I have said that the public fears are kept in large urns, with this difference from the private fears, that a bottle contains the apprehensions of only one person, while an urn holds the terror of a whole party, each public fear having an urn to itself. Every urn is inscribed with the name of the fear that it preserves, and is larger or smaller according to the numbers who have been possessed by its contents. On one urn I read "Popery," on another, "Revolution."
But while I was reading the names of these past disturbances, a fearful clamour rushed into the room, sounding like the sudden shout of a vast crowd, but incessantly repeated. I found it was a public terror newly arrived from the earth, and the guardian of the room made haste to secure it. He brought an urn, the size of which he had determined by his ear, and enticed the uproar into it by a proceeding very similar to the art which inveigles a swarm of bees into a hive. This clamour was the repetition of a single word by thousands of voices. What the word was I shall not disclose; for since it has very lately been a prevalent fear, some excellent persons not yet dispossessed, on learning its departure to the moon, would be distressed by the fatal security that has befallen us.
It is possible that a skilful statesman might employ these urns in his service by letting out some terror judiciously chosen at a time favourable to its progress. I am not able to say whether it would prosper a second time, or return instantly to the moon, as having been discharged, but I think the experiment worthy of being tried by any administration that wants aid. Great care and judgment would be required in the selection of a fear for release, lest it should turn against its deliverers.
I next entered a building filled with the unavailing projects of Englishmen, and spent a short time in examining these enterprises, which are political, moral, religious, mechanical, and chemical. The collection has been much enriched by recent contributions. Many excellent designs of the present age for the benefit of England and the rest of the world are here honourably preserved. I saw numerous projects for making morality: every virtue had some contrivance to be practised by; and these schemes appeared very easy of execution, requiring nothing for their success except the universal concurrence of mankind in receiving them.
I found here plans for dispensing with all laws, and extinguishing crime by a general resolution of men in favour of virtue, for preventing the birth of children by argument, for discontinuing war throughout the world, for converting all nations to the true religion, that is, the religion of the projector.
Amongst all the noble schemes that I saw here, I most admired those which were not content with the improvement of England, but designed the good of the whole world, such as the plan last mentioned, for including all the inhabitants of the globe in one religion. The means of effecting so great a work were not described, but the inventor of this unanimity was said to have devised so infallible a project, that for spreading truth over the earth he required nothing but a steam vessel, and undertook by a few tons of coal to convince all mankind.
I saw many other English schemes for the welfare of distant nations, so that not a people was to remain vicious, ignorant, or oppressed. In examining these ample designs, I felt a secret pride in the noble spirit of some amongst my countrymen; and it appeared to me that nothing has been so much improved in modern times as the virtue of humanity. Men were formerly satisfied with relieving the distresses which they saw and heard; but there is now a large body of men in England who busy themselves with the troubles of distant nations, and consider all sufferings on the farther side of the globe as their own calamities. It is well known how many persons of all ranks in England pined away under the lashes inflicted upon the negroes in the West Indies. Others could not be cheerful as long as Greece was under the dominion of Turkey; and another party, who were not concerned either about Greece or the negroes, regarded themselves as the most unfortunate of men because in India widows sometimes burned themselves at the funerals of their husbands. How would one of the ancient moralists admire the dismay which has been caused in England by the conflagration of an old woman in the East!
It is observable that one who is thoroughly inspired with this remote pity disdains to do a kindness in his own hemisphere, and despises that superficial humanity which makes us supply the wants of those who are immediately round us. He can only pity at a distance, and feels compassion in proportion to the number of leagues that intervene between him and the sufferer. He can see with firmness the starvation of those who live near him, but shudders to think that a man may be hungry two thousand miles off. Thus he claims a share in the misery of every man at a sufficient distance: a lash inflicted on the other side of the Atlantic makes a mark upon his back—he is flogged with the negro, enslaved with the Greek, and burned to ashes with the Indian widow.
I had now been wandering in our satellite almost a fortnight, according to the earth, and almost a day according to the moon, for I arrived there in the morning, and the day was now almost ended. I have not related all that I saw, but selected a few of the most remarkable places that I visited; nor have I instructed the world in what manner I provided for my own personal comforts, according to the practice of many travellers, who rescue every one of their meals from oblivion, and never eat or drink without recording it. I have also omitted all mention of the moon's inhabitants, because they are to be fully described by other travellers.
When I left the House of Projects, I was informed that I was very near to the Valley of Lost Time, and I hastened towards it, that I might observe whatever was there, before it should be dark. I descended into the valley, and found myself surrounded by the sounds of innumerable clocks. These sounds did not proceed from any visible mechanism, but lived in the air like the other preserved clamours. They are the ghosts of minutes and hours that have perished. It was remarkable that in this confused clamour, every man knew his own time, and could distinguish the hours he had lost when he heard them struck; yet he knew not what it was that discovered them to him: all were alike in sound; only at the striking of particular hours, he was seized with a conviction that he heard his own time.
There were many persons in the valley, and I observed that some of them heard their own lost hours with great emotion. They turned pale, trembled, and were overpowered by the reproach. And not only could a man discern his own losses amongst these sounds, but knew what particular hour or minute of his past life he was listening to, which very much aggravated the rebuke. Men heard the striking of the very crisis which might have saved, enriched, or advanced them. In some men the emotion from these sounds continued a long time, others soon recovered themselves.
