18th C Coursepack

18th Century 18TH CENTURY BRITISH LITERATURE (1660-1785)
The Restoration Period (1660-1700) * The Augustan Age (1700-1740) * The Age of Johnson (1740-1800)
Spring, 2023
British Literature
COURSE OUTLINE
WEEK 1: Historical Background, Neoclassicism, Empiricism and Enlightenment
Spring, 2023
§ INTRODUCTION: The Restoration and the Eighteenth Century (1660– 1785)
§ IMMANUEL KANT (1724-1804), “What is Enlightenment?” (1784)
WEEK 2: Social Contract, Liberty, Slavery

§ THOMAS HOBBES (1588-1679), from Leviathan (1651)
§ JOHN LOCKE (1632-1704), from “Two Treatises of Government” (1689)
§ JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU (1712-1778), from The Social Contract (1762)
WEEK 3: Satire
§ JOHN DRYDEN (1631–1700), “Mac Flecknoe” (1682) & from “A Discourse Concerning
the Original and Progress of Satire” (1693)
§ ALEXANDER POPE (1688-1744), “The Rape of the Lock” (1714-17)
§ JONATHAN SWIFT (1667–1745), “A Modest Proposal” (1729)
Instructor: WEEK 4: Patriarchy, Marriage, and Women

§ MARY ASTELL (1666-1731), from Some Reflections upon Marriage (1700) & from “A
Preface, in Answer to Some Objections to Reflections upon Marriage” (1706)
Neslihan Şentürk Uzun § DANIEL DEFOE (c. 1660–1731), from Roxana (1724)
WEEK 5: Mind and God, Faith and Doubt

§ JOHN LOCKE (1632-1704), from An Essay Concerning Human Understanding (1689)
§ MARY ASTELL (1666-1731), from A Serious Proposal to the Ladies (1694)
§ JUDITH DRAKE (1670-1723), from An Essay in Defense of the Female Sex (1696)
§ ELIZA HAYWOOD (c. 1693-1756), from The Female Spectator No. 10 (February 1745)
§ SIR RICHARD STEELE (1672-1729) & JOSEPH ADDISON (1672-1719), from The
Spectator No. 7 (March 8, 1711)
§ DAVID HUME (1711-1776), from An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding (1748)
WEEKS 6-7: “State of Nature” in the Novel

§ DANIEL DEFOE (c. 1660–1731), Robinson Crusoe (1719)
WEEK 8: Working-Class Poets
§ STEPHEN DUCK (c. 1705 –1756), from “The Thresher’s Labour” (1730)
§ MARY COLLIER (c. 1688 – 1762), from “The Woman’s Labour” (1739)
The Restoration
WEEK 9: Principles of Neo-Classical Poetics, Criticism and Morality and the Eighteenth
§ ALEXANDER POPE (1688-1744), “An Essay on Criticism” (1711) & “An Essay on Man”
(1733) Century 1660–1785
WEEK 10: Satirical Novel
§ JONATHAN SWIFT (1667–1745), Gulliver’s Travels (1726)
1660: Charles II restored to the English
throne
WEEK 11: Gender Arguments in Verse 1688–89: The Glorious Revolution: deposition
§ JONATHAN SWIFT, “The Lady’s Dressing Room” (1732) of James II and accession of William
of Orange
§ LADY MARY MONTAGU (1689-1762), “The Reasons that Induced Dr. Swift to Write a
1700: Death of John Dryden
Poem Called the Lady’s Dressing Room” (1734) 1707: Act of Union unites Scotland and
§ ALEXANDER POPE, “Epistle 2. To a Lady” (1735) England, creating the nation of
§ ANNE INGRAM (c. 1696 -1764), “An Epistle to Mr. Pope” (1736) “Great Britain”
1714: Rule by House of Hanover begins
with accession of George I
WEEK 12: Epistolary Novels 1744–45: Deaths of Alexander Pope and
Jonathan Swift
§ SAMUEL RICHARDSON (1689-1761), from Pamela (1740)
1784: Death of Samuel Johnson
§ HENRY FIELDING (1707-1754), from Shamela (1741)
WEEK 13: English Language and Johnson’s Dictionary

§ SAMUEL JOHNSON (1709–1784), from “Preface” to A Dictionary of the English
Language (1755)
T he Restoration and the eighteenth century
brought vast changes to the island of Great Brit-
ain, which became a single nation after 1707,
when the Act of Union joined Scotland to England and
Wales. After the prolonged civil and religious strife of
WEEK 14: The Lockean “Understanding” of Tristram Shandy the seventeenth century, Britain attained political sta-
bility and unprecedented commercial vigor. The country-
§ LAURENCE STERNE (1713-1768), from The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy (1760)
side kept its seemingly timeless agricultural rhythms,
even as the nation’s great families consolidated their
control over the land and those who worked it. Change
came most dramatically to cities, which absorbed much
of a national population that nearly doubled in the
period, to ten million. Britons came together in civil
society— the public but nongovernmental institutions
and practices that became newly powerful in the
period. The theaters (reopened at the Restoration),
A Philosopher Giving That Lecture on the Orrery, in Which a

Lamp Is Put in Place of the Sun (detail), 1766, Joseph Wright.
For more information about this painting, see the color insert in
this volume.
