How many good authors might pursue their studies in quiet, would they never reply to their critics but on matters of fact, in which their honour may be involved. I have seen very tremendous criticisms on some works of real genius, like serpents on marble columns, wind and dart about, and spit their froth, but they die away on the pillars that enabled them to erect their malignant forms to the public eye. They fall in due time; and weak must be the substance of that pillar which does not stand, and look as beautiful, when the serpents have crawled over it, as before. Dr. Brown, in his “Letter to Bishop Lowth,” has laid down an axiom in literary criticism:—“A mere literary attack, however well or ill-founded, would not easily have drawn me into a public expostulation; for every man’s true literary character is best seen in his own writings. Critics may rail, disguise, insinuate, or pervert; yet still the object of their censures lies equally open to all the world. Thus the world becomes a competent judge of the merits of the work animadverted on. Hence, the mere author hath a fair chance for a fair decision, at least among the judicious; and it is of no mighty consequence what opinions the injudicious form concerning mental abilities. For this reason, I have never replied to any of those numerous critics who have on different occasions honoured me with their regard.”
Sir William Blackstone’s Discussion on the Quarrel between Addison and Pope was communicated by Dr. Kippis in his “Biographia Britannica,” vol. i. p. 56. Blackstone is there designated as “a gentleman of considerable rank, to whom the public is obliged for works of much higher importance.”
Dennis asserts in one of his pamphlets that Pope, fermenting with envy at the success of Addison’s Cato, went to Lintot, and persuaded him to engage this redoubted critic to write the remarks on Cato—that Pope’s gratitude to Dennis for having complied with his request was the well-known narrative of Dennis “being placed as a lunatic in the hands of Dr. Norris, a curer of mad people, at his house in Hatton-garden, though at the same time I appeared publicly every day, both in the park and in the town.” Can we suppose that Dennis tells a falsehood respecting Pope’s desiring Lintot to engage Dennis to write down Cato? If true, did Pope wish to see Addison degraded, and at the same time take an opportunity of ridiculing the critic, without, however, answering his arguments? The secret history of literature is like that of politics?
[Dennis took a strong dislike to Addison’s Cato, and his style of criticism is thus alluded to in the humorous account of his frenzy written by Pope: “On all sides of his room were pinned a great many sheets of a tragedy called Cato, with notes on the margin by his own hand. The words absurd, monstrous, execrable, were everywhere written in such large characters, that I could read them without my spectacles.” Warton says that “Addison highly disapproved of this bitter satire on Dennis, and Pope was not a little chagrined at this disapprobation; for the narrative was intended to court the favour of Addison, by defending his Cato: in which seeming defence Addison was far from thinking our author sincere.”]
Pope’s conjecture was perfectly correct. Dr. Warton confirms it from a variety of indisputable authorities.—Warton’s “Pope,” vol. iv. p. 34.
Pope himself thus related the matter to Spence: “Phillips seemed to have been encouraged to abuse me in coffee-houses and conversations; and Gildon wrote a thing about Wycherly, in which he had abused both me and my relations very grossly. Lord Warwick himself told me one day that it was in vain for me to endeavour to be well with Mr. Addison; that his jealous temper would never admit of a settled friendship between us, and to convince me of what he had said, assured me that Addison had encouraged Gildon to publish those scandals, and had given him ten guineas after they were published.”—Ed.
