes a part of the threads decay, while the web they issue from remains entire; and when a man has thus lost his thread, and is connected with none of the webs, he is commonly very uneasy. It often happens, also, that two threads from different webs attach themselves to the same man, which greatly distracts and perplexes him till one of them is broken.
SLEEPER.
I see certain English words hanging in these webs, and other words hovering in the air in a singular manner.
SPIRIT.
The words in the webs are all party words, and much used in controversy. You know that every party must have a cause to contend for, but this cause is commonly no more than a word: you must have observed that in all countries there are certain venerable names which men defend with great zeal. It is not long since in England the "Constitution" was the word by which all were safe and happy, and in the cause of this word every Englishman was bound to hazard both his fortune and his life. It was as valuable to the poor as the rich, and he who had nothing else had still the "Constitution."
SLEEPER.
But the "Constitution" was the name of a certain form of government: it was the government, and not the name, that men defended so eagerly.
SPIRIT.
How could that be, when the word was applied to many different kinds of government? For though all avowed that to the "Constitution" they owed their whole prosperity, they never could agree what the "Constitution" was. Some maintained it was that particular government then in being; others denied that there was then any "Constitution," and chose some time in history when they said it was in perfection; while others affirmed that the true "Constitution" neither existed then nor ever had existed, but that it was a certain state of things which had yet to take place. Still all these politicians concurred in extolling the "Constitution," though they differed so much as to what it was that they were praising. Now, since they used this word to signify very different things, much confusion in their reasoning would have been prevented had each of them selected a different word to distinguish the kind of government that he wished to promote, but each knew too well that the measures he was endeavouring to advance would have had no value in the country had they been called by any other sound than "Constitution."
The great power of these public words that prevail at different times is apparent in the efforts of politicians to obtain their aid; and indeed there is no art of government more important, or requiring more address. A statesman is ruined if he pretends to ridicule or despise a prevailing word that molests him: his true policy is to own its virtue and efficacy, and endeavour to win it over to his own side. When "Reform" is the irresistible sound, a prudent minister in every thing he does will say he is reforming. Two parties often dispute the possession of a popular word, each asserting a title to it, and deriding the claim of the other; and sometimes it is well known that the country will be governed by that side which remains proprietor of the word.
You may observe, that whenever a new party arises in a country its first precaution is to provide itself with a word; and when the word, which has been the head of an established party, is grown old and unserviceable, with the greatest care and anxiety they appoint it a successor. Many a word has covered the earth with troubles, and that without having any force or merit, except the particular sound with which it fills the ear. In politics and religion every man chooses a word with which to associate himself; and many would be less dissatisfied at losing their property or their children than at relinquishing the word of which they are the adherents.
SLEEPER.
But it seems to me that these leading words have their authority only by representing certain opinions: I think a word has no influence, except by the good or evil that it signifies.
SPIRIT.
Then you are mistaken: a word may signify nothing, and yet be more powerful than the greatest monarch upon earth. Undoubtedly, there are men so inquisitive as to satisfy themselves whether a word means any thing before they will be zealous in its behalf, but the generality are capable of no such research; and I think it clear, that if none were eager party men except those who know why they are so, the heads of a party would find their followers reduced to a small number. During a century and a half, the two words Whig and Tory divided England into two sets of angry men. Now many a zealous Whig or Tory, had he been asked whether he could explain the difference between himself and his neighbour on the contrary side, would have thought it a very ridiculous question, well knowing how different a sound the two words make to the ear, and how different a figure they present to the eye, and therefore conceiving that the distinction between Whig and Tory must be obvious to every man who had an eye or an ear. Yet such a reasoner as this will frequently adhere to his own word with more resolution and anger than most of those who must know what is signified by a sound before they will risk their fortune in its defence.
Now, when you consider the strange authority that particular words obtain, you must have a curiosity to know what it is that makes a sound so powerful. For manifestly a party cannot select a word at pleasure, and make it popular. Many attempts are made to that purpose in vain; some ambitious word is perpetually assuming importance, but fails to attract notice, and is forgotten. Words resemble men in this particular, that out of all the pretenders to renown very few succeed. And, certainly, in the words of most authority, it is impossible to discover any intrinsic excellence. The word Whig has neither music nor dignity, and yet numbers would have hazarded their lives and fortunes in defence of this sound, which is as harsh as any that could have been made out of the alphabet.
Of those words which have attained to great eminence, many before their advancement had served in the language as common words; some had never engaged themselves in politics, but been altogether without importance, when suddenly they have been promoted to be the leaders of a party. When a word obtains this mysterious influence it seems to prevail in the air, like a distemper, seizing men one after another, and involving them in the same anxiety. An industrious tradesman, who has laboured hard to keep his children alive, if he be suddenly possessed by a prevalent word, abandons his shop, and from that moment neglects his business for the sake of a word which he can neither roast nor boil.