217 7
2178 | T H E R E S T O R AT I O N A N D T H E E I G H T E E N T H C E N T U R Y INTRODUCTION | 2179
coffeehouses, concert halls, pleasure gardens, lending libraries, picture exhi- govern through Parliament but slyly tried to consolidate royal power. Steering
bitions, and shopping districts gave life in London and elsewhere a feeling of away from crises, he hid his Catholic sympathies and avoided a test of strength
bustle and friction. Reflecting and stimulating this activity, an expanding with Parliament— except on one occasion. In 1678 the report of the Popish
assortment of printed works vied to interest literate women and men, whose Plot, in which Catholics would rise and murder their Protestant foes, terri-
numbers grew to include most of the middle classes and many among the fied London; and though the charge turned out to be a fraud, the House of
poor. Civil society also linked people to an increasingly global economy, as Commons exploited the fear by trying to force Charles to exclude his Catholic
they shopped for diverse goods from around the world. The rich and even brother, James, duke of York, from succession to the throne. The turmoil of
the moderately well off could profit or go broke from investments in joint- this period is captured brilliantly by Dryden’s Absalom and Achitophel (1681).
stock companies, which controlled much of Britain’s international trade, Finally, Charles defeated the Exclusion Bill by dissolving Parliament. But the
including its lucrative traffic in slaves. At home, new systems of canals and crisis resulted in a basic division of the country between two new political par-
turnpikes stimulated domestic trade, industry, and travel, bringing distant ties: the Tories, who supported the king, and the Whigs, the king’s opponents.
parts of the country closer together. The cohesion of the nation also depended Neither party could live with James II. After he came to the throne in
on ideas of social order—some old and clear, many subtle and new. An ethos 1685, he claimed the right to make his own laws, suspended the Test Act,
of politeness came to prevail, a standard of social behavior to which more and began to fill the army and government with fellow Catholics. The birth
and more could aspire yet that served to distinguish the privileged sharply of James’s son in 1688 brought matters to a head, confronting the nation
from the rude and vulgar. This and other ideas, of order and hierarchy, of with the prospect of a Catholic dynasty. Secret negotiations paved the way
liberty and rights, of sentiment and sympathy, helped determine the ways in for the Dutchman William of Orange, a champion of Protestantism and the
which an expanding diversity of people could seek to participate in Britain’s husband of James’s Protestant daughter Mary. William landed with a small
thriving cultural life. army in southwestern England and marched toward London. As he advanced
the king’s allies melted away, and James fled to a permanent exile in France.
But the house of Stuart would be heard from again. For more than half a
RELIGION AND POLITICS century some loyal Jacobites (from the Latin Jacobus, “James”), especially in
Scotland, supported James, his son (“the Old Pretender”), and his grandson
The Restoration of 1660—the return of Charles Stuart and, with him, the (“the Young Pretender” or “Bonnie Prince Charlie”) as the legitimate rulers
monarchy to England—brought hope to a divided nation, exhausted by years of Britain. Moreover, a good many writers, from Aphra Behn and Dryden
of civil war and political turmoil. Almost all of Charles’s subjects welcomed (and arguably Pope and Johnson) to Robert Burns, privately sympathized
him home. After the abdication of Richard Cromwell in 1659 the country with Jacobitism. But after the failure of one last rising in 1745, the cause
had seemed at the brink of chaos, and Britons were eager to believe that would dwindle gradually into a wistful sentiment. In retrospect, the com-
their king would bring order and law and a spirit of mildness back into the ing of William and Mary in 1688—the Glorious, or Bloodless, Revolution—
national life. But no political settlement could be stable until the religious came to be seen as the beginning of a stabilized, unified Great Britain.
issues had been resolved. The restoration of the monarchy meant that the A number of innovations made this stability possible. In 1689 a Bill of
established church would also be restored, and though Charles was willing Rights revoked James’s actions; it limited the powers of the Crown, reaf-
to pardon or ignore many former enemies (such as Milton), the bishops and firmed the supremacy of Parliament, and guaranteed some individual rights.
Anglican clergy were less tolerant of dissent. When Parliament reimposed The same year the Toleration Act relaxed the strain of religious conflict by
the Book of Common Prayer in 1662 and then in 1664 barred Nonconform- granting a limited freedom of worship to Dissenters (although not to Catho-
ists from religious meetings outside the established church, thousands of lics or Jews) so long as they swore allegiance to the Crown. This proved to
clergymen resigned their livings, and the jails were filled with preachers be a workable compromise. The passage of the Act of Settlement in 1701
like John Bunyan who refused to be silenced. In 1673 the Test Act required seemed finally to resolve the difficult problem of succession that had bedev-
all holders of civil and military offices to take the sacrament in an Anglican iled the monarchy. Sophia, the electress of Hanover, and her descendants
church and to deny belief in transubstantiation. Thus Protestant Dissenters were put in line for the throne. As the granddaughter of James I, she was the
and Roman Catholics were largely excluded from public life; for instance, closest Protestant relative of Princess Anne, James II’s younger daughter
Alexander Pope, a Catholic, could not attend a university, own land, or vote. (whose sole surviving child died in that year). The principles established in
The scorn of Anglicans for Nonconformist zeal or “enthusiasm” (a belief in these years endured unaltered in essentials until the Reform Bill of 1832.
private revelation) bursts out in Samuel Butler’s popular Hudibras (1663), a But the political rancor that often animates contests for power did not
caricature of Presbyterians and Independents. And English Catholics were vanish, and during Anne’s reign (1702–14), new tensions embittered the
widely regarded as potential traitors and (wrongly) thought to have set the nation. In the War of the Spanish Succession (1702–13), England and its
Great Fire that destroyed much of London in 1666. allies defeated France and Spain. As these commercial rivals were weakened
Yet the triumph of the established church did not resolve the constitutional and war profits flowed in, the Whig lords and London merchants support-
issues that had divided Charles I and Parliament. Charles II had promised to ing the war grew rich. The spoils included new colonies and the asiento,
a contract to supply slaves to the Spanish Empire. The hero of the war, the patronage system under Walpole, who installed dependents in govern-
Captain-General John Churchill, duke of Marlborough, won the famous ment offices and controlled the House of Commons by financially reward-
victory of Blenheim; was showered with honors and wealth; and, with his ing its members. Many great writers found these methods offensive and
duchess, dominated the queen until 1710. But the Whigs and Marlborough embraced Bolingbroke’s new Tory rhetoric extolling the Englishman’s fierce
pushed their luck too hard. When the Whigs tried to reward the Dissenters independence from the corrupting power of centralized government and con-
for their loyalty by removing the Test, Anne fought back to defend the estab- centrations of wealth. Gay’s Beggar’s Opera (1728) and Fielding’s Jonathan
lished church. She dismissed her Whig ministers and the Marlboroughs and Wild (1743) draw parallels between great criminals and great politicians, and
called in Robert Harley and the brilliant young Henry St. John to form a Pope’s Dunciad uses Walpole as an emblem of the venal commercialization
Tory ministry. These ministers employed prominent writers like Defoe and of the whole social fabric. This distaste, however, did not prevent Pope him-
Swift and commissioned Matthew Prior to negotiate the Peace of Utrecht self from marketing his poems as cleverly as he wrote them.