The strongest parts of Sir William Blackstone’s discussion turn on certain inaccurate dates of Ruffhead, in his statements, which show them to be inconsistent with the times when they are alleged to have happened. These erroneous dates had been detected in an able article in the Monthly Review on that work, April, 1769. Ruffhead is a tasteless, confused, and unskilful writer—Sir William has laid great stress on the incredible story of Addison paying Gildon to write against Pope, “a man so amiable in his moral character.” It is possible that the Earl of Warwick, who conveyed the information, might have been a malicious, lying youth; but then Pope had some knowledge of mankind—he believed the story, for he wrote instantly, with honest though heated feelings, to Addison, and sent him, at that moment, the first sketch of the character of Atticus. Addison used him very civilly ever after—but it does not appear that Addison ever contradicted the tale of the officious Earl. All these facts, which Pope repeated many years after to Spence, Sir William was not acquainted with, for they were transcribed from Spence’s papers by Johnson, after Blackstone had written. [This is fully in accordance with his previous conduct, as he described it to Spence; on the first notification of the Earl of Warwick’s news, “the next day when I was heated with what I had heard, I wrote a letter to Mr. Addison, to let him know that I was not unacquainted with this behaviour of his; that if I was to speak severely of him, in return for it, it should not be in such a dirty way; and that I should rather tell himself freely of his faults, and allow his good qualities; and that it should be something in the following manner: I then adjoined the first sketch of what has since been called my Satire on Addison. Mr. Addison used me very civilly ever after, and never did me any injustice that I know of from that time to his death, which was about three years after.”]
That Addison did occasionally divert Pope’s friends from him, appears from the advice which Lady Mary Wortley Montague says he gave to her—“Leave him as soon as you can, he will certainly play you some devilish trick else: he has an appetite to satire.” Malone thinks this may have been said under the irritation produced by the verses on Addison, which Pope sent to him, as described above. Pope’s love of satire, and unflinching use of it, was as conspicuous as Addison’s nervous dislike to it.—Ed.
The earliest and most particular narrative of this remarkable interview I have hitherto only traced to “Memoirs of the Life and Writings of A. Pope, Esq., by William Ayre, Esq.,” 1745, vol. i. p. 100. This work comes in a very suspicious form; it is a huddled compilation, yet contains some curious matters; and pretends, in the title-page, to be occasionally drawn from “original MSS. and the testimonies of persons of honour.” He declares, in the preface, that he and his friends “had means and some helps which were never public.” He sometimes appeals to several noble friends of Pope as his authorities. But the mode of its publication, and that of its execution, are not in its favour. These volumes were written within six months of the decease of our poet; have no publisher’s name; and yet the author, whoever he was, took out “a patent, under his majesty’s royal signet,” for securing the copyright. This Ayre is so obscure an author, though a translator of Tasso’s “Aminta,” that he seems to have escaped even the minor chronicles of literature. At the time of its publication there appeared “Remarks on Squire Ayre’s Memoirs of Pope.” The writer pretends he has discovered him to be only one of the renowned Edmund Curll’s “squires,” who, about that time, had created an order of literary squires, ready to tramp at the funeral of every great personage with his life. The “Remarker” then addresses Curll, and insinuates he speaks from personal knowledge of the man:—“You have an adversaria of title-pages of your own contrivance, and which your authors are to write books to. Among what you call the occasional, or black list, I have seen Memoirs of Dean Swift, Pope, &c.” Curll, indeed, was then sending forth many pseudo squires, with lives of “Congreve,” “Mrs. Oldfield,” &c.; all which contained some curious particulars, picked up in coffee-houses, conversations, or pamphlets of the day. This William Ayre I accept as “a squire of low degree,” but a real personage. As for this interview, Ayre was certainly incompetent to the invention of a single stroke of the conversations detailed: where he obtained all these interesting particulars, I have not discovered. Johnson alludes to this interview, states some of its results, but refers to no other authority than floating rumours.
The line stood originally, and nearly literally copied from Isaiah—
|
“He wipes the tears for ever from our eyes;” |
which Steele retouched, as it now stands—
|
“From every face he wipes off every tear.” |
Dr. Warton prefers the rejected verse. The latter, he thinks, has too much of modern quaintness. The difficulty of choice lies between that naked simplicity which scarcely affects, and those strokes of art which are too apparent.
The last line of Addison’s tragedy read originally—
|
“And oh! ’twas this that ended Cato’s life.” |
A very weak line, which was altered at the suggestion of Pope as it stands at present:—
|
“And robs the guilty world of Cato’s life.”—Ed. |
At the time, to season the tale for the babble of Literary Tattlers, it was propagated that Pope intended, on the death of Bolingbroke, to sell this eighteenpenny pamphlet at a guinea a copy; which would have produced an addition of as many hundreds to the thousands which the poet had honourably reaped from his Homer. This was the ridiculous lie of the day, which lasted long enough to obtain its purpose, and to cast an odium on the shade of Pope. Pope must have been a miserable calculator of survivorships, if ever he had reckoned on this.
