Chapter 11

There is a sect of ancient philosophers, who, I think, have left more volumes behind them, and those better written, than any other of the fraternities in philosophy. It was a maxim of this sect, that all those who do not live up to the principles of reason and virtue are madmen. Everyone who governs himself by these rules is allowed the title of wise, and reputed to be in his senses: and everyone, in proportion as he deviates from them, is pronounced frantic and distracted. Cicero, having chosen this maxim for his theme, takes occasion to argue from it very agreeably with Clodius, his implacable adversary, who had procured his banishment. A city, says he, is an assembly distinguished into bodies of men, who are in possession of their respective rights and privileges, cast under proper subordinations, and in all its parts obedient to the rules of law and equity. He then represents the government from whence he was banished, at a time when the consul, senate, and laws had lost their authority, as a commonwealth of lunatics. For this reason he regards his expulsion from Rome as a man would being turned out of Bedlam, if the inhabitants of it should drive him out of their walls as a person unfit for their community. We are therefore to look upon every man's brain to be touched, however he may appear in the general conduct of his life, if he has an unjustifiable singularity in any part of his conversation or behaviour; or if he swerves from right reason, however common his kind of madness may be, we shall not excuse him for its being epidemical; it being our present design to clap up all such as have the marks of madness upon them, who are now permitted to go about the streets for no other reason but because they do no mischief in their fits. Abundance of imaginary great men are put in straw to bring them to a right sense of themselves. And is it not altogether as reasonable, that an insignificant man, who has an immoderate opinion of his merits, and a quite different notion of his own abilities from what the rest of the world entertain, should have the same care taken of him as a beggar who fancies himself a duke or a prince? Or why should a man who starves in the midst of plenty be trusted with himself more than he who fancies he is an emperor in the midst of poverty? I have several women of quality in my thoughts who set so exorbitant a value upon themselves that I have often most heartily pitied them, and wished them for their recovery under the same discipline with the pewterer's wife. I find by several hints in ancient authors that when the Romans were in the height of power and luxury they assigned out of their vast dominions an island called Anticyra as an habitation for madmen. This was the Bedlam of the Roman empire, whither all persons who had lost their wits used to resort from all parts of the world in quest of them. Several of the Roman emperors were advised to repair to this island: but most of them, instead of listening to such sober counsels, gave way to their distraction, until the people knocked them on the head as despairing of their cure. In short, it was as usual for men of distempered brains to take a voyage to Anticyra in those days as it is in ours for persons who have a disorder in their lungs to go to Montpellier.

The prodigious crops of hellebore with which this whole island abounded did not only furnish them with incomparable tea, snuff, and Hungary water, but impregnated the air of the country with such sober and salutiferous steams as very much comforted the heads and refreshed the senses of all that breathed in it. A discarded statesman that, at his first landing, appeared stark, staring mad, would become calm in a week's time, and upon his return home live easy and satisfied in his retirement. A moping lover would grow a pleasant fellow by that time he had rid thrice about the island: and a hair-brained rake, after a short stay in the country, go home again a composed, grave, worthy gentleman.

I have premised these particulars before I enter on the main design of this paper, because I would not be thought altogether notional in what I have to say, and pass only for a projector in morality. I could quote Horace and Seneca and some other ancient writers of good repute upon the same occasion, and make out by their testimony that our streets are filled with distracted persons; that our shops and taverns, private and public houses, swarm with them; and that it is very hard to make up a tolerable assembly without a majority of them. But what I have already said is, I hope, sufficient to justify the ensuing project, which I shall therefore give some account of without any further preface.

1. It is humbly proposed, That a proper receptacle or habitation be forthwith erected for all such persons as, upon due trial and examination, shall appear to be out of their wits.

2. That, to serve the present exigency, the college in Moorfields be very much extended at both ends; and that it be converted into a square, by adding three other sides to it.