(1713). But to Swift’s despair—he later burlesqued events at court in Gulli- Walpole fell in 1742 because he was unwilling to go to war against the
ver’s Travels— a bitter rivalry broke out between Harley (now earl of Oxford) French and Spanish, a war he thought would cost too much but that many
and St. John (now Viscount Bolingbroke). Though Bolingbroke succeeded in perceived would enhance Britain’s wealth still further. The next major
ousting Oxford, the death of Anne in 1714 reversed his fortunes. The Whigs English statesman, William Pitt the Elder, appealed to a spirit of patriotism
returned to power, and George I (Sophia’s son) became the first Hanoverian and called for the expansion of British power and commerce overseas. The
king (he would reign until 1727). Harley was imprisoned in the Tower of defeat of the French in the Seven Years’ War (1756– 63), especially in North
London until 1717; and Bolingbroke, charged with being a Jacobite traitor, America, was largely his doing. The long reign of George III (1760–1820)
fled to France. Government was now securely in the hands of the Whigs. was dominated by two great concerns: the emergence of Britain as a colo-
The political principles of the Whig and Tory parties, which bring so nial power and the cry for a new social order based on liberty and radical
much fire to eighteenth-century public debate, evolved through the period reform. In 1763 the Peace of Paris consolidated British rule over Canada
to address changing circumstances. Now we tend to think of Tories as con- and India, and not even the later loss of the American colonies could stem
servative and Whigs as liberal. (Members of today’s Conservative Party in the rise of the empire. Great Britain was no longer an isolated island but a
the United Kingdom are sometimes called Tories.) During the Exclusion nation with interests and responsibilities around the world.
Crisis of the 1680s the Whigs asserted the liberties of the English subject At home, however, there was discontent. The wealth brought to England
against the royal prerogatives of Charles II, whom Tories such as Dryden by industrialism and foreign trade had not spread to the great mass of the
supported. After both parties survived the 1688 Glorious Revolution, the poor. For much of the century, few had questioned the idea that those at
Tories guarded the preeminence of the established church (sometimes styl- the top of the social hierarchy rightfully held power. Rich families’ alliances
ing themselves the Church Party), while Whigs tended to support toleration and rivalries, national and local, dominated politics; while male property
of Dissenters. Economically, too, Tories defined themselves as traditional- owners could vote in Parliamentary elections, they and others of the middle
ists, affirming landownership as the proper basis of wealth, power, and priv- classes and the poor had mostly followed the powerful people who could
ilege (though most thought trade honorable), whereas the Whigs came to be best help them thrive or at least survive. But toward the end of the century
seen as supporting a new “moneyed interest” (as Swift called it): managers it seemed to many that the bonds of custom that once held people together
of the Bank of England (founded 1694), contrivers of the system of public had finally broken, and now money alone was respected. Protestants turned
credit, and investors in the stock market. But conservatism and liberalism against Catholics; in 1780 the Gordon Riots put London temporarily under
did not exist as ideological labels in the period, and the vicissitudes of party mob rule. The king was popular with his subjects and tried to take govern-
dispute offer many surprises. When Bolingbroke returned to England in ment into his own hands, rising above partisanship, but his efforts often
1724 after being pardoned, he led a Tory opposition that decried the “minis- backfired— as when the American colonists took him for a tyrant. From 1788
terial tyranny” of the Whig government. This opposition patriotically hailed to the end of his life, moreover, an inherited disease (porphyria) periodically
liberty in a manner recalling the Whig rhetoric of earlier decades, appealed unhinged his mind, as in a memorable scene described by Frances Burney.
to both landed gentry and urban merchants, and anticipated the antigov- Meanwhile, reformers such as John Wilkes, Richard Price, and Catherine
ernment radicalism of the end of the eighteenth century. Conversely, the Macaulay called for a new political republic. Fear of their radicalism would
Whigs sought to secure a centralized fiscal and military state machine and contribute to the British reaction against the French Revolution. In the last
a web of financial interdependence controlled by the wealthiest aristocrats. decades of the century British authors would be torn between two opposing
The great architect of this Whig policy was Robert Walpole, who came to attitudes: loyalty to the old traditions of subordination, mutual obligations,
power as a result of the “South Sea bubble” (1720), a stock market crash. His and local self-sufficiency, and yearning for a new dispensation founded on
ability to restore confidence and keep the country running smoothly, as well principles of liberty, the rule of reason, and human rights.
as to juggle money, would mark his long ascendancy. Coming to be known as
Britain’s first “prime” minister, he consolidated his power during the reign
of George II (1727– 60). More involved in British affairs than his essentially
German father, George II came to appreciate the efficient administration of
THE CONTEXT OF IDEAS

Much of the most powerful writing after 1660 exposed divisions in the
nation’s thinking inherited from the tumult of earlier decades. As the possibil-
ity of a Christian Commonwealth receded, the great republican John Milton
published Paradise Lost (final version, 1674), and John Bunyan’s immensely
popular masterwork Pilgrim’s Progress (1679) expressed the conscience of a
Nonconformist. Conversely, an aristocratic culture, led by Charles II him-
self, aggressively celebrated pleasure and the right of the elite to behave as
they wished. Members of the court scandalized respectable London citizens
and considered their wives and daughters fair game. The court’s hero, the
earl of Rochester, became a celebrity for enacting the creed of a libertine
and rake. The delights of the court also took more refined forms. French and
Italian musicians, as well as painters from the Low Countries, migrated to
England; and playhouses— closed by the Puritans since 1642—sprang back
to life. In 1660 Charles authorized two new companies of actors, the King’s
Players and the Duke’s; their repertory included witty, bawdy comedies writ-
ten and acted by women as well as men. But as stark as the contrasts were
during the Restoration between libertine and religious intellectuals, royal-
ists and republicans, High Churchmen and Nonconformists, the court and
the rest of the country, a spirit of compromise was brewing.