These words cause different troubles of mind: the office of some is to provoke discontent; and when one of these takes possession of a man, while he is enjoying every comfort of life, he instantly imagines himself the most miserable of human beings. In this emergency, he has first to find out what is his distress,—a discovery, which he is commonly unable to make by his own genius; and he is, therefore, very grateful to any person who has invention enough to supply him with something to complain of. Other words excite hope, and a man believes that by often using and insisting upon them he shall soon arrive at unusual prosperity. By one powerful word of this species, a whole country is sometimes triumphant for several months together. There are words that cause alarm; and he who is seized by one of them is in perpetual terror lest it should bring upon him some mischief of which he cannot conceive the nature.
Now you here see how all this is effected. A number of words are always hovering about these webs, and when one of them touches a web, with which it has an affinity, it is retained there like a fly in a cob-web. As soon, then, as it is fixed in the web, it transmits its efficacy down all the threads, and so takes possession of all the men annexed to that web, with different violence, according to their several tempers.
SLEEPER.
I cannot forbear saying that I think the world would be much happier without these party webs, and these deceitful words.
SPIRIT.
You are wrong; this power in words is not pernicious: life without its illusions would be full of melancholy; and you cannot give them up without some new gifts to supply their place. Besides which, if the charm and deception of words were taken away, there would be nothing left in the minds of the generality of men by which they could be guided. Words cause faction and tumult, but they also effect order and government. The webs, too, are absolutely necessary; but I have not time to explain all the reasons why men must be divided into parties.
I will now show you something far more wonderful than what you have seen yet. But I see you are going to leave me; your body requires you. Farewell.
A DISPUTE BETWEEN THE MIND
AND THE BODY.
Translated from a Greek Manuscript lately discovered.
BODY.
Since you and I first became associates, you have never ceased to revile me. I have, till now, borne your injurious language in silence, but at length venture to inquire what offence you can charge me with, for I have not hitherto been able to guess from your invectives what it is that you complain of.
MIND.
I complain of being united to a thing so base as you are, and so unsuitable to me.
BODY.
This is your usual language, and I wish to represent to you, that since we were born, and have grown up together, I am entitled to a kinder treatment, and I may add that the care, with which I have provided for your ease and enjoyment might claim some gratitude from you. I have made over to you my skull as a residence, which was prepared with great art for your reception, and fitted up with every thing that it was thought you could want.
MIND.
I admire the confidence with which you speak of having conferred an obligation on me by receiving me into your skull, instead of which you ought to be grateful to me for condescending to settle myself in such a paltry dwelling. But if you desire to know the cause of my displeasure, let me ask you, when our confederacy was first agreed upon, was it not a condition that you should be subject to my authority?
BODY.
I confess that such was the treaty.
MIND.
Then have I not reason to complain of a vassal so turbulent and seditious as I have always found you?
BODY.
I am astonished at the charge, for I cannot remember any revolt that I have been guilty of. The five senses have been appointed to transmit intelligence to you, and I believe that each of them has, with perfect regularity and despatch, given you the information that it is charged with. Besides this, all my limbs are subject to your command; every muscle waits to execute your will, and moves only when you order it. Such is the subordination that has been established, and I thought it had always been observed. But has there lately been any disaffection amongst my limbs? Has a leg or an arm refused to obey you, or have any of my fingers declared themselves independent?
MIND.
No; I do not accuse them of disobedience.
BODY.
Have any of the senses then been remiss in their duties? Perhaps the ear has failed to communicate to you a sound, of which it had received notice, or the nose may have neglected to impart a perfume that had come to it. If these senses have been guilty of suppressing any sounds or smells, which were due to you, I will enforce a greater vigilance, and take care that in future smelling and hearing shall be honestly executed.
MIND.
I do not say that either the ear or the nose has been refractory. In all such duties as these you maintain a great parade of obedience. My accusation against you is, that you are full of vices and sensual passions, which I highly disapprove of, and which you gratify in defiance of me. In vain I prohibit your luxury; my commands are broken as soon as they are pronounced; you commit follies in my presence without the least restraint; and when you have a pleasure in view, I seem not to have the least power to deter you from it. The truth is, that from head to foot you are in a state of insurrection, and yet presume to value yourself on your obedience, affirming in proof of it that you furnish a nose to smell for me whenever I desire.
I was born for virtue and contemplation, and if you had no share in mankind crime would be unknown. Your intemperate passions cover the world with vice, the punishment of which falls upon me. You commit sins, and I am involved in the consequences of them.
BODY.
You are very indulgent in excusing yourself, and very liberal in assigning to me all the wrong that is done; but it would not be difficult to prove that you concur with me in every transgression, and are very often the first instigator. Let us take as an example the vices of luxury, in which I seem to be the most active; I have no doubt you will deny that you are instrumental in my debaucheries.
MIND.