3. That nobody be admitted into these three additional sides but such whose frenzy can lay no claim to any apartment in that row of building which is already erected.

4. That the architect, physician, apothecary, surgeon, keepers, nurses, and porters be all and each of them cracked, provided that their frenzy does not lie in the profession or employment to which they shall severally and respectively be assigned.

_N.B._ It is thought fit to give the foregoing notice, that none may present himself here for any post of honour or profit who is not duly qualified.

5. That over all the gates of the additional buildings there be figures placed in the same manner as over the entrance of the edifice already erected, provided they represent such distractions only as are proper for those additional buildings; as of an envious man gnawing his own flesh; a gamester pulling himself by the ears and knocking his head against a marble pillar; a covetous man warming himself over a heap of gold; a coward flying from his own shadow, and the like.

Having laid down this general scheme of my design, I do hereby invite all persons who are willing to encourage so public-spirited a project to bring in their contributions as soon as possible; and to apprehend forthwith any politician whom they shall catch raving in a coffee-house, or any free-thinker whom they shall find publishing his deliriums, or any other person who shall give the like manifest signs of a crazed imagination. And I do at the same time give this public notice to all the madmen about this great city, that they may return to their senses with all imaginable expedition, lest, if they should come into my hands, I should put them into a regimen which they would not like; for if I find any one of them persist in his frantic behaviour I will make him in a month's time as famous as ever Oliver's porter was.

JOSEPH ADDISON.

(1672-1719.)

XXXII. SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY'S SUNDAY.

This piece represents the complete paper, No. 112 of _The Spectator_, July 9th, 1711.

I am always very well pleased with a country Sunday, and think, if keeping holy the seventh day were only a human institution, it would be the best method that could have been thought of for the polishing and civilizing of mankind. It is certain the country people would soon degenerate into a kind of savages and barbarians, were there not such frequent returns of a stated time in which the whole village meet together with their best faces and in their cleanliest habits to converse with one another upon indifferent subjects, hear their duties explained to them, and join together in adoration of the supreme Being. Sunday clears away the rust of the whole week, not only as it refreshes in their minds the notions of religion, but as it puts both the sexes upon appearing in their most agreeable forms and exerting all such qualities as are apt to give them a figure in the eye of the village. A country fellow distinguishes himself as much in the churchyard as a citizen does upon the Change, the whole parish politics being generally discussed in that place either after sermon or before the bell rings.

My friend Sir Roger, being a good churchman, has beautified the inside of his church with several texts of his own choosing; he has likewise given a handsome pulpit-cloth, and railed in the communion table at his own expense. He has often told me that at his coming to his estate he found his parishioners very irregular; and that in order to make them kneel and join in the responses he gave every one of them a hassock and a common-prayer book: and at the same time employed an itinerant singing-master, who goes about the country for that purpose, to instruct them rightly in the tunes of the psalms, upon which they now very much value themselves, and indeed out-do most of the country churches that I have ever heard.

As Sir Roger is landlord to the whole congregation, he keeps them in very good order, and will suffer nobody to sleep in it besides himself; for if by chance he has been surprised into a short nap at sermon, upon recovering out of it he stands up and looks about him, and if he sees anybody else nodding either wakes them himself or sends his servants to them. Several other of the old knight's particularities break out upon these occasions: sometimes he will be lengthening out a verse in the singing-psalms half a minute after the rest of the congregation have done with it: sometimes, when he is pleased with the matter of his devotion, he pronounces Amen three or four times to the same prayer; and sometimes stands up when everybody else is upon their knees, to count the congregation or see if any of his tenants are missing.

I was yesterday very much surprised to hear my old friend, in the midst of the service, calling out to one John Matthews to mind what he was about and not disturb the congregation. This John Matthews it seems is remarkable for being an idle fellow, and at that time was kicking his heels for his diversion. This authority of the knight, though exerted in that odd manner which accompanies him in all circumstances of life, has a very good effect upon the parish, who are not polite enough to see anything ridiculous in his behaviour; besides that the general good sense and worthiness of his character makes his friends observe these little singularities as foils that rather set off than blemish his good qualities.

