Chapter 23
"Sire!" said he, in that mild tone of subdued superciliousness with which we should always address kings, and which, while it vindicates our dignity, satisfactorily proves that we are above the vulgar passion of envy. "Sire!" But let us not encourage that fatal faculty of oratory so dangerous to free states, and therefore let us give the "substance of Popanilla's speech".[233] He commenced his address in a manner somewhat resembling the initial observations of those pleasing pamphlets which are the fashion of the present hour, and which, being intended to diffuse information among those who have not enjoyed the opportunity and advantages of study, and are consequently of a gay and cheerful disposition, treat of light subjects in a light and polished style. Popanilla, therefore, spoke of man in a savage state, the origin of society, and the elements of the social compact, in sentences which would not have disgraced the mellifluous pen of Bentham. From these he naturally digressed into an agreeable disquisition on the Anglo-Saxons; and, after a little badinage on the Bill of Rights, flew off to an airy _aperçu_ of the French Revolution. When he had arrived at the Isle of Fantaisie he begged to inform His Majesty that man was born for something else besides enjoying himself. It was, doubtless, extremely pleasant to dance and sing, to crown themselves with chaplets, and to drink wine; but he was "free to confess" that he did not imagine that the most barefaced hireling of corruption could for a moment presume to maintain that there was any utility in pleasure. If there were no utility in pleasure, it was quite clear that pleasure could profit no one. If, therefore, it were unprofitable, it was injurious, because that which does not produce a profit is equivalent to a loss; therefore pleasure is a losing business; consequently pleasure is not pleasant.
He also showed that man was not born for himself, but for society; that the interests of the body are alone to be considered, and not those of the individual; and that a nation might be extremely happy, extremely powerful, and extremely rich, although every individual member of it might at the same time be miserable, dependent, and in debt. He regretted to observe that no one in the island seemed in the slightest degree conscious of the object of his being. Man is created for a purpose; the object of his existence is to perfect himself. Man is imperfect by nature, because if nature had made him perfect he would have had no wants; and it is only by supplying his wants that utility can be developed. The development of utility is therefore the object of our being, and the attainment of this great end the cause of our existence. This principle clears all doubts, and rationally accounts for a state of existence which has puzzled many pseudo-philosophers.
Popanilla then went on to show that the hitherto received definitions of man were all erroneous; that man is neither a walking animal, nor a talking animal, nor a cooking animal, nor a lounging animal, nor a debt-incurring animal, nor a tax-paying animal, nor a printing animal, nor a puffing animal, but a _developing animal_. Development is the discovery of utility. By developing the water we get fish; by developing the earth we get corn, and cash, and cotton; by developing the air we get breath; by developing the fire we get heat. Thus the use of the elements is demonstrated to the meanest capacity. But it was not merely a material development to which he alluded; a moral development was equally indispensable. He showed that it was impossible for a nation either to think too much or to do too much. The life of man was therefore to be passed in a moral and material development until he had consummated his perfection. It was the opinion of Popanilla that this great result was by no means so near at hand as some philosophers flattered themselves, and that it might possibly require another half-century before even the most civilized nation could be said to have completed the destiny of the human race. At the same time, he intimated that there were various extraordinary means by which this rather desirable result might be facilitated; and there was no saying what the building of a new University might do, of which, when built, he had no objection to be appointed Principal.
In answer to those who affect to admire that deficient system of existence which they style simplicity of manners, and who are perpetually committing the blunder of supposing that every advance towards perfection only withdraws man further from his primitive and proper condition, Popanilla triumphantly demonstrated that no such order as that which they associated with the phrase "state of nature" ever existed. "Man", said he, "is called the masterpiece of nature; and man is also, as we all know, the most curious of machines. Now, a machine is a work of art; consequently the masterpiece of nature is the masterpiece of art. The object of all mechanism is the attainment of utility; the object of man, who is the most perfect machine, is utility in the highest degree. Can we believe, therefore, that this machine was ever intended for a state which never could have called forth its powers, a state in which no utility could ever have been attained, a state in which there are no wants, consequently no demand, consequently no supply, consequently no competition, consequently no invention, consequently no profits; only one great pernicious monopoly of comfort and ease? Society without wants is like a world without winds. It is quite clear, therefore, that there is no such thing as Nature; Nature is Art, or Art is Nature; that which is most useful is most natural, because utility is the test of nature; therefore a steam-engine is in fact a much more natural production than a mountain.