I saw two or three running about in chase of their time with a hat, as a boy follows a butterfly. The hours were very nimble, escaping by an irregular flight, and the pursuit was long continued in vain. At last one of these men succeeded in the capture of a portion of time, which he had followed with much perseverance. The chase being finished close to me, I heard the stifled hours striking under his hat. As he had been present in the room of lost spirits when I had shown the means of recovering mirth from the phial containing it, he had contracted a high opinion of my skill and invention in rendering available these regained prizes, and he now earnestly consulted me about the means of making the time under his hat serve the purpose which it ought to have been applied to before. He told me he was a London tradesman, and not very prosperous, through the misapplication of three particular days which he now had in captivity. A few years ago he had been in pursuit of a rich widow, from whom though he had extorted no promise, yet he had been convinced that she was waiting only till a decorous time had elapsed since her first husband. But this confidence ruined him: he was absent three days with some friends; and on returning to his vocation found the lady had so much resented his neglect of office as to supply his place with another candidate, whom soon after she married. "Now," he continued, "I have caught these three days, and here they are, but still I know not how to make them answer my purpose. However, since you, sir, could restore a lady her spirits out of a phial, perhaps you can restore me my widow from under a hat."
"I fear," said I, "your case is beyond my skill; for I know not how the noise under your hat can by any artifice prevent the widow from having been married as you remember. Whatever use you make of these sounds, I fear you must still have misemployed the three days and lost the widow. It appears to me, that the only way of retrieving lost time is to make better use of what remains; I therefore advise you to make diligent search for another rich widow, and when you have found one, remember you are not to have a respite of three days."
"So, then, I have come to the moon in vain," he said; "and I may as well let these three days go again, after I have taken so much trouble to catch them."
"No," I answered: "a contrivance occurs to me by which, perhaps, they may be useful."
"What is that?" he inquired eagerly.
"You may shut them up in a box," said I, "and always keep them by you, to remind you of former neglect, and enforce vigilance in case of another widow." He seemed to think this an ineffectual invention for correcting his former mistake; however he carried away his three days with a discontented face.
Another man, who had stood in dismay, and quite overcome by the striking of his lost hours, hearing what I said, declared he would try the same expedient, and keep his misemployed time in a box for the sake of prudence and industry in time to come; and immediately he betook himself to the chase.
I saw a pretty young woman in pursuit of some portion of time, which she seemed to consider a valuable opportunity. It led her up and down at her utmost speed: but at last, as I stood in its course, it was entangled in the skirts of my coat; I seized it before it could escape, and presented it to her. It was a single hour: she accepted it with joy; but I could not prevail upon her to tell me what advantage she had lost with this hour. This young woman, and some other persons, followed their time very earnestly with a confused notion of benefit from it, when it should be caught, though without any plan for applying it to a real purpose. The truth was, that most of those who heard the striking of their own hours, by awe and regret from the sound, were incapable of thinking accurately, and were driven by a desire of retrieving the past they knew not how.
Without any such reproach, it was impossible to stand in this valley, and hear the destruction of time all round, without sorrow for the waste of this commodity. There was a reasoning in the place not to be opposed. I considered that time and money being the two things most earnestly desired in our world, the ingenuity of men is chiefly exercised in devising arts for the waste of both. It appeared to me also that amongst all the errors in the plan of a human being, the most fatal is that the present moment should be so much the most plausible instant of our lives, and capable of persuading us to whatever it chooses. By universal agreement and practice, the present time is for ease and enjoyment, the future for abstinence, resolution, and insatiable industry; and since the present moment is only one, while our future moments, by the blessing of Providence, may be many, we judge that this distribution of time is greatly to the advantage of industry and virtue, and we seem to be treating ourselves with admirable severity, when we allot no portion of our lives to pleasure, except the present moment; but in this computation it is forgotten that life is made of present moments. The bargain, however, is concluded; and pleasure exacts the observance of it by still claiming the present moment, while industry, abstinence, and other virtues included in the agreement, stand waiting for their turn with helpless simplicity.
While I was engaged in these thoughts, I first heard the striking of my own lost hours, which impressed upon me a horror that I cannot describe. I knew each particular hour as I heard it, and remembered the abused opportunities which I had long before ceased to lament. I stood in the persuasion and despair of having lived in vain, and no more thought of inquiring into the grounds of this trouble and conviction, than we do in an anxious dream. Suddenly I was seized with a desire of recovering what I had thrown away: I reproached myself with wandering for amusement in the moon, and resolved to return without delay, in order to use my remaining hours with rigorous frugality. I instantly set out, and travelled with great zeal, nor did I lose the impression from the sound of my lost time till I had nearly completed the journey.
At last, however, the illusion left me, and I was able to regard time as the frivolous bauble which I have always considered it, except under the deception of this valley. For however scrupulously we may turn every moment to advantage, our most probable conclusion in every undertaking is, that we are labouring to provide ourselves with repentance; and to me it seems that a secure contempt of time, and an easy trifling with that portion of it called human life, is the only adequate remedy against the common lot of man, who, according to a celebrated author, "is born crying, lives complaining, and dies disappointed."
Is it not a great folly that we, who know we are immortal beings, should always perplex ourselves about the hurry and use of time? For when we have before us such a supply as eternity, it is surely absurd to be sparing of hours and days.