As soon as the sermon is finished nobody presumes to stir till Sir Roger is gone out of the church. The knight walks down from his seat in the chancel between a double row of his tenants, that stand bowing to him on each side; and every now and then inquires how such an one's wife, or mother, or son, or father do, whom he does not see at church, which is understood as a secret reprimand to the person that is absent.

The chaplain has often told me that upon a catechizing day, when Sir Roger has been pleased with a boy that answers well, he has ordered a Bible to be given him next day for his encouragement; and sometimes accompanies it with a flitch of bacon to his mother. Sir Roger has likewise added five pounds a year to the clerk's place; and that he may encourage the young fellows to make themselves perfect in the church service, has promised upon the death of the present incumbent, who is very old, to bestow it according to merit.

The fair understanding between Sir Roger and his chaplain, and their mutual concurrence in doing good, is the more remarkable because the very next village is famous for the differences and contentions that rise between the parson and the squire, who live in a perpetual state of war. The parson is always preaching at the squire, and the squire to be revenged on the parson never comes to church. The squire has made all his tenants atheists and tithe-stealers; while the parson instructs them every Sunday in the dignity of his order, and insinuates to them in almost every sermon that he is a better man than his patron. In short, matters are come to such an extremity that the squire has not said his prayers either in public or private this half year; and that the parson threatens him, if he does not mend his manners, to pray for him in the face of the whole congregation.

Feuds of this nature, though too frequent in the country, are very fatal to the ordinary people, who are so used to be dazzled with riches that they pay as much deference to the understanding of a man of an estate as of a man of learning, and are very hardly brought to regard any truth, how important soever it may be, that is preached to them when they know there are several men of five hundred a year who do not believe it.

EDWARD YOUNG.

(1681-1765.)

XXXIII. TO THE RIGHT HON. MR. DODINGTON.

This is justly regarded as one of the finest satires in the English language. It is taken from Dr. Young's _Series of Satires_ published in collected form in 1750. Dodington was the famous "Bubb Dodington", satirized as Bubo by Pope in the "Prologue to the Satires".

Long, Dodington, in debt, I long have sought To ease the burden of my graceful thought: And now a poet's gratitude you see: Grant him two favours, and he'll ask for three: For whose the present glory, or the gain? You give protection, I a worthless strain. You love and feel the poet's sacred flame, And know the basis of a solid fame; Though prone to like, yet cautious to commend, You read with all the malice of a friend; Nor favour my attempts that way alone, But, more to raise my verse, conceal your own. An ill-tim'd modesty! turn ages o'er, When wanted Britain bright examples more? Her learning, and her genius too, decays; And dark and cold are her declining days; As if men now were of another cast, They meanly live on alms of ages past, Men still are men; and they who boldly dare, Shall triumph o'er the sons of cold despair; Or, if they fail, they justly still take place Of such who run in debt for their disgrace; Who borrow much, then fairly make it known, And damn it with improvements of their own. We bring some new materials, and what's old New cast with care, and in no borrow'd mould; Late times the verse may read, if these refuse; And from sour critics vindicate the Muse. "Your work is long", the critics cry. 'Tis true, And lengthens still, to take in fools like you: Shorten my labour, if its length you blame: For, grow but wise, you rob me of my game; As haunted hags, who, while the dogs pursue, Renounce their four legs, and start up on two.

Like the bold bird upon the banks of Nile That picks the teeth of the dire crocodile, Will I enjoy (dread feast!) the critic's rage, And with the fell destroyer feed my page. For what ambitious fools are more to blame, Than those who thunder in the critic's name? Good authors damn'd, have their revenge in this, To see what wretches gain the praise they miss.