Perhaps the most widely shared intellectual impulse of the age was a dis-
trust of dogmatism. Nearly everybody blamed it for the civil strife through
which the nation had recently passed. Opinions varied widely about which
dogmatism was most dangerous—Puritan enthusiasm, papal infallibility, the
Frontispiece to Thomas Sprat’s History of the Royal Society;
divine right of kings, medieval scholastic or modern Cartesian philosophy— Wenceslaus Hollar, engraving, London, 1667. A bust of King
but these were denounced in remarkably similar terms. As far apart intel- Charles II, called the “author and patron of the Royal Society”
lectually and temperamentally as Rochester and Milton were, both portray (Latin), is being crowned by Fame. To the left is the Royal Society’s
overconfidence in human reasoning as the supreme disaster. It is the theme of president, Lord Bruckner; to the right, Francis Bacon, pointing to
Butler’s Hudibras and much of the work of Dryden. Many philosophers, scien- mathematical and military technology. On the left side are shelves
tists, and divines began to embrace a mitigated skepticism, which argued that full of books, and in the background, more scientific instruments,
human beings could readily achieve a sufficient degree of necessary knowl- including Robert Boyle’s air pump (center left).
edge (sometimes called “moral certainty”) but also contended that the pursuit
of absolute certainty was vain, mad, and socially calamitous. If, as the com-
mentator Martin Clifford put it in A Treatise of Humane Reason (1675), “in
this vast latitude of probabilities,” a person thinks “there is none can lead one of power after power” could lead to civic collapse. Other materialist philoso-
to salvation, but the path wherein he treads himself, we may see the evident phies derived from ancient Epicurean thought, which was Christianized by
and necessary consequence of eternal troubles and confusions.” Such writers the French philosopher Pierre Gassendi (1592–1655). The Epicurean doc-
insist that a distrust of human capacities is fully compatible with religious trine that the universe consists only of minuscule atoms and void unnerved
faith: for them the inability of reason and sensory evidence to settle important some thinkers— Swift roundly mocks it in A Tale of a Tub—but it also ener-
questions reveals our need to accept Christian mysteries as our intellectual gized efforts to examine the world with deliberate, acute attention. This
foundation. Dryden’s poem Religio Laici (1682) explains: “So pale grows rea- new scientific impulse advanced Francis Bacon’s program of methodical
son in religion’s sight; / So dies, and so dissolves in supernatural light.” experimentation and inductive reasoning formulated earlier in the century.
Far from inhibiting fresh thinking, however, the distrust of old dogmas Charles II gave official approval to the scientific revolution by charter-
inspired new theories, projects, and explorations. In Leviathan (1651), ing the Royal Society of London for the Improving of Natural Knowledge in
Thomas Hobbes jettisoned the notion of a divine basis for kingly author- 1662. But observations of nature advanced both formally and informally in an
ity, proposing instead a naturalistic argument for royal absolutism begun eclectic range of areas: the specialized, professional “scientist” we know today
from the claim that mere “matter in motion” composes the universe: if not did not yet exist. And new features of the world were disclosed to everyone
checked by an absolute sovereign, mankind’s “perpetual and restless desire who had the chance to look. Two wonderful inventions, the microscope and
telescope, had begun to reveal that nature is more extravagant— teeming lutionized previously held views of the world, Newton himself maintained
with tiny creatures and boundless galaxies— than anyone had ever imag- a seemly diffidence, comparing himself to “a boy playing on the sea-shore”
ined. One book that stayed popular for more than a century, Fontenelle’s “whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me.” He and
Conversations on the Plurality of Worlds (1686; translated from French by other modest modern inquirers such as Locke won the admiration of Pope
Behn and later by Burney), suggested that an infinite number of alternate and many ardent defenders of the past.
worlds and living creatures might exist, not only in outer space but under The widespread devotion to the direct observation of experience estab-
our feet, invisibly small. Travels to unfamiliar regions of the globe also lished empiricism as the dominant intellectual attitude of the age, which
enlarged understandings of what nature could do: Behn’s classifying and would become Britain’s great legacy to world philosophy. Locke and his heirs
collecting of South American flora and fauna in Oroonoko show how the George Berkeley and David Hume pursue the experiential approach in widely
appetite for wondrous facts kept pace with the economic motives of world divergent directions. But even when they reach conclusions shocking to com-
exploration and colonization. Encounters with hitherto little known societ- mon sense, they tend to reassert the security of our prior knowledge. Berkeley
ies in the Far East, Africa, and the Americas enlarged Europeans’ under- insists we know the world only through our senses and thus cannot prove
standing of human norms as well. In Gulliver’s Travels, Swift shows the that any material thing exists, but he uses that argument to demonstrate the
comical, painful ways in which the discovery of new cultures forces one necessity of faith, because reality amounts to no more than a perception in
average Briton to reexamine his own. the mind of God. Hume’s famous argument about causation—that “causes
Scientific discovery and exploration also affected religious attitudes. and effects are discoverable, not by reason but by experience”— grounds our
Alongside “natural history” (the collection and description of facts of sense of the world not on rational reflection but on spontaneous, unreflec-
nature) and “natural philosophy” (the study of the causes of what happens in tive beliefs and feelings. Perhaps Locke best expresses the temper of his
nature), thinkers of the period placed “natural religion” (the study of nature times in the Essay Concerning Human Understanding (1690):
as a book written by God). Newly discovered natural laws, such as New-
If by this inquiry into the nature of the understanding, I can discover
ton’s laws of optics and celestial mechanics, seemed evidence of a universal
the powers thereof; how far they reach; to what things they are in any
order in creation, which implied God’s hand in the design of the universe,
degree proportionate; and where they fail us, I suppose it may be of use,
as a watch implies a watchmaker. Expanded knowledge of peoples around
to prevail with the busy mind of man to be more cautious in meddling
the world who had never heard of Christianity led theologians to formulate
with things exceeding its comprehension; to stop when it is at the utmost
supposedly universal religious tenets available to all rational beings. Some
extent of its tether; and to sit down in a quiet ignorance of those things
intellectuals embraced Deism, the doctrine that religion need not depend
which, upon examination, are found to be beyond the reach of our
on mystery or biblical truths and could rely on reason alone, which rec-
capacities. . . . Our business here is not to know all things, but those
ognized the goodness and wisdom of natural law and its creator. Natural
which concern our conduct.