I regret that by this groundless consternation my travels in the moon were so prematurely ended. I design another journey, and hope it may produce something more worthy of being read than this imperfect narrative.
(A Cave in Mount Hara.)
MAHOMET SPEAKS.
I begin to be very much tired of this cave, and my thoughts grow so dull, that I have added only one line to the Koran during the last two days. Yet here I must stay; for if I go out, and live amongst men, they will never allow me to be a prophet; my doctrine will not be received unless it comes out of a cave. Such is the nature of men: provided they have not seen me for a month, and know not where I have been, they are convinced of my intelligence with heaven, and do not consider that any man might hide himself for a month, and so be a prophet. If they see me write, they will not receive my words as revelation; but whatever I compose out of their sight is unquestionably inspired. Certainly this solitude is irksome. My only companion is that spider on the wall. I begin to think he is the happiest of the two: it has never occurred to him to be a prophet, and write a Koran, but he keeps his web in repair, and eats flies, like other spiders.
SPIDER.
Are you already weary of your mission?
MAHOMET.
Great God! what do I hear? Surely it was the spider that reproved me in a human voice!
SPIDER.
Yes, it was I who spoke; and my exercise of this faculty, by no means common in a spider, may renew your diligence by showing the protection of God. But pray recover from your alarm: in the course of your mission you have met worse dangers than a talking spider. The truth is, though you have seen me mending my web, and catching flies, I am, nevertheless, far from being a spider, but one of the most important angels in heaven, who have been sent to watch over you in this concealment. I have been grieved to see you make so little progress for the last two days: you have remained with your eyes fixed, and seemingly in thought, but your meditations have not increased the Koran.
MAHOMET.
It is true, thou sacred angel, or spider, whichever I am to call you, for my thoughts have been troubled by doubts.
SPIDER.
What have you been doubting about?
MAHOMET.
I was prepared to write a chapter enjoining prayer. I was going to command all men to kneel at certain times for prosperity, obedient children, and long life; but when I revolved the matter in my mind, I could not help acknowledging to myself, that prayer is a very ineffectual device, for a man may pray every hour in the day, and fail in all his undertakings. What multitudes of prayers are offered, and how few accomplished! With what confidence then can I bid men improve their fortunes by prayer, when so little sagacity is required to see that praying does not regulate events?
Men will be apt to reason concerning the blessings they want as I reasoned about the mountain. Having called it several times without observing in it the least preparation for complying with my request, I concluded that the ordinary exertion of my own legs would be a more effectual expedient for reaching it, than any entreaties; and so a man, who has tried to grow rich by prayer will be convinced that human industry is far more efficacious.
And not only is the event men pray for withheld, but the very contrary is often sent. A man asks for an increase of wealth, and accordingly loses what he has; he begs a long life for his son, and the boy dies on the following day. Men might almost be tempted to pray against their wishes, in hope of having them fulfilled. These things have stopped the Koran. I have thought of cities broken into for desolation, while the inhabitants pray for defence; of the merchant a sudden beggar by storms, while he raises his hands to God for a blessing on his ships; of the infant that dies while the mother prays it may be an honoured man; and then, when I would have ordered all men to pray, and be safe, the pen has dropped from my hand. Thus my thoughts concerning the goodness of God have been disturbed: how might he increase the happiness of men by yielding to their prayers! and his refusals seem the more obdurate, because, as it appears to our comprehension, he might give men all they ask without any inconvenience to himself.
SPIDER.
I find you are still impeded by the infirmities of an earthly mind. But I was sent here for your inspiration, with power to show you some of the secrets of the world; and I will now reveal to you sights that may help to explain these difficulties.
MAHOMET.
To find such sights we must certainly leave this cave, which is extremely wanting in incidents. Your stratagems against the flies are the only events that I have observed since I have lived here.
SPIDER.
We shall not confine our observations to this cave, which, as you say, is barren of adventures.
MAHOMET.
Then if we are to go abroad, is it advisable that you should travel in the disguise of a spider, or will you not take a more convenient shape?
ANGEL.
Am I a spider now?
MAHOMET.
God is great! I see the beautiful form of an angel descending from the web. How little did I imagine it was an angel that I saw spinning and catching flies!
ANGEL.
We are going to leave the earth, and soar far away. Now that we are out of the cave, take my hand, and we shall mount without an effort. We are soon in the sky; look down, and see what a noble sight the earth is!
MAHOMET.
I see many different countries and tribes of men.
ANGEL.
Your task is to bring all those nations to the same belief?
MAHOMET.
I fear that will be difficult; for I never yet could induce any two of my wives to think alike. You know that I have eleven; and in every dispute they never fail to invent eleven opinions, of which each takes one.
ANGEL.
God will give you the faculty of persuasion. You will be great while you live, and after death still greater, being employed to govern the world.
MAHOMET.