Balbutius, muffled in his sable cloak, Like an old Druid from his hollow oak, As ravens solemn, and as boding, cries, "Ten thousand worlds for the three unities!" Ye doctors sage, who through Parnassus teach, Or quit the tub, or practise what you preach.

One judges as the weather dictates; right The poem is at noon, and wrong at night: Another judges by a surer gage, An author's principles, or parentage; Since his great ancestors in Flanders fell, The poem doubtless must be written well. Another judges by the writer's look; Another judges, for he bought the book: Some judge, their knack of judging wrong to keep; Some judge, because it is too soon to sleep. Thus all will judge, and with one single aim, To gain themselves, not give the writer, fame. The very best ambitiously advise, Half to serve you, and half to pass for wise.

Critics on verse, as squibs on triumphs wait, Proclaim the glory, and augment the state; Hot, envious, noisy, proud, the scribbling fry Burn, hiss, and bounce, waste paper, stink, and die. Rail on, my friends! what more my verse can crown Than Compton's smile, and your obliging frown?

Not all on books their criticism waste: The genius of a dish some justly taste, And eat their way to fame; with anxious thought The salmon is refus'd, the turbot bought. Impatient art rebukes the sun's delay And bids December yield the fruits of May; Their various cares in one great point combine The business of their lives, that is--to dine. Half of their precious day they give the feast; And to a kind digestion spare the rest. Apicius, here, the taster of the town, Feeds twice a week, to settle their renown.

These worthies of the palate guard with care The sacred annals of their bills of fare; In those choice books their panegyrics read, And scorn the creatures that for hunger feed. If man by feeding well commences great, Much more the worm to whom that man is meat.

To glory some advance a lying claim, Thieves of renown, and pilferers of fame: Their front supplies what their ambition lacks; They know a thousand lords, behind their backs. Cottil is apt to wink upon a peer, When turn'd away, with a familiar leer; And Harvey's eyes, unmercifully keen, Have murdered fops, by whom she ne'er was seen. Niger adopts stray libels; wisely prone, To cover shame still greater than his own. Bathyllus, in the winter of threescore, Belies his innocence, and keeps a ----. Absence of mind Brabantio turns to fame, Learns to mistake, nor knows his brother's name; Has words and thoughts in nice disorder set, And takes a memorandum to forget. Thus vain, not knowing what adorns or blots Men forge the patents that create them sots.

As love of pleasure into pain betrays, So most grow infamous through love of praise. But whence for praise can such an ardour rise, When those, who bring that incense, we despise? For such the vanity of great and small, Contempt goes round, and all men laugh at all. Nor can even satire blame them; for 'tis true, They have most ample cause for what they do O fruitful Britain! doubtless thou wast meant A nurse of fools, to stock the continent. Though Phoebus and the Nine for ever mow, Rank folly underneath the scythe will grow The plenteous harvest calls me forward still, Till I surpass in length my lawyer's bill; A Welsh descent, which well-paid heralds damn; Or, longer still, a Dutchman's epigram. When, cloy'd, in fury I throw down my pen, In comes a coxcomb, and I write again.

See Tityrus, with merriment possest, Is burst with laughter, ere he hears the jest: What need he stay? for when the jest is o'er, His teeth will be no whiter than before. Is there of thee, ye fair! so great a dearth, That you need purchase monkeys for your mirth!

Some, vain of paintings, bid the world admire; Of houses some; nay, houses that they hire: Some (perfect wisdom!) of a beauteous wife; And boast, like Cordeliers, a scourge for life.

Sometimes, through pride, the sexes change their airs; My lord has vapours, and my lady swears; Then, stranger still! on turning of the wind, My lord wears breeches, and my lady's kind.