"You are convinced, therefore," he continued, "by these observations, that it is impossible for an individual or a nation to be too artificial in their manners, their ideas, their laws, or their general policy; because, in fact, the more artificial you become, the nearer you approach that state of nature of which you are so perpetually talking." Here observing that some of his audience appeared to be a little sceptical, perhaps only surprised, he told them that what he said must be true, because it entirely consisted of first principles.
After having thus preliminarily descanted for about two hours, Popanilla informed His Majesty that he was unused to public speaking, and then proceeded to show that the grand characteristic of the social action of the Isle of Fantaisie was a total want of development. This he observed with equal sorrow and surprise; he respected the wisdom of their ancestors; at the same time, no one could deny that they were both barbarous and ignorant; he highly esteemed also the constitution, but regretted that it was not in the slightest degree adapted to the existing want of society; he was not for destroying any establishments, but, on the contrary, was for courteously affording them the opportunity of self-dissolution. He finished by re-urging, in strong terms, the immediate development of the island. In the first place, a great metropolis must be instantly built, because a great metropolis always produces a great demand; and, moreover, Popanilla had some legal doubts whether a country without a capital could in fact be considered a state. Apologizing for having so long trespassed upon the attention of the assembly, he begged distinctly to state that he had no wish to see His Majesty and his fellow-subjects adopt these new principles without examination and without experience. They might commence on a small scale; let them cut down their forests, and by turning them into ships and houses discover the utility of timber; let the whole island be dug up; let canals be cut, docks be built, and all the elephants be killed directly, that their teeth might yield an immediate article for exportation. A short time would afford a sufficient trial. In the meanwhile, they would not be pledged to further measures, and these might be considered "only as an experiment". Taking for granted that these principles would be acted on, and taking into consideration the site of the island in the map of the world, the nature and extent of its resources, its magnificent race of human beings, its varieties of the animal creation, its wonderfully fine timber, its undeveloped mineral treasures, the spaciousness of its harbours, and its various facilities for extended international communication, Popanilla had no hesitation in saying that a short time could not elapse ere, instead of passing their lives in a state of unprofitable ease and useless enjoyment, they might reasonably expect to be the terror and astonishment of the universe, and to be able to annoy every nation of any consequence.
Here, observing a smile upon His Majesty's countenance, Popanilla told the king that he was only a chief magistrate, and he had no more right to laugh at him than a parish constable. He concluded by observing that although what he at present urged might appear strange, nevertheless, if the listeners had been acquainted with the characters and cases of Galileo and Turgot, they would then have seen, as a necessary consequence, that his system was perfectly correct, and he himself a man of extraordinary merit.
Here the chief magistrate, no longer daring to smile, burst into a fit of laughter, and, turning to his courtiers, said: "I have not an idea what this man is talking about, but I know that he makes my head ache. Give me a cup of wine, and let us have a dance."
All applauded the royal proposition; and pushing Popanilla from one to another, until he was fairly hustled to the brink of the lagoon, they soon forgot the existence of this bore; in one word, he was cut. When Popanillo found himself standing alone, and looking grave while all the rest were gay, he began to suspect that he was not so influential a personage as he previously imagined. Rather crestfallen, he sneaked home; and consoled himself for having nobody to speak to by reading some amusing "Conversations on Political Economy".
[Footnote 233: _Substance of a speech_, in Parliamentary language, means a printed edition of an harangue which contains all that was uttered in the House, and about as much again.]
ROBERT BROWNING.
(1812-1890.)
LXVI. CRISTINA.
From _Dramatic Lyrics_; written in 1842.
I.
She should never have looked at me if she meant I should not love her. There are plenty ... men, you call such, I suppose ... she may discover. All her soul to, if she pleases, and yet leave much as she found them; But I'm not so, and she knew it when she fixed me, glancing round them.
II.
What? To fix me thus meant nothing? But I can't tell (there's my weakness) What her look said!--no vile cant, sure, about "need to strew the bleakness Of some lone shore with its pearl-seed, that the sea feels"--no "strange yearning That such souls have, most to lavish where there's chance of least returning".
III.
Oh, we're sunk enough here, God knows! but not quite so sunk that moments, Sure tho' seldom, are denied us, when the spirit's true endowments Stand out plainly from its false ones, and apprise it if pursuing Or the right way or the wrong way, to its triumph or undoing.
IV.
There are flashes struck from midnights, there are fire-flames noondays kindle, Whereby piled-up honours perish, whereby swollen ambitions dwindle, While just this or that poor impulse, which for once had play unstifled, Seems the sole work of a life-time that away the rest have trifled.
V.
