Part 5

Notwithstanding the warning given me by this fugitive husband, I boldly approached the scene of domestic oratory; and as I drew near I heard female reprimands uttered in every variety of English phrase, ancient and modern, whence I learned that this species of rhetoric has been cultivated in our island from the earliest times, and continued to flourish without interruption through every change of the language. These invectives having arrived in the moon, it was plain that they had all been lost upon the inaccessible husbands, and I could not help admiring the firmness of men.

I was amused by observing the different styles of eloquence; there were several florid scolds, who declaimed with great copiousness, while others railed in a brief and forcible manner. Some spoke in a style of earnest remonstrance, many abandoned themselves to invective, and not the least powerful were those who conveyed censure in a sneer. In short, here might be studied all those varieties of reproof by which certain wives are accustomed to enforce domestic peace.

It was easy to distinguish the different ranks of life to which these connubial noises belonged; for some of them expressed a well-bred displeasure in good English, while others were so disguised by a provincial dialect that I was unable to interpret them. From the great variety of accent I concluded that every county in England was scolding here.

Soon after I had left this valley, I saw at a little distance from me a gentleman of my acquaintance, who with a stick was distributing some very vigorous blows in the air, as if defending himself from a swarm of bees, yet I could see no enemy against which all these efforts were directed. As I approached him, I heard an angry voice, very loud and voluble; and I then discovered his difficulty. He had been in the valley which I have last mentioned, where was a considerable quantity of his own wife's rhetoric, which, as soon as he approached it, had recognised him by a strange instinct, and swarming round his head, had assailed him with great fury. He instantly quitted the valley, hoping to leave this attendant behind, but it adhered to him with wonderful fidelity wherever he went, and he was now vainly endeavouring to drive it away with a stick, which instrument, whatever power it may sometimes have had to silence a similar clamour, was applied to this reproof without the least mitigation. I endeavoured to assist him in repelling it by disturbance of the air, but all we could do was to cut some of the words through the middle, and thus cause a little hesitation in the harangue. I could not forbear smiling to hear the lady's voice, which I knew very well, uttering a groundless invective upon domestic matters of very little importance. The husband perceiving my inclination to mirth, was much troubled that I should be a witness of the discipline he was undergoing. He said something about every family being liable to misunderstandings, and as the voice then entered upon a very private topic he walked hastily away, and carried his reproaches out of my hearing. I afterwards heard that he could not free himself from his incumbrance as long as he remained in the moon; but when he left it, the oratory could follow him no farther, and returned to its valley. I have been told that several other husbands who entered this valley were assailed in the same manner, and afterwards walked about the moon surrounded by these reprimands.

As I walked along, my attention was caught by a humming sound at a distance, which, as I was told, proceeded from the valley of lost sermons, whence an accidental wind had dispersed those discourses which had already assailed me in another part of the moon. I advanced into the valley, and stood surrounded by the uproar of divinity which filled it.

Notwithstanding the vast multitude of voices preaching in defiance of each other, I had no difficulty in distinguishing the words of each, but could single out any one that I chose to listen to. In all these valleys the same peculiarity is observable, that any voice can be heard without confusion, and separately from the rest.

The sermons in this place are divided according to their persuasion; the Church of England having its own district, and each body of Dissenters being limited to one place. The sects are sometimes confounded together by the wind, but when it is calm again they are all speedily reclaimed. Here are collected all the fruitless English sermons, that is, all which have failed to effect either of the two great ends of preaching,--the virtue of the hearers, and the preferment of the clergyman.

I heard much Christian anger uttered with great sincerity. Some of these compositions had more the sound of political speeches delivered to a body of electors than of discourses written for morality; and I imagined they must have been enrolled in the sermons by mistake.

Most of the sermons aiming at a reformation of manners which I here listened to were, as it seemed to me, guilty of wanton calumny in describing the vices of mankind; for they agreed that not one virtuous man could be discovered on the earth by the most diligent search. Had these preachers been any thing more than sound, I should certainly have remonstrated with some of them against traducing us to the moon with so much zeal.