religion could not, however, discern an active God who punished vice and
rewarded virtue in this life; evidently the First Cause had withdrawn from Such a position is Swift’s, when he inveighs against metaphysics, abstract
the universe He set in motion. Many orthodox Christians shuddered at the logical deductions, and theoretical science. It is similar to Pope’s warning
vision of a vast, impersonal machine of nature. Instead they rested their against human presumption in An Essay on Man. It prompts Johnson to talk
faith on the revelation of Scripture, the scheme of salvation in which Christ of “the business of living” and to restrain the flights of unbridled imagina-
died to redeem our sins. Other Christians, such as Pope in An Essay on Man tion. And it helps account for the Anglican clergy’s dislike of emotion and
and Thomson in The Seasons, espoused arguments for natural religion that “enthusiasm” in religion and for their emphasis on good works, rather than
they felt did not conflict with or diminish orthodox belief. faith, as the way to salvation. Locke’s attitudes pervaded eighteenth-century
Some people began to argue that the achievements of modern inquiry British thought on politics, education, and morals as well as philosophy;
had eclipsed those of the ancients (and the fathers of the church), who had Johnson’s great Dictionary (1755) uses more than fifteen hundred illustra-
not known about the solar system, the New World, microscopic organisms, tions from his writings.
or the circulation of the blood. The school curriculum still began with years Yet one momentous new idea at the turn of the eighteenth century was set
of Latin and Greek, inculcating a long-established humanistic tradition against Lockean thinking. The groundbreaking intellectual Mary Astell, in
cherished by many authors, including Swift and Pope. A battle of the books A Serious Proposal to the Ladies (1694) and Some Reflections upon Marriage
erupted in the late seventeenth century between champions of ancient and (1700, 1706), initiated a powerful strain of modern feminism, arguing for the
of modern learning. Swift crusaded fiercely in this battle: Gulliver’s Travels establishment of women’s educational institutions and decrying the tyranny
denounces the pointlessness and arrogance he saw in experiments of the that husbands legally exercised over their wives. She nonetheless mocked the
Royal Society, while “A Modest Proposal” depicts a peculiar new cruelty calls for political rights and liberty by Locke and other Whig theorists, rights
and indifference to moral purpose made possible by statistics and econom- that pointedly did not extend to women. Instead, she and other early femi-
ics (two fields pioneered by Royal Society member Sir William Petty). But nists, including Sarah Fyge Egerton and Mary, Lady Chudleigh, embraced
as sharp as such disagreements were, accommodation was also possible. the Tory principle of obedience to royal and church authority. Women’s
Even as works such as Newton’s Principia (1687) and Opticks (1704) revo- advocates had to fight “tyrant Custom” (in Egerton’s words), rooted in ancient
traditions of domestic power and enshrined in the Bible and mythic human odicals sought to teach as large a readership as possible to think and behave
prehistory. This struggle seemed distinct from public political denunciations politely. On a more aristocratic plane, the Characteristics of Men, Manners,
of the tyranny of some relatively recent Charles or James. Astell feared that Opinions, and Times (1711) by the third earl of Shaftesbury similarly asserted
the doctrines of male revolutionaries could produce civil chaos and so jeop- the naturally social meaning of human character and meditated on the
ardize the best that women could hope for in her day: the freedom to become affections, the witty intercourse, and the standards of politeness that bind
fully educated, practice their religion, and marry (or not) according to their people together. Such ideas led to the popularity around mid-century of a new
own enlightened judgment. word, sentimental, which locates the bases of social conduct in instinctual
Other thinkers, male and female, began to advocate improving women’s feeling rather than divinely sanctioned moral codes. Religion itself, accord-
education as part of a wider commitment to enhancing and extending socia- ing to Laurence Sterne, might be a “Great Sensorium,” a sort of central
bility. Richard Steele’s periodical The Tatler satirized Astell as “Madonella” ner vous system that connects the feelings of all living creatures in one great
because she seemed to recommend women to a nun-like, “recluse life.” In The benevolent soul. And people began to feel exquisite pleasure in the exercise
Spectator (1711–12; 1714), conversely, Steele and Joseph Addison encour- of charity. The cult of sensibility fostered a philanthropy that led to social
aged women to learn to participate in an increasingly sociable, intellectually reforms seldom envisioned in earlier times—to the improvement of jails, the
sophisticated, urbane world, where all sorts of people could mingle, as in the relief of imprisoned debtors, the establishment of foundling hospitals and
streets, parks, and pleasure grounds of a thriving city like London. Such peri- of homes for penitent prostitutes, and ultimately the abolition of the slave
trade. And it also loosed a ready flow of sympathetic responses to the joys
and sorrows of fellow human beings.
As they cultivated fine feelings, Britons also pursued their fascination
with the material world. Scientific discoveries increasingly found practical
applications in industry, the arts, and even entertainment. By the late 1740s,
as knowledge of electricity advanced, public experiments offered fashionable
British crowds the opportunity to electrocute themselves. Amateurs every-
where amused themselves with air pumps and chemical explosions. Birming-
ham became famous as a center where science and manufacturing were
combining to change the world: in the early 1760s Matthew Boulton
(1728–1809) established the most impressive factory of the age just outside
town, producing vast quantities of pins, buckles, and buttons; in subsequent
decades, his applications and manufacture of the new steam engine invented
by Scotsman James Watt (1736–1819) helped build an industry to drive all
others. Practical chemistry also led to industrial improvements: domestic
porcelain production became established in the 1750s; and from the 1760s
Josiah Wedgwood (1730–1795) developed glazing, manufacturing, and mar-
keting techniques that enabled British ceramics to compete with China for
fashionable taste. (In 1765 he named his creamware “Queen’s ware” to remind
customers of its place on Queen Charlotte’s table.) Wedgwood and others
answered an ever-increasing demand in Britain for beautiful objects. Artist
William Hogarth satirized this appetite of the upper and middle classes for
the accumulation of finery: a chaotic collection of china figurines crowds the
mantel in Plate 2 of Marriage A-la-Mode (1743– 45). Yet the images that made
Hogarth famous would soon decorate English ceramic teapots and plates and
be turned into porcelain figurines themselves.