Splendid as was the genius of Bolingbroke, the gigantic force of Warburton obtained the superiority. Had the contest solely depended on the effusions of genius, Bolingbroke might have prevailed; but an object more important than human interests induced the poet to throw himself into the arms of Warburton.
The “Essay on Man” had been reformed by the subtle aid of Warburton, in opposition to the objectionable principles which Bolingbroke had infused into his system of philosophy: this, no doubt, had vexed Bolingbroke. But another circumstance occurred of a more mortifying nature. When Pope one day showed Warburton Bolingbroke’s “Letters on the Study and Use of History,” printed, but not published, and concealing the name of the author, Warburton not only made several very free strictures on that work, but particularly attacked a digression concerning the authenticity of the Old Testament. Pope requested him to write his remarks down as they had occurred, which he instantly did; and Pope was so satisfied with them, that he crossed out the digression in the printed book, and sent the animadversions to Lord Bolingbroke, then at Paris. The style of the great dogmatist, thrown out in heat, must no doubt have contained many fiery particles, all which fell into the most inflammable of minds. Pope soon discovered his officiousness was received with indignation. Yet when Bolingbroke afterwards met Warburton he dissimulated: he used the language of compliment, but in a tone which claimed homage. The two most arrogant geniuses who ever lived, in vain exacted submission from each other: they could allow of no divided empire, and they were born to hate each other. Bolingbroke suppressed his sore feelings, for at that very time he was employed in collecting matter to refute the objections; treasuring up his secret vengeance against Pope and Warburton, which he threw out immediately on the death of Pope. I collect these particulars from Ruffhead, p. 527, and whenever, in that volume, Warburton’s name is introduced, it must be considered as coming from himself.
The reasonings of Bolingbroke appear at times to have disturbed the religious faith of our poet, and he owed much to Warburton in having that faith confirmed. But Pope rejected, with his characteristic good sense, Warburton’s tampering with him to abjure the Catholic religion. On the belief of a future state, Pope seems often to have meditated with great anxiety; and an anecdote is recorded of his latest hours, which shows how strongly that important belief affected him. A day or two before his death he was at times delirious, and about four o’clock in the morning he rose from bed and went to the library, where a friend who was watching him found him busily writing. He persuaded him to desist, and withdrew the paper he had written. The subject of the thoughts of the delirious poet was a new theory on the “Immortality of the Soul,” in which he distinguished between those material objects which tended to strengthen his conviction, and those which weakened it. The paper which contained these disordered thoughts was shown to Warburton, and surely has been preserved.
“A letter to the Lord Viscount B——ke, occasioned by his treatment of a deceased friend.” Printed for A. Moore, without date. This pamphlet either came from Warburton himself, or from one of his intimates. The writer, too, calls Pope his friend.
We find also the name of Mallet closely connected with another person of eminence, the Patriot-Poet, Leonidas Glover. I take this opportunity of correcting a surmise of Johnson’s in his Life of Mallet, respecting Glover, and which also places Mallet’s character in a true light.
A minute life of Mallet might exhibit a curious example of mediocrity of talent, with but suspicious virtues, brought forward by the accident of great connexions, placing a bustling intriguer much higher in the scale of society than “our philosophy ever dreamt of.” Johnson says of Mallet, that “It was remarkable of him, that he was the only Scot whom Scotchmen did not commend.” From having been accidentally chosen as private tutor to the Duke of Montrose, he wound himself into the favour of the party at Leicester House; he wrote tragedies conjointly with Thomson, and was appointed, with Glover, to write the Life of the Duke of Marlborough. Yet he had already shown to the world his scanty talent for biography in his “Life of Lord Bacon,” on which Warburton so acutely animadverted.