This comprehensive invective has long been the established practice of the pulpit, and many specimens of it are found in our oldest divines. Indeed, it seems to be a common opinion, that no writing could be an authentic sermon unless it contained at least one bold assertion--that the whole world is abandoned to vice. But notwithstanding the authority of an established practice, if it were my function to make men good from the pulpit, I should certainly dispense with this rule, whatever uneasiness I might feel at the sacrifice of an old custom. To affirm the universal prevalence of vice, appears to me a most preposterous method of recommending virtue. The clergyman, in order to discourage those who are inclined to frailty, informs them that, although they gratify every bad inclination, they will always be countenanced by the similar conduct of all other men. Instead of engaging the influence of example on his own side, he exerts himself to make vice more pleasing by the attraction which there is in the practice of others. Our preachers in this might take a hint from our political orators, who, wishing to discredit any particular opinions, always represent them as embraced by a very small party. The most ignorant declaimer on politics has never endeavoured to make converts to his principles by affirming that there is not another man in the country who entertains them: yet by this argument virtue is enjoined from the pulpit, though against all common methods of persuasion; and I can hardly conceive, that when men are reasoned with from a small enclosed place, called a pulpit, they are to be moved by arguments exactly opposite to those which affect them from any other spot. I think, therefore, a preacher would furnish his hearers with a more natural inducement to virtue if, instead of labouring to convince them that by a dissolute life they will merely conform to established custom, he endeavoured to show that vicious practices will connect them with a small condemned party.

And, besides the attraction of example, these invectives against all mankind afford another discouragement to those who would practise morality; for he who learns from a sermon that there is not a good man in the world, must conclude goodness to be impracticable. Not having, therefore, the vanity to suppose that he can accomplish what no man living has succeeded in, and having heard that no man has been able to be virtuous, he infers, that he may spare himself the trouble and vexation of trying.

The sermons to which I was now listening, after having affirmed an universal depravity, proceeded to lament the uselessness of preaching, and to wonder how men could contrive their vicious enjoyments in defiance of so many sermons. Amongst all the reproaches with which a clergyman assails his congregation, there is none more frequent than imputing to them that he does not preach with any success; and he always concludes, without scruple, that the blame of not listening effectually must accrue to them.

It is observable, that the mind and the body, being committed for safety to two different artists, and many satirical observations being made against the success and utility of both, there is this difference in the two cases,--that all reflections on the art of medicine are directed against the physician by other people; while the satire concerning the efficacy of preaching is applied by the clergyman himself to his congregation. The preacher reproaches men with not becoming virtuous by his sermons; but a patient would think a physician very unreasonable, who should upbraid him with remaining ill in contempt of medicine. A sick man, who finds no health in the remedies prescribed, thinks himself entitled to call in question the skill of his physician: yet I believe there is no example of a profligate man complaining to his clergyman of not having been reclaimed. Now, I would propose it as a question to be considered, whether the preacher can justly claim this peculiar advantage of having his patients supposed incurable, because he has failed to cure them; whether he has in all cases a right to complain of having been heard without amendment of life, and should not rather share, at least, with his hearers the blame of their not being reformed?

Not that I would enforce against the clergy that rigorous computation of service which Lucian recommends against the philosophers who had to furnish men with virtue in his time. He relates, that a philosopher demanding payment from a young man who had attended his lectures, the guardian of this pupil interposed, and accused the philosopher of not having fulfilled the contract; "for," said he, "you engaged to supply this young man with morality; and it is but a few days since he basely corrupted a young woman in our neighbourhood. How, then, can you have the confidence to require payment for goodness which he has never received from you?" Lucian advises that this exaction of the morals, before they be paid for, should be generally practised against the providers of virtue. I wonder the expedient has not occurred to those modern statesmen who have discovered that our prosperity depends upon our obtaining doctrine from the clergy at the lowest possible price; for I think nothing could so effectually impoverish them as that all under their charge should insist upon having virtue before they paid for it: so that any one accosted by the collector of tithe should, in surprise, plead such an immunity as this:--"By what right can the clergyman demand payment for morals which he has not given me? Was I not intoxicated last night? Did I not beat my wife yesterday? Have not I taught my children to steal?"

When I had satisfied myself with the Valley of Sermons, and was proceeding in my travels, I met with a gentleman who formerly acquired considerable renown by some poems which were much read and admired. He told me, in confidence, that he was in search of his poetical fame, which he had unaccountably lost without any demerit of his own. When his works were first published, he said, they had been universally admitted as authentic poetry; yet they were now generally exploded, though every word had remained in the situation where he had first placed it. He had for some time connived at the decay of his reputation, but at length felt himself so obsolete, that he had no longer the confidence to walk into a room as a poet, but had relapsed into an ordinary man.