New forms of religious devotion sprang up amid Britain’s spectacular
material success. The evangelical revival known as Methodism began in the
1730s, led by three Oxford graduates: John Wesley (1703–1791), his brother
Charles (1707–1788), and George Whitefield (1714–1770). The Methodists
took their gospel to the common people, warning that all were sinners and
Robert Dighton, Mr. Deputy Dumpling and Family Enjoying a damned, unless they accepted “amazing grace,” salvation through faith.
Summer Afternoon, 1781. A family of the middling sort, the father Often denied the privilege of preaching in village churches, evangelicals
self-important, the mother beaming, visit Bagnigge Wells, one of preached to thousands in barns or the open fields. The emotionalism of such
many resorts in London catering to specific classes. revival meetings repelled the somnolent Anglican Church and the upper
classes, who feared that the fury and zeal of the Puritan sects were return- licensing of the stage returned: irritated especially by Henry Fielding’s anti-
ing. Methodism was sometimes related to madness; convinced that he was government play The Historical Register for the Year 1736, Robert Walpole
damned forever, the poet William Cowper broke down and became a recluse. pushed the Stage Licensing Act through Parliament in 1737, which autho-
But the religious awakening persisted and affected many clergymen and lay- rized the Lord Chamberlain to license all plays and reduced the number of
men within the Establishment, who reanimated the church and promoted London theaters to two (Drury Lane and Covent Garden), closing Fielding’s
unworldliness and piety. Nor did the insistence of Methodists on faith over New Theatre in the Haymarket and driving him to a new career as a novelist.
works as the way to salvation prevent them or their Anglican allies from But despite such constraints, Hume could begin his essay “Of the Liberty
fighting for social reforms. The campaign to abolish slavery and the slave of the Press” (1741) by citing “the extreme liberty we enjoy in this country of
trade was driven largely by a passion to save souls. communicating whatever we please to the public” as an internationally rec-
Sentimentalism, evangelicalism, and the pursuits of wealth and luxury ognized commonplace. This freedom allowed eighteenth-century Britain to
in different ways all placed a new importance on individuals— the gratifica- build an exemplary version of what historians have called “the public sphere”:
tion of their tastes and ambitions or their yearning for personal encounters a cultural arena, free of direct government control, consisting of not just
with each other or a personal God. Diary keeping, elaborate letter writ- published comment on matters of national interest but also the public
ing, and the novel also testified to the growing importance of the private, venues— coffeehouses, clubs, taverns—where readers circulated, discussed,
individual life. Few histories of kings or nations could rival Richardson’s and conceived responses to it. The first regular daily London newspaper, the
novel Clarissa in length, popularity, or documentary detail: it was subtitled Daily Courant, appeared in 1702; in 1731, the first magazine, the Gentleman’s
“the History of a Young Lady.” The older hierarchical system had tended Magazine. The latter was followed both by imitations and by successful liter-
to subordinate individuals to their social rank or station. In the eighteenth ary journals like the Monthly Review (1749) and the Critical Review (1756).
century that fixed system began to break down, and people’s sense of them- Each audience attracted some periodical tailored to it, as with the Female
selves began to change. By the end of the century many issues of politics Tatler (1709) and Eliza Haywood’s Female Spectator (1744– 46).
and the law revolve around rights, not traditions. The modern individual After 1695, the legal status of printed matter became ambiguous, and in
had been invented; no product of the age is more enduring. 1710 Parliament enacted the Statute of Anne—“An Act for the Encourage-
ment of Learning by Vesting the Copies of Printed Books in the Authors or
Purchasers of Such Copies”—the first copyright law in British history not
CONDITIONS OF LITER ARY PRODUCTION tied to government approval of works’ contents. Typically, these copyrights
were held by booksellers, who operated much as publishers do today (in the
Publishing boomed as never before in eighteenth-century Britain, as the eighteenth century, publisher referred to one who distributed books). A book-
number of titles appearing annually and the periodicals published in Lon- seller paid an author for a work’s copyright and, after registering the work
don and the provincial towns dramatically increased. This expansion in part with the Stationers’ Company for a fee, had exclusive right for fourteen years
resulted from a loosening of legal restraints on printing. Through much of to publish it; if alive when this term expired, he owned it another fourteen
the previous three centuries, the government had licensed the texts deemed years. Payments to authors for copyright varied. Pope got £15 for the 1714
suitable for publication and refused to license those it wanted suppressed (a version of The Rape of the Lock, while Samuel Johnson’s Rasselas earned him
practice called “prior restraint”). After the Restoration, the new Printing £100. The Statute of Anne spurred the book trade by enhancing booksellers’
Act (1662) tightened licensing controls, though unlike his Stuart predeces- control over works and hence their chance to profit by them. But the gov-
sors Charles II now shared this power with Parliament. But in 1695, during ernment soon introduced a new constraint. In 1712, the first Stamp Act put
the reign of William III, the last in a series of printing acts was not renewed. a tax on all newspapers, advertisements, paper, and pamphlets (effectively
Debate in Parliament on the matter was more practical than idealistic: it any work under a hundred pages or so): all printed matter had to carry the
was argued that licensing fettered the printing trades and was ineffective stamp indicating the taxes had been paid. Happily for Anne and her minis-
at preventing obnoxious publications anyway, which could be better con- try, the act both raised government revenue and drove a number of the more
strained after publication by enforcing laws against seditious libel, obscenity, irresponsible, ephemeral newspapers out of business, though the Spectator
and treason. As the two-party system consolidated, both Whigs and Tories simply doubled its price and thrived. Stamp Acts were in effect throughout
seemed to realize that prepublication censorship could bite them when their the century, and duties tended to increase when the government needed to
own side happened to be out of power. Various governments attempted to raise money and rein in the press, as during the Seven Years’ War in 1757.