According to Johnson’s account, the Duchess of Marlborough assigned the task of writing the Life of the Duke to Glover and to Mallet, with a remuneration of a thousand pounds. She must, however, have mortified the poets by subjoining the sarcastic prohibition that “no verses should be inserted.” Johnson adds, “Glover, I suppose, rejected with disdain the legacy, and devolved the whole work upon Mallet.”
The cause why Glover declined this work could not, indeed, be known to Johnson: it arose from a far more dignified motive than the petty disdain of the legacy, which our great literary biographer has surmised. It can now be told in his own words, which I derive from a very interesting extract communicated to me by my friend Mr. Duppa, from that portion of the MS. Memoirs of Glover not yet published.
I shall first quote the remarkable codicil from the original will of her Grace, which Mr. Duppa took the pains to consult. She assigns her reasons for the choice of her historians, and discriminates between the two authors. After bequeathing the thousand pounds for them, she adds: “I believe Mr. Glover is a very honest man, who wishes, as I do, all the good that can happen, to preserve the liberties and laws of England. Mr. Mallet was recommended to me by the late Duke of Montrose, whom I admired extremely for his great steadiness and behaviour in all things that related to the preservation of our laws and the public good.”—Thus her Grace has expressed a personal knowledge and confidence in Glover, distinctly marked from her “recommended” acquaintance Mallet.
Glover refused the office of historian, not from “disdain of the legacy,” nor for any deficient zeal for the hero whom he admired. He refused it with sorrowful disappointment; for, besides the fantastical restrictions of “not writing any verses;” and the cruel one of yoking such a patriot with the servile Mallet, there was one which placed the revision of the work in the hands of the Earl of Chesterfield: this was the circumstance at which the dignified genius of Glover revolted. Chesterfield’s mean political character had excited his indignation; and he has drawn a lively picture of this polished nobleman’s “eager prostitution,” in his printed Memoirs, recently published under the title of “Memoirs of a celebrated Literary and Political Character,” p. 24.
In the following passage, this great-minded man, for such he was, “unburthens his heart in a melancholy digression from his plain narrative.”
“Composing such a narrative (alluding to his own Memoirs) and endeavouring to establish such a temper of mind, I cannot at intervals refrain from regret that the capricious restrictions in the Duchess of Marlborough’s will, appointing me to write the life of her illustrious husband, compelled me to reject the undertaking. There, conduct, valour, and success abroad; prudence, perseverance, learning, and science, at home; would have shed some portion of their graces on their historian’s page: a mediocrity of talent would have felt an unwonted elevation in the bare attempt of transmitting so splendid a period to succeeding ages.” Such was the dignified regret of Glover!
Doubtless, he disdained, too, his colleague; but Mallet reaped the whole legacy, and still more, a pension: pretending to be always occupied on the Life of Marlborough, and every day talking of the great discoveries he had made, he contrived to make this nonentity serve his own purposes. Once hinting to Garrick, that, in spite of chronology, by some secret device of anticipation, he had reserved a niche in this great work for the Roscius of his own times, the gratitude of Garrick was instant. He recollected that Mallet was a tragedy-writer; and it also appeared that our dramatic bardling had one ready. As for the pretended Life of Marlborough, not a line appears ever to have been written!
Such was the end of the ardent solicitude and caprice of the Duchess of Marlborough, exemplified in the last solemn act of life, where she betrayed the same warmth of passion, and the same arrogant caprice she had always indulged, at the cost of her judgment, in what Pope emphatically terms “the trade of the world.” She was
|
“The wisest fool much time has ever made.” |
Even in this darling project of her last ambition, to immortalise her name, she had incumbered it with such arrogant injunctions, mixed up such contrary elements, that they were certain to undo their own purpose. Such was the barren harvest she gathered through a life of passion, regulated by no principle of conduct. One of the most finished portraits of Pope is the Atossa, in his “Epistle on Woman.” How admirably he shows what the present instant proves, that she was one who, always possessing the means, was sure to lose the ends.
“Miscellaneous Poems and Translations, by several Hands,” 1712.—The second edition appeared in 1714; and in the title-page are enumerated the poems mentioned in this account, and Pope’s name affixed, as if he were the actual editor—an idea which Mr. Nichols thought he affected to discountenance. It is probable that Pope was the editor. We see, by this account, that he was paid for his contributions.