I have heard before of the authority to be given me after death, and have thought with some alarm of rising out of my grave governor of the world; for, as I understand the office, it must require great experience: and if without previous instruction or practice I shall be expected to regulate day and night, summer and winter,—if the fruit, the trees, the corn, must grow by my art,—if, at the moment I awake, I shall be required to rain, to hail, to thunder, and to lighten in proper places and at the right juncture,—if at sea I am to make a calm and storm alternately, and to drown a part of those who sail with exact judgment,—if, besides this, I am to advance and to ruin empires, to be present at every battle, and conquer on the just side,—if, in the midst of all this business, I must every moment be at leisure to hear the prayers of all mankind with perfect equity,—if I must also know at every moment what every man alive is thinking of, which I believe is one of the functions of Heaven,—if I am at proper intervals to furnish an earthquake and a comet, to say nothing of the moon and stars, which must every night be kept in their places,—if, in short, every thing that happens in the world is to be done by me, I fear that for some time there must be great disturbance, for with my present knowledge I should certainly be a very unskilful providence: an active colleague should be given me at first.
ANGEL.
Fear not; nothing too difficult will be imposed upon you. But now look down upon the earth.
MAHOMET.
We are at a great distance from it; and yet I see clearly the figures of men, and what they are doing.
ANGEL.
Your eyes are strengthened for that purpose. You have now more than mortal sight, otherwise all would be confusion.
MAHOMET.
I see many on their knees, of whom, perhaps, not one will obtain what he prays for; and I see men engaging themselves in numberless undertakings: they are all full of hope, yet how few will accomplish what they attempt! This it is that troubles me: if God is good, why does he not grant to every man his desire?
ANGEL.
You may try that way of governing the world if you please: I can give you for the time an absolute power over the whole human race.
MAHOMET.
Then I grant to all human beings the accomplishment of their present wishes. But what do I see? Every mortal upon earth has fallen down, and seems to be dead!
ANGEL.
Yes; the whole human race is in a moment destroyed. This is the accomplishment of men's wishes.
MAHOMET.
Did men wish to be dead?
ANGEL.
There was not one who was not wished dead by some other, and thus, by your comprehensive kindness, all mankind have died together. Had not you had a particular exemption, you would have been included in the general fate.
MAHOMET.
Is it possible that such should be the hatred of men towards each other?
ANGEL.
It is not hatred which has caused this universal destruction. One man has wished the death of another that he might succeed him in his riches; another has desired the decease of a friend that he might gain possession of his widow, being a beautiful woman. Some, indeed, wish the destruction of their friends from pure hatred, but the chief part of mankind would put others to death without the least anger or dislike. You may see, however, that the wishes of men interfere a little with each other, and that to comply with them all would not be the most humane way of governing the world.
MAHOMET.
I confess my error; but how is this loss to be repaired? Will God create a new race?
ANGEL.
No; I can recall these people to life. There! you see them start up, and resume their employments, quite unconscious of having been dead.
MAHOMET.
And I suppose they have again begun to wish each other dead with the same vigour as before.
ANGEL.
No doubt. But come, I have more to show you: we must ascend to the threshold of heaven itself.
MAHOMET.
The earth has almost disappeared; we must be travelling very rapidly.
ANGEL.
Yes; angels never lose time in a journey; and we are now arrived at the place where the prayers of mankind find an entrance into heaven. We are in the midst of them, as you may hear. They are from all countries; and you have now suddenly the gift of understanding all languages, that you may give them audience.
MAHOMET.
What a clamour! I hear the names of various blessings, in different tones of entreaty; but it is impossible to distinguish them. All mankind seem to be praying at once.
ANGEL.
When a prayer is uttered upon earth, it immediately flies up to this place, where the crowd of petitions wait to be admitted into heaven. To avoid confusion, they are let in one by one, and each, till its turn comes, remains here, praying incessantly, as you hear. I am going to knock at this door, and when it is opened, we must hasten through, lest any of the prayers should slip in with us. There, we are now within the threshold of heaven, and can no longer hear the clamour. When I open this other small door, the prayers will come in one after another; and power is given to you to grant whichever you may think just. But I must tell you, that when there is more than one prayer from different men, concerning the same event, they come together, that you may reconcile them as well as you can. The door is open; now listen.
FIRST PRAYER.
Grant, oh God, that my wife, Hafna, may bear a son.
MAHOMET.
This prayer, at least, is innocent, and can injure no man.
ANGEL.
Stay, before you comply with it, hear the next.
SECOND PRAYER.
Grant, oh God, that Hafna may be childless; then the wealth of her husband will descend to my children.
ANGEL.
Now grant these two prayers,—let Hafna have a son, and let her be childless.
MAHOMET.
It seems there is as much contention amongst the wishes of men as amongst my wives.
FIRST PRAYER.
May a north wind blow over the Egean sea, that my ship may return.
SECOND PRAYER.
Oh, let a south wind blow steadily on the Egean sea, to bring home my son.
MAHOMET.
I paused in expectation of hearing that the east and west winds also might be useful on the Egean sea.
ANGEL.
Here are two prayers coming from a man and his wife.
MAHOMET.
Surely they will agree better.
FIRST PRAYER.
Oh God, may it soon please thee to take my wife into heaven, for whithersoever I go her tongue followeth me.
SECOND PRAYER.
Oh God, may it please thee to conduct my husband into heaven, for upon earth he is useless and grievous.
MAHOMET.
Well, this worthy pair agree exactly in their wishes for each other.
ANGEL.
You have placed yourself there to be prayed to, that you might correct the severity of Providence, and you have not granted one prayer yet.
MAHOMET.
I have heard enough already to learn that the prayers of men must be disappointed.
ANGEL.