revive licensing during political crises throughout the eighteenth century, But such constraints were not heavy enough to hold back the publishing
but it was gone for good. market, which began to sustain the first true professional class of authors in
This did not end the legal liabilities, and the prosecutions, of authors. British literary history. The lower echelon of the profession was called “Grub
Daniel Defoe, for instance, was convicted of seditious libel and faced the Street,” which was, as Johnson’s Dictionary explains, “originally the name of
pillory and jail for his satirical pamphlet “The Shortest Way with the Dis- a street in Moorfields in London, much inhabited by writers of small histo-
senters” (1702), which imitated High Church zeal so extravagantly that it ries, dictionaries, and temporary poems.” The market increasingly motivated
provoked both the Tories and the Dissenters he had set about to defend. And the literary elite too, and Johnson himself came to remark that “no man but
a blockhead ever wrote, except for money.” As a young writer, he sold articles economic levels, if not as authors, then as hawkers of newspapers on city
to the Gentleman’s Magazine, and many other men and women struggled to streets and singers of political ballads (who were often illiterate and female),
survive doing piecework for periodicals. The enhanced opportunity to sell bookbinders, papermakers, and printing-press workers. The vigor of the lit-
their works on the open market meant that fewer authors needed to look to erary market demanded the labor of all classes.
aristocratic patrons for support. But a new practice, publication by subscrip- As all women were barred from universities and faced innumerable other
tion, blended elements of patronage and literary capitalism and created disadvantages and varieties of repression, the story of virtually every woman
the century’s most spectacular authorial fortunes. Wealthy readers could author in the period is one of self-education, courage, and extraordinary ini-
subscribe to a work in progress, usually by agreeing to pay the author half tiative. Yet women did publish widely for the first time in the period, and the
in advance and half upon receipt of the book. Subscribers were rewarded examples that can be assembled are as diverse as they are impressive. During
with an edition more sumptuous than the common run and the appearance the Restoration and early eighteenth century, a few aristocratic women poets
of their names in a list in the book’s front pages. Major works by famous were hailed as marvelous exceptions and given fanciful names: the poems
authors, such as Dryden’s translation of Virgil (1697) and the 1718 edition of Katherine Philips (1631–1664), “the matchless Orinda,” were published
of Prior’s poems, generated the most subscription sales; the grandest suc- posthumously in 1667; and others, including Anne Finch, Anne Killigrew,
cess was Pope’s translation of Homer’s Iliad (1715–20), which gained him and later, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, printed poems or circulated them in
about £5000; his Odyssey (1725–26) raised nearly that much. But smaller manuscript among fashionable circles. A more broadly public sort of female
projects deemed to need special encouragement also sold by subscription, authorship was more ambivalently received. Though Aphra Behn built a suc-
including nearly all books of poetry by women, such as Mary Leapor’s cessful career in the theater and in print, her sexually frank works were some-
poems (1751). times denounced as unbecoming a woman. Many women writers of popular
Not all entered the literary market with equal advantages; and social class
played a role, though hardly a simple one, in preparing authors for success.
The better educated were better placed to be taken seriously: many eminent
male writers, including Dryden, Locke, Addison, Swift, Hume, Johnson,
Burke—the list could go on and on—had at least some university education,
either at Oxford or Cambridge or at Scottish or Irish universities, where
attendance by members of the laboring classes was virtually nil. Also,
universities were officially closed to non-Anglicans. Some important writers
attended the Dissenting academies that sprang up to fulfill Nonconform-
ists’ educational aspirations: Defoe went to an excellent one at Newington
Green. A few celebrated authors such as Rochester and Henry Fielding had
aristocratic backgrounds, but many came from the “middle class,” though
those in this category show how heterogeneous it was. Pope, a Catholic,
obtained his education privately, and his father was a linen wholesaler, but
he eventually became intimate with earls and viscounts, whereas Richard-
son, who had a family background in trade and (as he said) “only common
school-learning,” was a successful printer before he became a novelist. Both
were middle class in a sense and made their own fortunes in eighteenth-
century print culture, yet they inhabited vastly different social worlds.
Despite the general exclusion of the poor from education and other means
of social advancement, some self-educated writers of the laboring classes
fought their way into print. A few became celebrities, aided by the increas-
ing popularity of the idea, famously expressed by Gray in his “Elegy Written
in a Country Churchyard,” that there must be unknown geniuses among the
poor. Stephen Duck, an agricultural worker from Wiltshire, published his
popular Poems on Several Subjects in 1730, which included “The Thresher’s
Labor” (he became known as the Thresher Poet). Queen Caroline herself
Richard Samuel, Portraits in the Characters of the Muses in the Temple of Apollo
retained him to be keeper of her library in Richmond. Several authors of the
(The Nine Living Muses of Great Britain), 1778. A mythological depiction of some
“common sort” followed in Duck’s wake, including Mary Collier, whose “bluestockings,” women who made outstanding contributions to British literature and
poem “The Woman’s Labor: An Epistle to Mr. Duck” (1739) defended coun- culture after the mid-18th century. Standing, left to right: Elizabeth Carter, Anna
try women against charges of idleness. Apart from such visible successes, Barbauld, Elizabeth Sheridan, Hannah More, and Charlotte Lennox; seated, left to right:
eighteenth-century print culture afforded work for many from lower socio- Angelica Kauffmann, Catherine Macaulay, Elizabeth Montagu, and Elizabeth Griffith.