This was a new edition, published conjointly by Lintot and Lewis, the Catholic bookseller and early friend of Pope, of whom, and of the first edition, 1711, I have preserved an anecdote, p. 280.
The late Isaac Reed, in the Biog. Dramatica, was uncertain whether Gay was the author of this unacted drama. It is a satire on the inhuman frolics of the bucks and bloods of those days, who imitated the savageness of the Indians whose name they assumed.[244] Why Gay repurchased “The Mohocks,” remains to be discovered. Was it another joint production with Pope?—The literary co-partnership between Pope and Gay has never been opened to the curious. It is probable that Pope was consulted, if not concerned, in writing “The What d’ye call it?” which, Jacob says in his “Poetical Register,” “exposes several of our eminent poets.” Jacob published while Gay was living, and seems to allude to this literary co-partnership; for, speaking of Gay, he says: “that having an inclination to poetry, by the strength of his own genius, and the conversation of Mr. Pope, he has made some progress in poetical writings.”
This tragi-comical farce of “The Mohocks” is satirically dedicated to Dennis, “as a horrid and tremendous piece, formed on the model of his own ‘Appius and Virginia.’” This touch seems to come from the finger of Pope. It is a mock-tragedy, for the Mohocks themselves rant in blank verse; a feeble performance, far inferior to its happier predecessor, “The What d’ye call it?”
The brutal amusements of these “Mohocks,” and the helpless terror of London, is scarcely credible in modern days. Wild bands of drunken men nightly infested the streets, attacking and ill-using every passer-by. A favourite pastime was to surround their victim with drawn swords, pricking him on every side as he endeavoured to escape. Many persons were maimed and dangerously wounded. Gay, in his Trivia, has noted some of their more innocent practical jokes; and asks—
|
“Who has not trembled at the Mohock’s name? |
Swift, in his notes to Stella, has expressed his dread, while in London, of being maimed, or perhaps killed, by them.—Ed.
The fullest account we have of Settle, a busy scribe in his day, is in Mr. Nichols’s “Literary Anecdotes,” vol. i. p. 41.
It was the custom when party feeling ran high on the subject of papacy, towards the close of the reign of Charles the Second, to get up these solemn mock-processions of the Pope and Cardinals, accompanied with figures to represent Sir Edmundbury Godfrey, and other subjects well adapted to heat popular feelings, and parade them through the streets of London. The day chosen for this was the anniversary of the Coronation of Queen Elizabeth (Nov. 17), and when the procession reached Temple-bar, the figure of the Pope was tossed from his chair by one dressed as the Devil into a great bonfire made opposite the statue of Queen Elizabeth, on the city side of Temple-bar. Two rare tracts describe these “solemn mock-processions,” as they are termed, in 1679 and 1680. Prints were also published depicting the whole proceedings, and descriptive pamphlets from the pen of Settle, who arranged these shows.—Ed.
Thus altered in the Dunciad, book i., ver. 183—
|
“As clocks to weight their nimble motions owe, |
This original image a late caustic wit (Horne Tooke), who probably had never read this poem, employed on a certain occasion. Godwin, who had then distinguished himself by his genius and by some hardy paradoxes, was pleading for them as hardily, by showing that they did not originate in him—that they were to be found in Helvetius, in Rousseau, and in other modern philosophers. “Ay,” retorted the cynical wit; “so you eat at my table venison and turtle, but from you the same things come quite changed!” The original, after all, is in Donne, long afterwards versified by our poet. See Warton’s edition, vol. iv. p. 257. Pope must have been an early reader of Donne.
Thus altered in the Dunciad, book i. ver. 181—
|
“As, forced from wind-guns, lead itself can fly, |
Perhaps, by Chærilus, the juvenile satirist designated Flecknoe, or Shadwell, who had received their immortality of dulness from his master, catholic in poetry and opinions, Dryden.