If you begin to distrust your project of benefiting the human race by compliance, and do not like your office of hearing prayers so well as you expected, you shall give up the post, and I will then show you the way in which the fate of prayers is decided.
MAHOMET.
I am ready to resign my power, and would rather see how the wishes of men are disposed of by Divine Wisdom.
ANGEL.
I must shut the door, then, and keep the prayers out for a minute. You must know that this is one of the duties which the angels perform, without a visible interposition of God, though all is secretly guided by his power and wisdom. Here is a net, which I fasten over the small door, so that it hangs as a bag, and every prayer that enters the door must fall into it.
MAHOMET.
What! can a prayer be caught in a net, like a fish?
ANGEL.
You shall see: open the door, and shut it again as soon as the first prayer has passed.
PRAYER.
Oh God, may I obtain the command of a province.
MAHOMET.
What a miracle is this! I see a bird flapping in the net, and not a prayer; yet no bird came through the door.
ANGEL.
Words may assume a visible form at the command of God. That bird is the prayer, which you heard ask for the command of a province. This net has the power of enduing a prayer with wings, and all the appearance of a bird.
MAHOMET.
But what advantage is there in the change? I should have imagined the words would interpret the man's wish more clearly than the bird. If a man asked me for a province in good Arabic I should at least know what he wanted, but if he only sent me a bird, I think I should hardly understand the solicitation.
ANGEL.
You will see that the prayer in its present shape is better qualified to succeed than when it was only a sound. Look into the great urn that stands near you.
MAHOMET.
It is filled with little scraps of parchment.
ANGEL.
On each of those scraps, which appear to be parchment, is written the name of some human being now alive, and also the name of some blessing or advantage, such as his circumstances and the course of events may bring within his reach. When the prayer of a man, having become a bird by this net, gains possession of the parchment inscribed with what it prays for and with his name, it carries the prize down to him, and he obtains the enjoyment of his wish. I will now let out this prayer which flutters impatiently in the net, and is eager to carry back a province in its bill. You see it is no sooner at liberty than it soars round the mouth of the urn by a sure instinct. It has dashed down, and is bringing out the prize: I will catch it, that we may examine the province before it goes. Here you see on one side is written the name of a Greek, on the other, "A province under the Emperor." But this is not all that the parchment is charged with: it is closely folded up, and inside are written the consequences to this Greek of governing a province. I will open it that we may see whether the bird is carrying him so valuable a gift as he believes. Inside are these words, as the fate of the governor, "Falsely accused to the Emperor of extortion; recalled, and put to death." I fold it up again and restore it to the bird, which seizes it eagerly, and has flown off through another opening.
MAHOMET.
But how is the bird to enforce execution of the parchment?
ANGEL.
It repairs to the man from whom it proceeded as a prayer, stands on his head, and fixes the parchment to his forehead, where it firmly remains. The bird then takes wing again, and soars round the man till it dies in the air. This parchment on the forehead of a man gives him authority over events, all obstacles yield before it, and he soon attains his wish. The parchment adheres to him till every thing written in it has been fulfilled, and then drops off. This governor of a province will retain it till his death, which it is to effect.
MAHOMET.
But I have never seen a man with a parchment on his forehead, and a bird flying round his head.
ANGEL.
These things are not subject to mortal eyes: you are now in possession of a divine sight, which I shall take from you at your return to the earth. But I have adjusted the net again,—let in another prayer.
PRAYER.
Oh God, grant that I may become emperor after the present sovereign, and I will reign with virtue and the happiness of all.
ANGEL.
This is a Greek, who begs to sit on the throne of Constantinople.
MAHOMET.
And he promises good government as an inducement to God to elect him. If promising were a sufficient title to success, every man might claim the empire.
ANGEL.
There are many suppliants, who in praying enter into certain engagements very advantageous to heaven, but the agreement seldom is observed when the prayer has been granted. This prayer for an empire flutters eagerly in the net; we will let it out to search the urn.
MAHOMET.
It soars round and round, and looks disappointed.
ANGEL.
There is no parchment belonging to it in the urn, which its instinct has discovered. It will soon die, its embassy being finished.
MAHOMET.
It has suddenly vanished as it flew.
ANGEL.
That is the death of a prayer, it leaves no remains behind. Let in another.
FIRST PRAYER.
Oh God, may I obtain the beautiful Julia in marriage.
SECOND PRAYER.
Let me marry Julia, oh God, or I perish.
ANGEL.
These are two rival prayers from Rome. The last of the suppliants threatens to die, if God does not effect his marriage with Julia.
MAHOMET.
Here are two birds in the net: how shall we settle their claims to the parchment?
ANGEL.
Let them both out together.
MAHOMET.
They are fighting over the urn.
ANGEL.
Yes; one will kill the other. Sometimes we have a combat of a dozen prayers, which fight till only one is left alive, and the survivor carries off the parchment, if there should happen to be one.
MAHOMET.
One of these birds has disappeared.
ANGEL.
It is dead, and the other has gained possession of the parchment. I will seize him, and examine the lot, which has busied these two competitors. It says that the successful lover is to be poisoned by his wife two years after marriage. Now you see that those are often the happiest whose emissary finds no prize for them in the urn. Let us hear the next suitor.
PRAYER.
Oh God, restore to me my property, or who will praise thy justice upon earth?
MAHOMET.
That is a very reproachful prayer.
ANGEL.