I endeavoured to comfort him by observing, that the same fate had happened even to the illustrious dead: Pope was once in high esteem, but is now by no means a poet according to the most received doctrine. The greatest man has genius only on permission; and how long even Homer and Virgil may remain poets, depends upon the indulgence of those writers who furnish us with taste and admiration.

The neglected poet, however, thought that the loss of fame by others was but little advantage to himself. He said, that Pope, being dead, was not embarrassed about the behaviour to be assumed in a decay of reputation; and he seemed to think that he ought at least to have been read as long as he lived, that he might have escaped this perplexity. He said he could have borne the want of success if from the beginning men had committed the injustice of not reading him; but obscurity after fame was so irksome, that he knew not what to do. To evince the outrage he had suffered, he began to enlarge upon his forgotten works, and to argue in favour of their being poetry, in which I knew not how to help him. I was, indeed, innocent of having ceased to read his poems, for I had never attained to any farther knowledge of them than the names. However, I acquiesced in his praises as plausibly as I could.

He said his downfal gave him additional regret, because he had written his own life, which he had expected to be as much read and esteemed as that of either Alfieri or Goldoni; but he now should not have the confidence to publish it. When it was written, the world had evinced a great curiosity concerning him; and now nobody asked a question about the way in which he passed his time. I expressed my sense of the injustice committed by the world in having no curiosity about him.

He told me he had learned that a building within sight contained the lost renown of Englishmen, who from greatness had fallen into the adversity that he now suffered; and he had some hope of recovering his fame there. We advanced, and entered this building, which is very similar to that described before, as containing the cheerfulness of dejected persons. In a large room we saw great numbers of phials, which, we were told, preserve the fame that has left men before their death. As they are all arranged according to chronology, my companion, by a search into that period when his reception had become less certainly that of a poet, discovered the phial that bore his name. He took it into his hand, and held it up to the light; but, although it was of transparent glass, nothing could be seen within. But now it occurred to him, that he had not recovered his fame by acquiring this phial. He knew not what measures to take, and was at a loss to conceive how the phial could contribute to the general reading of his works.

I advised him to remove the stopper, and apply his nose, to receive any virtue that might ensue. This he did; when immediately his eyes began to sparkle, and he told me that the perfume he enjoyed was the greatest pleasure he had ever felt. He then held the phial to me: but I could perceive nothing, this renown being no pleasure to any but the owner. He exulted as much as a young author during the sale of his first book, and seemed to think himself suddenly restored to his honours; repeating several times, "I am a poet again!" I hinted to him, that the consequences of this phial must be fallacious, and expressed a doubt whether it were possible to become a poet through the nose, as he now believed himself to have done; since it was hardly to be supposed that, because he had found an agreeable perfume, men would read his poems with new eagerness. He took no notice of what I said, but exclaimed, "The tenth edition is wanted! the press cannot work fast enough! the public must have patience!" I perceived that the phial had made him delirious; but, concluding that its suggestions would soon cease, I let him enjoy his greatness without any farther interruption. He walked away; and I know not how long it was before he was undeceived.

I now took a farther survey of the room. Each phial had a label recording the name of the person whose renown it contained, the means by which he had become famous, and the cause of his losing reputation, with some other particulars. They are divided into the different classes of writing, oratory, and other contrivances for being great. I first examined the authors, who led me into speculations on the instability of a writer's fame, and on the causes by which a work full of genius last year has now no merit, and that without any apparent change, except that twelve months have elapsed.

On the labels of these phials I read the several artifices practised by authors for renown. The device of some had been obscurity, which had charmed those judges who think a passage of no value if it can be read without delay, and ascribe the greatest genius to him who can obstruct his reader the most frequently, and oppose to him the greatest number of impassable phrases.

Another way to greatness recorded here is, the combining together of words the most repugnant to each other. I saw the name of a man who had eminently practised this deception, and obtained by it a great renown for a few weeks. In every page of his writings, those words which might have been supposed irreconcileable were found side by side, to the great admiration of the public. These unusual alliances, as being imagination, were very successful; and it was thought that none but an extraordinary man could have brought together words which offered so much resistance. But these words having remained in conjunction for a few weeks, the wonder ceased, and it began to be thought that, with an ample collection from diligent study of a dictionary, this style would not be so difficult as at first had been imagined. From observing the several stratagems for greatness, I concluded, that the most efficacious expedient is surprise. The author who can so perplex his readers, that they know not what to think, is sure of renown. And, not only in writing, but all other kinds of imposition, he who can devise some project for giving men a surprise, will be a celebrated person, until they are recovered from it. This, indeed, soon happens, for men will not remain astonished; and, as soon as their wonder has ceased, they always impute fraud to the author of their amazement, and despise him accordingly. But still they cannot take from him the advantage of having once been famous, which sometimes is sufficient for peace of mind; since ambitious men differ much in their wants; and although some, like my friend the poet, cannot live in comfort without constant supplies of applause, yet others, by having once been gazed at for a month, are cheerful and serene till death.