Some may be curious to have these monkish terms defined. Causes are distinguished by Aristotle into four kinds:—The material cause, ex qua, out of which things are made; the formal cause, per quam, by which a thing is that which it is, and nothing else; the efficient cause, a qua, by the agency of which anything is produced; and the final cause, propter quam, the end for which it is produced. Such are his notions in his Phys. 1. ii. c. iii., referred to by Brucker and Formey in their Histories of Philosophy. Of the Scholastic Metaphysics, Sprat, the historian of the Royal Society, observes, “that the lovers of that cloudy knowledge boast that it is an excellent instrument to refine and make subtle the minds of men. But there may be a greater excess in the subtlety of men’s wits than in their thickness; as we see those threads, which are of too fine a spinning, are found to be more useless than those which are homespun and gross.”—History of the Royal Society, p. 326.
In the history of human folly, often so closely connected with that of human knowledge, some of the schoolmen (the commentators on Aquinas and others) prided themselves, and were even admired for their impenetrable obscurity! One of them, and our countryman, is singularly commended by Cardan, for that “only one of his arguments was enough to puzzle all posterity; and that, when he had grown old, he wept because he could not understand his own books.” Baker, in his Reflections upon Learning, who had examined this schoolman, declares that his obscurity is such, as if he never meant to be understood. The extravagances of the schoolmen are, however, not always those of Aristotle. Pope, and the wits of that day, like these early members of the Royal Society, decried Aristotle, who did not probably fall in the way of their studies. His great imperfections are in natural philosophy; but he still preserves his eminence for his noble treatises of Ethics, and Politics, and Poetics, notwithstanding the imperfect state in which these have reached us. Dr. Copleston and Dr. Gillies have given an energetic testimony to their perpetual value. Pope, in satirising the University as a nest of dunces, considered the followers of Aristotle as so many stalled oxen, “fat bulls of Basan.”
|
“A hundred head of Aristotle’s friends.” Dunciad. |
Swift has drawn an allegorical personage of Aristotle, by which he describes the nature of his works. “He stooped much, and made use of a staff; his visage was meagre, his hair lank and thin, and his voice hollow;” descriptive of his abrupt conciseness, his harsh style, the obscurities of his dilapidated text, and the deficiency of feeling, which his studied compression, his deep sagacity, and his analytical genius, so frequently exhibit.
Sprat makes an ingenious observation on the notion of those who declared that “the most learned ages are still the most atheistical, and the ignorant the most devout.” He says this had become almost proverbial, but he shows that piety is little beholden to those who make this distinction. “The Jewish law forbids us to offer up to God a sacrifice that has a blemish; but these men bestow the most excellent of men on the devil, and only assign to religion those men and those times which have the greatest blemish of human nature, even a defect in their knowledge and understanding.”—History of the Royal Society, p. 356.
Science, at its birth, is as much the child of imagination as curiosity; and, in rapture at the new instrument it has discovered, it impatiently magnifies its power. To the infant, all improvements are wonders; it chronicles even its dreams, and has often described what it never has seen, delightfully deceived; the cold insults of the cynics, the wits, the dull, and the idle, maliciously mortify the infant in its sports, till it returns to slow labour and patient observation. It is rather curious, however, that when science obtains a certain state of maturity, it is liable to be attacked by the same fits of the marvellous which affected its infancy;—and the following extract from one of the enthusiastic Virtuosi in the infancy of science, rivals the visions of “the perfectibility of man” of which we hear so much at this late period. Some, perhaps, may consider these strong tendencies of the imagination, breaking out at these different periods in the history of science, to indicate results, of which the mind feels a consciousness, which the philosopher should neither indulge nor check.
“Should these heroes go on (the Royal Society) as they have happily begun, they will fill the world with wonders; and posterity will find many things that are now but rumours, verified into practical realities. It may be, some ages hence, a voyage to the southern unknown tracts, yea, possibly the Moon, will not be more strange than one to America. To them that come after us, it may be as ordinary to buy a pair of wings to fly into remotest regions, as now a pair of boots to ride a journey. And to confer at the distance of the Indies, by sympathetic conveyances, may be as usual to future times, as to us in a literary correspondence. The restoration of grey hairs to juvenility, and renewing the exhausted marrow, may at length, be effected without a miracle; and the turning the now-comparative desert world into a paradise, may not improbably be expected from late agriculture.