Doubt you if, in some such moment, as she fixed me, she felt clearly, Ages past the soul existed, here an age 'tis resting merely, And hence fleets again for ages: while the true end, sole and single, It stops here for is, this love-way, with some other soul to mingle?
VI.
Else it loses what it lived for, and eternally must lose it; Better ends may be in prospect, deeper blisses (if you choose it), But this life's end and this love-bliss have been lost here. Doubt you whether This she felt as, looking at me, mine and her souls rushed together?
VII.
Oh, observe! Of course, next moment, the world's honours, in derision, Trampled out the light for ever. Never fear but there's provision Of the devil's to quench knowledge, lest we walk the earth in rapture! --Making those who catch God's secret, just so much more prize their capture!
VIII.
Such am I: the secret's mine now! She has lost me, I have gained her; Her soul's mine: and thus, grown perfect, I shall pass my life's remainder. Life will just hold out the proving both our powers, alone and blended: And then, come next life quickly! This world's use will have been ended.
LXVII. THE LOST LEADER.
From _Dramatic Lyrics_; written in 1845.
I.
Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a riband to stick in his coat-- Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, Lost all the others, she lets us devote; They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, So much was theirs who so little allowed: How all our copper had gone for his service! Rags--were they purple, his heart had been proud! We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him, Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, Made him our pattern to live and to die? Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, Burns, Shelley, were with us,--they watch from their graves! He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!
II.
We shall march prospering,--not thro' his presence; Songs may inspirit us,--not from his lyre; Deeds will be done,--while he boasts his quiescence, Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire. Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, One more devil's-triumph and sorrow for angels, One wrong more to man, one more insult to God! Life's night begins: let him never come back to us! There would be doubt, hesitation and pain, Forced praise on our part--the glimmer of twilight, Never glad confident morning again! Best fight on well, for we taught him--strike gallantly, Menace our heart ere we master his own; Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.
(1811-1863.)
LXVIII. PISCATOR AND PISCATRIX.
Published among Thackeray's "Ballads" under the sub-heading "Lines written to an Album Print".
As on this pictured page I look, This pretty tale of line and hook, As though it were a novel-book, Amuses and engages: I know them both, the boy and girl; She is the daughter of the Earl, The lad (that has his hair in curl) My lord the County's page is.
A pleasant place for such a pair! The fields lie basking in the glare; No breath of wind the heavy air Of lazy summer quickens. Hard by you see the castle tall; The village nestles round the wall, As round about the hen its small Young progeny of chickens.
It is too hot to pace the keep; To climb the turret is too steep; My lord the Earl is dozing deep, His noonday dinner over: The postern warder is asleep (Perhaps they've bribed him not to peep): And so from out the gate they creep; And cross the fields of clover.
Their lines into the brook they launch; He lays his cloak upon a branch, To guarantee his Lady Blanche 's delicate complexion: He takes his rapier from his haunch, That beardless, doughty champion staunch; He'd drill it through the rival's paunch That question'd his affection!
O heedless pair of sportsmen slack! You never mark, though trout or jack, Or little foolish stickleback, Your baited snares may capture. What care has _she_ for line and hook? She turns her back upon the brook, Upon her lover's eyes to look In sentimental rapture.
O loving pair! as thus I gaze Upon the girl who smiles always, The little hand that ever plays Upon the lover's shoulder; In looking at your pretty shapes, A sort of envious wish escapes (Such as the Fox had for the Grapes) The Poet, your beholder.
To be brave, handsome, twenty-two; With nothing else on earth to do, But all day long to bill and coo: It were a pleasant calling. And had I such a partner sweet; A tender heart for mine to beat, A gentle hand my clasp to meet;-- I'd let the world flow at my feet, And never heed its brawling.
LXIX. ON A HUNDRED YEARS HENCE.
This is one of the most popular of the famous Roundabout Papers written by Thackeray for the _Cornhill Magazine_, of which he was the first editor.