To show the strength, and infamy of pride, By all 'tis follow'd, and by all denied. What numbers are there, which at once pursue, Praise, and the glory to contemn it, too? Vincenna knows self-praise betrays to shame, And therefore lays a stratagem for fame; Makes his approach in modesty's disguise, To win applause; and takes it by surprise. "To err," says he, "in small things, is my fate." You know your answer, "he's exact in great". "My style", says he, "is rude and full of faults." "But oh! what sense! what energy of thoughts!" That he wants algebra, he must confess; "But not a soul to give our arms success". "Ah! that's an hit indeed," Vincenna cries; "But who in heat of blood was ever wise? I own 'twas wrong, when thousands called me back To make that hopeless, ill-advised attack; All say, 'twas madness; nor dare I deny; Sure never fool so well deserved to die." Could this deceive in others to be free, It ne'er, Vincenna, could deceive in thee! Whose conduct is a comment to thy tongue, So clear, the dullest cannot take thee wrong. Thou on one sleeve wilt thy revenues wear; And haunt the court, without a prospect there. Are these expedients for renown? Confess Thy little self, that I may scorn thee less.

Be wise, Vincenna, and the court forsake; Our fortunes there, nor thou, nor I, shall make. Even men of merit, ere their point they gain, In hardy service make a long campaign; Most manfully besiege the patron's gate, And oft repulsed, as oft attack the great With painful art, and application warm. And take, at last, some little place by storm; Enough to keep two shoes on Sunday clean, And starve upon discreetly, in Sheer-Lane. Already this thy fortune can afford; Then starve without the favour of my lord. 'Tis true, great fortunes some great men confer, But often, even in doing right, they err: From caprice, not from choice, their favours come: They give, but think it toil to know to whom: The man that's nearest, yawning, they advance: 'Tis inhumanity to bless by chance. If merit sues, and greatness is so loth To break its downy trance, I pity both.

Behold the masquerade's fantastic scene! The Legislature join'd with Drury-Lane! When Britain calls, th' embroider'd patriots run, And serve their country--if the dance is done. "Are we not then allow'd to be polite?" Yes, doubtless; but first set your notions right. Worth, of politeness is the needful ground; Where that is wanting, this can ne'er be found. Triflers not even in trifles can excel; 'Tis solid bodies only polish well.

Great, chosen prophet! for these latter days, To turn a willing world from righteous ways! Well, Heydegger, dost thou thy master serve; Well has he seen his servant should not starve, Thou to his name hast splendid temples raised In various forms of worship seen him prais'd, Gaudy devotion, like a Roman, shown, And sung sweet anthems in a tongue unknown. Inferior offerings to thy god of vice Are duly paid, in fiddles, cards, and dice; Thy sacrifice supreme, an hundred maids! That solemn rite of midnight masquerades!

Though bold these truths, thou, Muse, with truths like these, Wilt none offend, whom 'tis a praise to please; Let others flatter to be flatter'd, thou Like just tribunals, bend an awful brow. How terrible it were to common-sense, To write a satire, which gave none offence! And, since from life I take the draughts you see. If men dislike them, do they censure me? The fool, and knave, 'tis glorious to offend, And Godlike an attempt the world to mend, The world, where lucky throws to blockheads fall, Knaves know the game, and honest men pay all. How hard for real worth to gain its price! A man shall make his fortune in a trice, If blest with pliant, though but slender, sense, Feign'd modesty, and real impudence: A supple knee, smooth tongue, an easy grace. A curse within, a smile upon his face; A beauteous sister, or convenient wife, Are prizes in the lottery of life; Genius and Virtue they will soon defeat, And lodge you in the bosom of the great. To merit, is but to provide a pain For men's refusing what you ought to gain.

May, Dodington, this maxim fail in you, Whom my presaging thoughts already view By Walpole's conduct fired, and friendship grac'd, Still higher in your Prince's favour plac'd: And lending, here, those awful councils aid, Which you, abroad, with such success obey'd! Bear this from one, who holds your friendship dear; What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.

JOHN GAY.

(1685-1732.)

XXXIV. THE QUIDNUNCKIS.