“Those that judge by the narrowness of former principles and successes, will smile at these paradoxical expectations. But the great inventions of latter ages, which altered the face of all things, in their naked proposals and mere suppositions, were to former times as ridiculous. To have talked of a new earth to have been discovered, had been a romance to antiquity; and to sail without sight of stars or shores, by the guidance of a mineral, a story more absurd than the flight of Dædalus. That men should speak after their tongues were ashes, or communicate with each other in differing hemispheres, before the invention of letters, could not but have been thought a fiction. Antiquity would not have believed the almost incredible force of our cannons, and would as coldly have entertained the wonders of the telescope.”—Glanvill, Scepsis Scientifica, p. 133.
Evelyn, whose elegant mind, one would have imagined, had been little susceptible of such vehement anger, in the preface to his “Sylva,” scolds at no common rate: “Well-meaning people are led away by the noise of a few ignorant and comical buffoons, who, with an insolence suitable to their understanding, are still crying out, What have the Society done?” He attributes all the opposition and ridicule the Society encountered to a personage not usual to be introduced into a philosophical controversy—“The Enemy of Mankind.” But it was well to denounce the devil himself, as the Society had nearly lost the credit of fearing him. Evelyn insists that “next to the propagation of our most holy faith,” that of the new philosophy was desirable both for the king and the nation; “for,” he adds, “it will survive the triumphs of the proudest conquerors; since, when all their pomp and noise is ended, they are those little things in black, whom now in scorn they term philosophers and fops, to whom they must be obliged for making their names outlast the pyramids, whose founders are as unknown as the heads of the Nile.” Why Evelyn designates the philosophers as little things in black, requires explanation. Did they affect a dress of this colour in the reign of Charles II., or does he allude to the dingy appearance of the chemists?
It is not easy to credit the simplicity of these early inquirers. In a Memorial in Sprat’s History, entitled, “Answers returned by Sir Philliberto Vernatti to certain Inquiries sent by order of the Royal Society;” among some of the most extraordinary questions and descriptions of nonentities, which must have fatigued Sir Philliberto, who then resided in Batavia, I find the present:—“Qy. 8. What ground there may be for that relation concerning horns taking root, and growing about Goa?” It seems the question might as well have been asked at London, and answered by some of the members themselves; for Sir Philliberto gravely replied—“Inquiring about this, a friend laughed, and told me it was a jeer put upon the Portuguese, because the women of Goa are counted none of the chastest.” Inquiries of this nature, and often the most trivial objects set off with a singular minuteness of description, tempted the laugh of the scoffers. Their great adversary, Stubbe, ridiculing their mode of giving instructions for inquiries, regrets that the paper he received from them had been lost, otherwise he would have published it. “The great Mr. Boyle, when he brought it, tendered it with blushing and disorder,” at the simplicity of the Royal Society! And indeed the royal founder himself, who, if he was something of a philosopher, was much more of a wit, set the example. The Royal Society, on the day of its creation, was the whetstone of the wit of their patron. When Charles II. dined with the members on the occasion of constituting them a Royal Society, towards the close of the evening he expressed his satisfaction in being the first English monarch who had laid a foundation for a society who proposed that their sole studies should be directed to the investigation of the arcana of nature; and added with that peculiar gravity of countenance he usually wore on such occasions, that among such learned men he now hoped for a solution to a question which had long perplexed him. The case he thus stated:—“Suppose two pails of water were fixed in two different scales that were equally poised, and which weighed equally alike, and that two live bream, or small fish, were put into either of these pails, he wanted to know the reason why that pail, with such addition, should not weigh more than the other pail which stood against it.” Every one was ready to set at quiet the royal curiosity; but it appeared that every one was giving a different opinion. One, at length, offered so ridiculous a solution, that another of the members could not refrain from a loud laugh; when the King, turning to him, insisted that he should give his sentiments as well as the rest. This he did without hesitation, and told his majesty, in plain terms, that he denied the fact! On which the King, in high mirth, exclaimed—“Odds fish, brother, you are in the right!” The jest was not ill designed. The story was often useful, to cool the enthusiasm of the scientific visionary, who is apt often to account for what never has existed.