Where have I just read of a game played at a country house? The party assembles round a table with pens, ink, and paper. Some one narrates a tale containing more or less incidents and personages. Each person of the company then writes down, to the best of his memory and ability, the anecdote just narrated, and finally the papers are to be read out. I do not say I should like to play often at this game, which might possibly be a tedious and lengthy pastime, not by any means so amusing as smoking a cigar in the conservatory; or even listening to the young ladies playing their piano-pieces; or to Hobbs and Nobbs lingering round the bottle and talking over the morning's run with the hounds; but surely it is a moral and ingenious sport. They say the variety of narratives is often very odd and amusing. The original story becomes so changed and distorted that at the end of all the statements you are puzzled to know where the truth is at all. As time is of small importance to the cheerful persons engaged in this sport, perhaps a good way of playing it would be to spread it over a couple of years. Let the people who played the game in '60 all meet and play it once more in '61, and each write his story over again. Then bring out your original and compare notes. Not only will the stories differ from each other, but the writers will probably differ from themselves. In the course of the year the incidents will grow or will dwindle strangely. The least authentic of the statements will be so lively or so malicious, or so neatly put, that it will appear most like the truth. I like these tales and sportive exercises. I had begun a little print collection once. I had Addison in his nightgown in bed at Holland House, requesting young Lord Warwick to remark how a Christian should die. I had Cambronne clutching his cocked hat, and uttering the immortal _La Garde meurt et ne se rend pas_. I had the _Vengeur_ going down, and all the crew hurraying like madmen. I had Alfred toasting the muffin: Curtius (Haydon) jumping into the gulf; with extracts from Napoleon's bulletins, and a fine authentic portrait of Baron Munchausen.
What man who has been before the public at all has not heard similar wonderful anecdotes regarding himself and his own history? In these humble essaykins I have taken leave to egotize. I cry out about the shoes which pinch me, and, as I fancy, more naturally and pathetically than if my neighbour's corns were trodden under foot. I prattle about the dish which I love, the wine which I like, the talk I heard yesterday--about Brown's absurd airs--Jones's ridiculous elation when he thinks he has caught me in a blunder (a part of the fun, you see, is that Jones will read this, and will perfectly well know that I mean him, and that we shall meet and grin at each other with entire politeness). This is not the highest kind of speculation, I confess, but it is a gossip which amuses some folks. A brisk and honest small-beer will refresh those who do not care for the frothy outpourings of heavier taps. A two of clubs may be a good handy little card sometimes, and able to tackle a king of diamonds, if it is a little trump. Some philosophers get their wisdom with deep thought, and out of ponderous libraries; I pick up my small crumbs of cogitation at a dinner-table; or from Mrs. Mary and Miss Louisa, as they are prattling over their five-o'clock tea.
Well, yesterday at dinner, Jucundus was good enough to tell me a story about myself, which he had heard from a lady of his acquaintance, to whom I send my best compliments. The tale is this. At nine o'clock on the evening of the 31st of November last, just before sunset, I was seen leaving No. 96 Abbey Road, St. John's Wood, leading two little children by the hand, one of them in a nankeen pelisse, and the other having a mole on the third finger of his left hand (she thinks it was the third finger, but is quite sure it was the left hand). Thence I walked with them to Charles Boroughbridge's, pork and sausage man, No. 29 Upper Theresa Road. Here, whilst I left the little girl innocently eating a polony in the front shop, I and Boroughbridge retired with the boy into the back parlour, where Mrs. Boroughbridge was playing cribbage. She put up the cards and boxes, took out a chopper and a napkin, and we cut the little boy's little throat (which he bore with great pluck and resolution), and made him into sausage-meat by the aid of Purkis's excellent sausage-machine. The little girl at first could not understand her brother's absence, but, under the pretence of taking her to see Mr. Fechter in _Hamlet_, I led her down to the New River at Sadler's Wells, where a body of a child in a nankeen pelisse was subsequently found, and has never been recognized to the present day. And this Mrs. Lynx can aver, because she saw the whole transaction with her own eyes, as she told Mr. Jucundus.
I have altered the little details of the anecdote somewhat. But this story is, I vow and declare, as true as Mrs. Lynx's. Gracious goodness! how do lies begin? What are the averages of lying? Is the same amount of lies told about every man, and do we pretty much all tell the same amount of lies? Is the average greater in Ireland than in Scotland, or _vice versâ_--among women than among men? Is this a lie I am telling now? If I am talking about you, the odds are, perhaps, that it is. I look back at some which have been told about me, and speculate on them with thanks and wonder. Dear friends have told them of me, have told them to me of myself. Have they not to and of you, dear friend? A friend of mine was dining at a large dinner of clergymen, and a story, as true as the sausage story above given, was told regarding me, by one of those reverend divines in whose frocks sit some anile chatterboxes, as any man who knows this world knows. They take the privilege of their gown. They cabal, and tattle, and hiss, and cackle comminations under their breath. I say the old women of the other sex are not more talkative or more mischievous than some of these. "Such a man ought not to be spoken to", says Gobemouche, narrating the story--and such a story! "And I am surprised he is admitted into society at all." Yes, dear Gobemouche, but the story wasn't true: and I had no more done the wicked deed in question than I had run away with the Queen of Sheba.