Yes; the Supreme Being is often required to interpose on pain of losing all reputation for equity. See how the bird pecks the net, and struggles to reach the urn. You may observe, that each bird in behaviour and importunity corresponds with the words of the prayer it sprung from. I will let him out: he finds no parchment; then Providence must undergo the imputation that has been threatened. The prayer dies in great anger.
But as you have now learned something of the management of these prayers, you shall hear some petitions of a different kind. The prayers that you have heard were all sincere, and offered with a desire of accomplishment; but there are also hypocritical prayers, the success of which is not wished by those who utter them; they come to this other door. The contrivance of the bird and the urn is not practised with them, but they are let in, and very soon perish.
MAHOMET.
But do men ever pray for what they do not wish to have?
ANGEL.
Very often; they ask what they ought to wish for. I will open the door to a few of these pretenders; now listen.
FIRST PRAYER.
Oh God, grant that I may every day increase in virtue.
SECOND PRAYER.
Oh let strength be given me to withstand the wife of my neighbour Ali, for she is beautiful.
THIRD PRAYER.
May I have resolution to abandon my intemperance in drinking.
FOURTH PRAYER.
May God make my enemies happy.
MAHOMET.
What admirable prayers! But I observe that they are pronounced with very little importunity: a man does not pray for temperance so fervently as for the death of his wife.
ANGEL.
These prayers are called virtue by those who utter them. There are many who think that to pray for virtue is equivalent to the practice of it, and they therefore pray to be good in preference to being so, as the less troublesome undertaking of the two. If these devout people believed there was any danger of their prayers being heard, they would be very cautious of praying for virtue, but they think God is not likely to force goodness upon them because they ask for it; they have full confidence in their own fidelity to pleasure, and rest secure that they can still be as voluptuous as they please, though they should pray every hour to become austere. Thus the man whom you heard asking aid against the wife of his neighbour Ali considers that he has not the less chance of success in his pursuit of her by praying against it, and he hopes, too, that his prayer may be some little atonement for the actual sin. But I think for the present you have heard enough, and can now justify God in listening inexorably to so many prayers.
MAHOMET.
But still there is a difficulty: I have seen that many prayers are rejected, and many are fulfilled with ruin, so that I am at a loss to discover the utility of praying at all; and it seems to me that if men lived by their own endeavours without prayer their prosperity would not be lessened. To what purpose or benefit, then, should I enjoin prayer in the Koran, and how can I recommend it? If I order men to pray, and tell them that they will be equally fortunate without it, I think they will hardly take the trouble; and if I affirm that by prayer they may be rich, of long life, and the parents of many children, I shall be guilty of a great deception.
ANGEL.
But men must be deceived for their welfare: they must believe in the prosperity from prayer, that there may be religion in all they do. You talk of deception—man is born to be deceived: the child is deceived by its parent, subjects by the king, worshippers by the priest, and all mankind are deceived by God. Man is cheated by his senses, his imagination, his reason: from his first hour to his last he is under illusions, without which he would not be a man.
MAHOMET.
I believe it is so; then why should I scruple to assist in the conspiracy?
ANGEL.
It is true that fraud and deceit are censured amongst men, and it must be so for the intercourse of human life; but as we are now a long way from the earth, and cannot be overheard, I may say plainly that sincerity is a private virtue only, and that men cannot be prosperously ruled without being deceived.
MAHOMET.
I am impatient to deceive them.
ANGEL.
I will conduct you back to your cave: at a future time you shall see more. Take my hand, and we will descend.
MAHOMET.
How rapidly the earth increases in size! There is the Red Sea, that is Mecca.
ANGEL.
There—you are now in your cave again, and may resume your studies; I hope with more progress.
MAHOMET.
Are you going back into your web?
ANGEL.
No; I shall not dwindle into a spider again, but shall still watch over you unseen, and be at hand to instruct you in any emergency of the Koran.
MAHOMET.
Before you leave me, there is still one question that I would propose to you.
ANGEL.
Ask what you will.
MAHOMET.
First, then, I inquire, whether God foresees with certainty all the future actions of men.
ANGEL.
Undoubtedly he does.
MAHOMET.
All that men are to do, then, is already certain, being foreseen, and no man is free to perform an action or not. Now that men should hereafter be punished for doing what they cannot avoid is a kind of justice so mysterious that I confess I am quite unable to see the force or excellence of it; and all men are in trouble to understand this difficulty. I was lately questioned about it by one of my friends, and being without an answer, I had no expedient except to assume suddenly a face of deep meditation, as not having heard him, and in reverence he forbore to repeat his question. This contrivance for silencing inquirers may once be successful, but my followers will not always receive a fit of musing as a satisfactory explanation; and if you do not supply me with a better answer concerning destiny, they will begin to think that my knowledge of the matter is not very profound. I confess that I know not how to approach the subject, and all my thoughts only convince me how ignorant I am of it. However, I have supposed that I could not be altogether silent on this topic in the Koran, and that if I could not make it clearer, I must at least make it more mysterious. Accordingly, I have written something to show that men are at liberty, and subject to fate at the same time; and if my disciples can find any meaning in what I have said they must have uncommon sagacity. Now by giving me an insight into this dark subject you will greatly increase both my knowledge and authority.—God is great! the angel has suddenly vanished, and that just at the juncture when he was to have explained liberty and fate. This expedient resembles mine when I had recourse to musing as an explanation. What! is this matter unknown even to the angels? Well, I must rest in ignorance, and look the more confident when questions are asked. And now to the Koran again.