Pope was severe in his last book of the Dunciad on the students of insects, flowers, &c.; and R.O. Cambridge followed out the idea of a mad virtuoso in his “Scribleriad,” which he has made up from the absurd or trifling parts of natural history and philosophy. His hero is—
|
“A much-enduring man, whose curious soul |
He collects curiosities from all parts of the world; studies occult and natural sciences; and is at last beatified by electrical glories at a meeting of hermetical philosophers. This poem is elucidated by notes, which point the allusions to the works or doings of the old philosophers.—Ed.
Evelyn, who could himself be a wit occasionally, was, however, much annoyed by the scorners. He applies to these wits a passage in Nehemiah ii. 19, which describes those who laughed at the builders of Jerusalem. “These are the Sanballats, the Horonites, who disturb our men upon the wall; but let us rise up and build!” He describes these Horonites of wit as “magnificent fops, whose talents reach but to the adjusting of their perukes.” But the Royal Society was attacked from other quarters, which ought to have assisted them. Evelyn, in his valuable treatise on forest-trees, had inserted a new project for making cider; and Stubbe insisted, that in consequence “much cider had been spoiled within these three years, by following the directions published by the commands of the Royal Society.” They afterwards announced that they never considered themselves as answerable for their own memoirs, which gave Stubbe occasion to boast that he had forced them to deny what they had written. A passage in Hobbes’s “Considerations upon his Reputation, &c.,” is as remarkable for the force of its style as for that of sense, and may be applicable to some at this day, notwithstanding the progress of science, and the importance attached to their busy idleness.
“Every man that hath spare money can get furnaces, and buy coals. Every man that hath spare money can be at the charge of making great moulds, &c., and so may have the best and greatest telescopes. They can get engines made, recipients made, and try conclusions; but they are never the more philosophers for all this. ’Tis laudable to bestow money on curious or useful delights, but that is none of the praises of a philosopher.” p. 53.
Glanvill was a learned man, but evidently superstitious, particularly in all that related to witchcraft and apparitions; the reality of both being insisted on by him in a series of books which he published at various periods of his life, and which he continually worked upon with new arguments and instances, in spite of all criticism or opposition. He was a member of the Royal Society, prebend of Worcester, and rector of Bath, where he died, October 4, 1680.—Ed.
The ninth chapter in the “Plus Ultra,” entitled “The Credit of Optic Glasses vindicated against a disputing man, who is afraid to believe his eyes against Aristotle,” gives one of the ludicrous incidents of this philosophical visit. The disputer raised a whimsical objection against the science of optics, insisting that the newly-invented glasses, the telescope, the microscope, &c., were all deceitful and fallacious; for, said the Aristotelian, “take two spectacles, use them at the same time, and you will not see so well as with one singly—ergo, your microscopes and telescopes are impostors.” How this was forced into a syllogism does not appear; but still the conclusion ran, “We can see better through one pair than two, therefore all perspectives are fallacious!”
|
One proposition for sense, |
will make a tolerable syllogism for a logician in despair. The Aristotelian was, however, somewhat puzzled by a problem which he had himself raised—“Why we cannot see with two pair of spectacles better than with one singly?” for the man of axioms observed, “Vis unita fortior,” “United strength is stronger.” It is curious enough, in the present day, to observe the sturdy Aristotelian denying these discoveries, and the praises of optics, and “the new glasses,” by Glanvill. “If this philosopher,” says the member of the Royal Society, “had spared some of those thoughts to the profitable doctrine of optics which he hath spent upon genus and species, we had never heard of this objection.” And he replies to the paradox which the Aristotelian had raised by “Why cannot he write better with two pens than with a single one, since Vis unita fortior? When he hath answered this Quære, he hath resolved his own. The reason he gave why it should be so, is the reason why ’tis not.” Such are the squabbles of infantine science, which cannot as yet discover causes, although it has ascertained effects.