I saw here the names of many authors who were once famous by a contrivance which has often been practised with great success: it is not in the power of a single man, but requires a confederacy. This stratagem is no more than a secret agreement amongst certain writers to extol each other; every one in this league, therefore, continues to affirm that the others are great men, till the world can no longer avoid believing it. Sometimes a man performs this office for himself, and endeavours to be a great author on his own assertion: but it is far safer to depend on the word of an accomplice. While one, in such a combination, is eagerly prosecuting the plot by encomiums on the rest, he seems merely to be acting with great candour towards his competitors for fame; and the world admires the generous spirit in which these men of genius live together. This invention is exactly described by Horace:--

"Discedo Alcæus puncto illius, ille meo quis? Quis nisi Callimachus? Si plus adposcere visus Fit Mimnermus, et optivo cognomine crescit."

In this room, also, I found some who had been illustrious by another kind of conspiracy--the founding of mysterious sects in poetry. For this purpose, a few writers enter into a league, and agree upon a style (if so it can be called) in which, to prevent criticism, they take care that there shall be no meaning. The art is to give their words such a sound, that the reader shall be persuaded they signify something remarkable, though he cannot reach it; and that he shall always seem just about to understand what he reads, without ever quite arriving at the sense. So great is the charm of reading in this confusion of mind, that he who has once contracted a love of it lays aside with contempt any composition that he can understand, and derides those who had before been received as poets, and who, in truth, are so far from being so, that a plain man of competent sagacity may in any passage discern their meaning without much difficulty. It is true, that the followers of these mysterious poets, being those who read for the sake of not understanding, are a small body: but this is a cause of pride to the poets, as being suited only to a few exalted minds; and any person, who complains of not understanding what he reads, is readily answered that he is not one of the chosen few. The readers, too, are as proud of the singularity as their author, and assume a superiority over all men who insist on comprehending what they read.

----"Illud Quod mecum ignorat solus vult scire videri." HORACE.

Next to the phials which contain the lost reputation of authors are some which hold the decayed fame of orators; those who, in their first session of parliament, cause wonder by their eloquence; and in the second, by their silence. I also saw the names of some orators of a lower kind; those statesmen in the open air, who distribute strange noises to any who will listen, and undertake to redress the hunger and raggedness of their hearers.

I observed on each of these phials containing the past renown of exploded men the name of the merit with which he was once supposed to be endowed, and under it the true quality, which had been erroneously construed into that merit. Thus, on the phial of one of these orators to the crowd, I read "Eloquence," as his claim to greatness; and this word, underneath, was translated into "Impudence," which was also the interpretation of many other excellencies; and I was surprised to find in how many different ways a man may be great by this single endowment. He who has not this inspiration imagines that confidence must denote the possession of something to rely upon, and ignorantly supposes, that a man cannot be assured of his own eloquence without a subject to speak upon, and words to utter; while those who are endued with this great quality lie under no such necessities, but are intrepid without any means of confidence, except their own inward vigour and alacrity.

I learned here, that this gift of impudence had been wit and humour, argument, eloquence, industry, courage, zeal for the public good, and, indeed, any other virtue convenient to the owner. However, the renown by impudence never lasts long, which seems to be the only defect of that attribute.

Having examined these phials with many reflections on the perishable nature of fame, I walked forth, and soon reached a building, which contains the good intentions that have never been executed. There is a vast accumulation of these virtuous endeavours; and I found amongst them many actions so noble, that I greatly regretted they should have been put in practice only so far as to be thought of. Some persons appeared to have entertained only two or three of these excellent projects during their lives; others had been incessantly occupied in schemes of future goodness. I found a great number of resolutions to reform voluptuous habits: many had determined to repeat a beloved vice no more after a certain time; some deferred their abstinence till the following year; and others declared that it should begin the next day. This contrivance, of beginning virtue at an appointed time, seemed to have been much practised: one man, in the month of April, had resolved that he would be good after the first of June, retaining a license for the intervening weeks.