I know not with what indulgence or resentment you, who are the reigning sovereign, may receive advice from your intended successor, but since your actions may tend to my advantage or trouble, I conceive myself entitled to declare my opinion of your conduct.
Though I have received many messages and injunctions from you, I have never before attempted an answer; and indeed the Present Age has hitherto always supposed itself secure from the reproaches of Posterity, and has been able to boast of its benefits to future times without fear of contradiction. You know that during your life I am confined to an island remote from your territories, and I have till now forborne from writing to you, because I have been told that no ship from this island could reach you. Having, however, found at last an expedient, by which, perhaps, a messenger may arrive at your court, I have resolved to send you a few observations, though without any absolute certainty that you will ever read them.
Although the seas between us are acknowledged impassable to a ship from my country, you have imagined them safe and easy to those which sail in the contrary direction, and leave your dominions for my island. But in this you are greatly mistaken; for of the innumerable ambassadors, whom you despatch to me, a few only arrive, and from them I receive a melancholy narrative of multitudes perishing by the rocks and other perils of the voyage. And besides the natural toil and danger of these seas, I learn that many of your messengers are lost by want of preparation and skill, by ignorance of the sea, and by faulty ships. It is said that some of your packets founder as soon as they have left the harbour, many in the middle of the voyage, and some within sight of my island. The ruins and fragments cast up on my shore from time to time inform me how many expeditions you fit out for destruction.
However, I have learned something of you from the few more skilful adventurers who have accomplished the voyage; and as from their information I find that you are imposing duties upon me, for which I am not likely to have either time or inclination, I shall make a few remarks upon these labours, which you think yourself entitled to leave for me.
In many particulars, I believe you only fall into that mistake, common to every age, of expecting too much observance from your successor; but in addition to that, you may perhaps have other errors of your own invention. I understand that upon the most trifling event you please yourself with considering what posterity will say about it. Now, while I gratefully acknowledge the care you take to supply me with conversation, I would represent to you that you can hardly expect me to decline all enterprises and employments for the sake of having full leisure to talk of what you have been doing. You seem to think it but reasonable, that when you are dead I shall be occupied incessantly with considering your exploits, and celebrating your praises; but you forget that I shall always have my own exploits to consider, and myself to praise. It is impossible that I should undertake in your behalf all the study and research which you impose upon me without neglecting altogether my own affairs, my hopes and dangers, and that only in order to make you famous. This, I think, cannot be expected; for although men will endure great labours for their own renown, no person has been known to forfeit his ease, pleasure, and reputation for the fame of another.
I am told that you expect me to understand the affairs of your reign much better than you do yourself. I am to discover infallibly the nature of every event, to expose the fraud of every intrigue, and to manifest the true origin of all that now passes before your eyes.
When there has been some mysterious transaction, in which there is guilt and blame without any certainty of the person upon whom it ought to fall, you desire your subjects to be under no concern, and not to perplex themselves with conjectures, for Posterity will inquire into the matter, and disgrace those who deserve it. Yet I should have thought you must have better opportunities of information about what is now passing than I am likely to command when all concerned in the event are dead. But I believe the advantage which makes Posterity infallible is, that none remain to contradict whatever he may choose to conclude. But before you can be sure I shall arrive at just decisions upon all events in your reign, you must know whether I shall be at the trouble of examining them at all; and I cannot help suspecting that I shall be more attentive to the most trivial occurrence which I see passing than to all the events which were seen by you.
I have learned, also, that you act with the most wanton caprice in distributing honours and rewards amongst your subjects. The clamorous become great; the good, the silent, and the useful remain obscure: and it is said that to excuse the little pains you take in discovering and advancing true merit, you often allege that Posterity will rectify all your mistakes concerning the characters of men. This seems to me a singular kind of justice; and I cannot think that a man of merit is adequately rewarded by the hope of its being acknowledged after his death that he ought to have been famous while he lived. But I warn you that I shall not think myself under any obligation to adjust the claims of your contemporaries. This is one of the most unreasonable tasks that you impose upon me; you find it difficult to distinguish the good and bad qualities in that multitude which is soliciting your notice, and therefore transfer the decision to me, as if the characters of men were most easily discerned when the means of information are lost. I am expected not only to furnish honour for all whom you have unjustly kept in obscurity, but also to degrade those whom you have exalted without reason, and you seem to think that you atone sufficiently for raising so many undeserving men when you charge Posterity to deprive them of their honours.
I am told that by this uncertainty in assigning honours, and this custom of referring all kinds of merit to my decision, you have taught great numbers of busy men, whose names can never reach my ear, to expect what they call justice from me. When there have been two competitors for a public honour, the unsuccessful one invokes my aid, and desires that I will not fail to expose the arts of his adversary and to manifest his own probity, when the truth is, that I am never to hear of the dispute, and therefore cannot reasonably be expected to settle it. I find that I am become the common refuge of all the unhappy men who are disappointed in their hopes of your favour. He who was to have been an orator and statesman, but instead of that dies unheard of in a wretched garret, entreats me with his last breath to make him as great a man as he ought to have been.