Certainly I do; you alone are guilty of every kind of intemperance, thus inflicting upon me innumerable disorders and miseries, which I have never deserved, and undermining all my vigour and enjoyment. For such is the unjust alliance which I have been forced into, that when you practise a vice the pains of it fall equally upon me. You drink to intoxication, and the next morning require me to sustain the head-ache. You by a long course of intemperance bring on the gout, and I must partake of it. You eat and drink alone, but we must ache in conjunction; and I, who do nothing towards the acquisition of gout, am involved in every pang that you have caused. My share, too, is much the most severe, since all the requisite patience is exacted from me, and whatever may be the pain, I am expected to supply fortitude. Have you the confidence to deny that you ought to bear your own gout?
BODY.
So far from owning myself only in fault, I maintain that the guilt of our luxury is to be imputed entirely to you.
MIND.
According to you, then, it is the immortal soul which dines sumptuously, while the body remains perfectly abstemious; the reasoning faculty drinks, and the mouth is not concerned in the debauch.
BODY.
This you represent with your usual want of candour; but I can easily prove that you only are to blame for every vicious banquet.
Hunger and thirst are my natural appetites, which would rest satisfied with the most simple food, were it not for the elaborate flavours, the sauces, and other sophistries, with which you mislead me. My uneducated hunger would never have attempted a discovery beyond plain meats, so that, without your fertility of invention, and your research into flavours, the gout would never have been found. Pray answer me, was it the body that invented wine? To which of my limbs did it first occur that the grape might become a delicious liquor? Was it the foot, the hand, or the shoulder, that conceived the happy thought? Look at the drunkard in his disgrace, and remember that it was the reason, the immortal mind, which devised a liquor to debase him. Such is your justice to me: you invent a pernicious liquor, pour it down my throat, till I can no longer walk or stand, and then accuse me of debauchery. My natural moderation is proved by those animals which have no mind, or at least one of so little sagacity, that it can make no discoveries in vice. The horse has the same sensations as man: like you, it has to contend with a conspiracy of the five senses, but not having an immortal reason to invent new tastes, it remains satisfied with its original enjoyments. You say it is unjust that you should feel the pains from my festivities, by which you would make it appear that I associate you with me only in gout and head-ache, and refuse to admit you as an accomplice in the delight of eating and drinking, while the truth is, that you share with me all the pleasures of a banquet, and cannot deny that I impart to you the flavour of wine as frankly as I communicate a pang of gout. You are never excluded from my palate, nor is there a taste or sensation in it which is kept a secret from you. I am not therefore to be persuaded that you have less pleasure from our enjoyments than I have; but so unreasonable are you, that while you never fail to demand from me your full share of enjoyment, you wish me to keep all the pain for myself. If you had not your part of the delight, I think you would not so easily acquiesce in our pleasures; for when any pernicious food is to be devoured, or a few supernumerary goblets are to be drained, I always find you a willing associate.
MIND.
That I deny; I never fail to remonstrate against your vices.
BODY.
Yes; when there is no banquet ready, you pass the time in admiring temperance, and sometimes you tell me that we will certainly begin to practise it; but when the opportunity arrives,—when the table is before us, and we sit down to be temperate,—you forget all our plans, and suffer us to be undone without the least expostulation.
That you may not seem to authorise our irregularities, you pretend to be careless and forgetful, while in truth you heartily enjoy what we are doing. When I stretch out my hand to the goblet, you seem to be thinking of something else; when I help myself to a luxurious dish, though you know how perniciously it is composed, you wink at the ingredients, and give me no warning against it. Nor is this all, but you frequently labour even to corroborate my imprudence; and when, from a regard to health, we hesitate to partake of something that we both love, you can instantly find some casuistry to justify the dish, affirming that it has not all the malice imputed to it, or we have tried it before, and survived, or perhaps, this once it may do no harm, with many such evasions, which I never should have had genius to invent. But if you really disapprove of intemperance, why do not you positively forbid it?
MIND.
If I sometimes want the firmness to control you, I ought not to be reproached with it by you, who betray me into every frailty. All my base appetites I receive from you; the immortal soul has no love of wine or rich viands. It is by your means only that plausible dishes ever prevail against me. Without your persuasion, the most urgent meats would fail to move me; but you give them a specious flavour, and misrepresent them to me in such a variety of tastes that I am deceived.
You are always contriving to mislead me, and it is impossible that I should defend myself against a perpetual intrigue of the five senses. You incessantly instigate me to evil, and molest me with a thousand vile desires, which never permit me to enjoy that state of reason and tranquillity which is natural to me. By your arts I am enfeebled and debased, so that even the blandishments of a goblet of wine overcome me, and then you upbraid me with my compliance.
BODY.
Nothing can be more unjust than to charge me with these evil suggestions. My voluptuousness takes place only while a meal lasts: you have enjoyment also in recollecting past pleasures, and looking forward to new. It is your own fancies that solicit you, and not my entreaties. I have no pleasure in a goblet of wine, except at the moment of commission; you expect it for hours before, revolve it in your thoughts, consider the flavour of it, and then when the peril arrives, you accuse me of your not being able to refuse the draught.