But I hear that of all those who expect my praise the most numerous and most confident are the authors. The scribbler, who has been guilty of a tiresome volume which you have refused to read, still writes with the same industry as at first, for he has patience, and can wait for the applause of Posterity. He who has had the good fortune to be read and commended by you has no reason to suppose that I shall be less pleased by his work; and he whom you have censured or refused to read is but the more confident of my applause from your known neglect of merit. Thus either to fail or to succeed assures an author of favour with Posterity, whence I must regard with despair the library that I am expected to peruse.
It is said that almost all your subjects are authors, so that he who has not written a book is accused of affecting singularity; and I hear you read the living writers with so much industry that very few complain of being overlooked. Now I am credibly informed that there is only one writer of your whole reign whom I am likely to study: I conceal his name, that each may believe it to be himself, and the vigour and hope of your authors may not be diminished.
But I must inform all of your contemporaries who, either from their writings or their actions, are confident of my future praise, that when I come to the throne, a man of but moderate abilities, provided he be alive, will engage more of my notice and conversation than the most renowned of your dead subjects.
But my neglect is not the only thing which these ambitious men have to fear; the loss of their names and actions at sea being a still greater impediment to immortal fame. Every one of your authors, as I have been told, sends his works to sea in full confidence that they will reach my island and be eagerly studied by me. Many even undertake to foretell my impression and opinion from particular passages. These books, from which I am to obtain my knowledge, usually attain the bottom of the sea almost as soon as they set out.
I hear that you are very punctual in transmitting to me intelligence of all you do, and that when you are doing nothing you take care to inform me of that also, and despatch a copious narrative of every day, whether any thing has happened in it or not. I have already told you the fate of these valuable communications; they are lost by the storms and rocks. But from time to time a man is born in your dominions with a genius to overcome all the difficulties that separate us. He is versed in the characters and events of your reign, and also knows my disposition, what things I wish to know, and what I should reject, and he has skill to preserve him from being destroyed and forgotten in the seas through which I am to be reached. Such a man from the rocks in his way gathers the fragments of letters that you have sent by unfortunate voyagers, and judges what intelligence is worthy to reach my island. From these rare adventurers I obtain all the knowledge I have of your reign.
There are, indeed, many divers in my island, who pretend to give ample and exact information of you, but they find little belief. These artists, by constant discipline, have extraordinary skill and patience in remaining under water, where, as they wish me to suppose, they discover innumerable histories from your lost ships, which they read with great diligence beneath the waves, and then rising up write what they have learned, and present it to me. The writers who thus look for facts at the bottom of the sea are very apt to contradict the most authentic intelligence that I have received from your ablest ambassadors; but I give very little attention to their discoveries.
As I have now explained to you how rare and imperfect is the information that I receive of your reign, you may understand that your claim to my incessant praise and study is not likely to be complied with.
But whatever intelligence of your proceedings you may contrive to give me, I cannot promise that laborious attention to them which you require; and I think you the more unreasonable in demanding so much of my admiration, because, as I am told, you show no such respect for your predecessor, but are wholly occupied by your own projects. It is said that you never speak of him without derision; and that any person who would recall one of his maxims is ruined in your esteem, and ridiculed by all your court as a man of an understanding too slow to go on with the course of the seasons. Now, if you think that an Age deceased is thus at the mercy of its successor, I cannot understand what peculiar merit in you is to secure you from the same treatment during my reign. I am told, that in your eyes the chief virtue of all things consists in being new. A book just from the press has wit and spirit, which after a short time are not to be found in it. I understand that a volume six months old is thought to have lost all its vigour. Men, also, as books, attain with you a sudden eminence, but soon discover that their renown has left them with their novelty.
If my intelligence is accurate, you estimate opinions by the same rule. A man who would be thought to reason justly must insist upon something which never was imagined before: in all matters relating to the government of your dominions you disdain to think any thing that was thought twenty years ago; and indeed I believe that by your command, the same thing very seldom is true for two years together. And it seems that whenever you order your subjects to do or think any thing new, you imagine yourself conferring a great benefit on me, for instead of regarding your various decrees as the amusements of a day, you believe that your wildest fancies will last for ever. In all your inventions you are dreaming for Posterity, and every absurdity you commit is for my use.
I find you have invented a new phrase, "the spirit of the age," said to be of admirable use in silencing those men of immovable minds, who obstinately retain a maxim because they remember it true at a former time. In every dispute, as I hear, this phrase is both wit and argument; no man is able to refute it, nor even to reason against it for a moment; and if an intrepid disputant sometimes ventures to call its authority in question, he acts on pain of being ridiculous for the rest of his life.
Now, since every doctrine must wait for your permission before it can be true, since you have assumed this right to reject every past notion, and supply from your own stock all the wisdom that your people want, I wish to be informed what shall prevent me from being equally absolute in my turn.
I advise you, then, to give up the frivolous amusement of making discoveries for my use; I intend to make discoveries for myself, and believe I shall follow your example in liking my own truths best, for the sake of their author. But, while I desire you to forbear recommending opinions to me, I would not discourage you from prosecuting your triumph over the defenceless notions of antiquity; for a living disputant has so great an advantage over one who is dead, that in any controversy with your predecessor I think you cannot fail to be victorious. Only remember, that when you are dead I shall argue against you with the same advantage; and I know not how you can expect that, having your example before me, I should use that advantage with moderation.