literature after her in the early eighteenth century assumed “scandalous” alone the spare time or sense of entitlement to peruse such things. Nonethe-
public roles. Delarivier Manley published transparent fictionalizations of the less, reading material was widely shared (Addison optimistically calculated
doings of the Whig nobility, including The New Atalantis (1709), while Eliza “twenty readers to every paper” of the Spectator), and occasionally servants
Haywood produced stories about seduction and sex (though her late works, were given access to the libraries of their employers or the rich family of the
including The History of Miss Betsy Thoughtless, 1751, courted a rising taste neighborhood. In the 1740s, circulating libraries began to emerge in cities
for morality). Male defenders of high culture found it easy to denounce these and towns throughout Britain. Though the yearly fee they usually charged
women and their works as affronts simultaneously to sexual decency and to put them beyond the reach of the poor, these libraries gave the middle classes
good literary taste: Pope’s Dunciad (1728) awards Haywood as the prize in a access to a wider array of books than they could afford to assemble on their
pissing contest between scurrilous male booksellers. own. Records of such libraries indicate that travels, histories, letters, and
Many women writers after midcentury were determined to be more moral novels were most popular, though patrons borrowed many specialized, tech-
than their predecessors. Around 1750, intellectual women established clubs nical works as well. One fascinating index of change in the character of the
of their own under the leadership of Elizabeth Vesey and Elizabeth Mon- reading public was the very look of words on the page. In the past, printers
tagu, cousin to Lady Mary. Proclaiming a high religious and intellectual had rather capriciously capitalized many nouns—words as common as Wood
standard, these women came to be called “bluestockings” (after the inele- or Happiness— and frequently italicized various words for emphasis. But
gant worsted hose of an early member). Eminent men joined the blue- around the middle of the eighteenth century, new conventions arose: initial
stockings for literary conversation, including Samuel Johnson, Samuel capitals were reserved for proper names, and the use of italics was reduced.
Richardson, Horace Walpole (novelist, celebrated letter writer, and son of Such changes indicate that the reading public was becoming sophisticated
the prime minister), and David Garrick, preeminent actor of his day. The enough not to require such overt pointing to the meanings of what they
literary accomplishments of bluestockings ranged widely: in 1758 Elizabeth read. The modern, eighteenth-century reader had come to expect that all
Carter published her translation of the Greek philosopher Epictetus, while English writing, no matter how old or new, on any topic, in any genre, would
Hannah More won fame as a poet, abolitionist, and educational theorist. be printed in the same consistent, uncluttered style. No innovation of the
Some of the most considerable literary achievements of women after eighteenth-century culture of reading more immediately demonstrates its
mid-century came in the novel, a form increasingly directed at women linkage to our own.
readers, often exploring the moral difficulties of young women approaching
marriage. The satirical novel The Female Quixote (1752) by Charlotte Lennox
describes one such heroine deluded by the extravagant romances she reads, LITER ARY PRINCIPLES
while Frances Burney’s Evelina (1778) unfolds the sexual and other dangers
besetting its naïve but good-hearted heroine. The literature appearing between 1660 and 1785 divides conveniently into
Readers’ abilities and inclinations to consume literature helped determine three shorter periods of about forty years each. The first, extending to the
the volume and variety of published works. While historians disagree about death of Dryden in 1700, is characterized by an effort to bring a new refine-
how exactly the literacy rate changed in Britain through the early modern ment to English literature according to sound critical principles of what is
period, there is widespread consensus that by 1800 between 60 and 70 per- fitting and right; the second, ending with the deaths of Pope in 1744 and
cent of adult men could read, in contrast to 25 percent in 1600. Since histori- Swift in 1745, extends that effort to a wider circle of readers, with special
ans use the ability to sign one’s name as an indicator of literacy, the evidence satirical attention to what is unfitting and wrong; the third, concluding with
is even sketchier for women, who were less often parties to legal contracts: the death of Johnson in 1784 and the publication of Cowper’s The Task in
perhaps a third of women could read by the mid-eighteenth century. Read- 1785, confronts the old principles with revolutionary ideas that would come
ing was commoner among the relatively well off than among the very poor, to the fore in the Romantic movement of the late eighteenth and early nine-
and among the latter, more prevalent in urban centers than the countryside. teenth centuries.
Most decisively, cultural commentators throughout the century portrayed A sudden change of taste seemed to occur around 1660. The change had
literacy as a good in itself: everyone in a Protestant country such as Britain, been long prepared, however, by a trend in European culture, especially in
most thought, would benefit from direct access to the Bible and devotional seventeenth-century France: the desire for an elegant simplicity. Reacting
works, and increasingly employers found literacy among servants and other against the difficulty and occasional extravagance of late Renaissance lit-
laborers useful, especially those working in cities. Moral commentators did erature, writers and critics called for a new restraint, clarity, regularity, and
their best to steer inexperienced readers away from the frivolous and idle good sense. Donne’s “metaphysics” and Milton’s bold storming of heaven,
realm of popular imaginative literature, though literacy could not but give its for instance, seemed overdone to some Restoration readers. Hence Dryden
new possessors freedom to explore their own tastes and inclinations. and Andrew Marvell both were tempted to revise Paradise Lost, smoothing
Cost placed another limit on readership: few of the laboring classes would away its sublime but arduous idiosyncrasies. As daring and imaginative as
have disposable income to buy a cheap edition of Milton (around two shillings Dryden’s verse is, he tempers even its highly dramatic moments with an ease
at mid-century) or even a copy of the Gentleman’s Magazine (six pence), let and sense of control definitive of the taste of his times.
This movement produced in France an impressive body of classical lit- pictures, and modern readers can share their plea sure by learning to see
erature that distinguished the age of Louis XIV. In England it produced a poetic images in the mind’s eye.
literature often termed “Augustan,” after the writers who flourished during What poets most tried to see and represent was Nature— a word of many
the reign of Augustus Caesar, the first Roman emperor. Rome’s Augustan meanings. The Augustans focused especially on one: Nature as the universal
Age reestablished stability after the civil war that followed the assassination and permanent elements in human experience. External nature, the land-
of Julius Caesar. Its chief poets, Virgil, Horace, and Ovid, addressed their scape, attracted attention throughout the eighteenth century as a source of
polished works to a sophisticated aristocracy among whom they looked for pleasure and an object of inquiry. But as Finch muses on the landscape, in
patrons. Dryden’s generation took advantage of the analogy between post– “A Nocturnal Reverie,” it is her own soul she discovers. Pope’s injunction to
civil war England and Augustan Rome. Later generations would be suspi- the critic, “First follow Nature,” has primarily human nature in view. Nature
cious of that analogy; after 1700 most writers stressed that Augustus had consists of the enduring, general truths that have been, are, and will be true
been a tyrant who thought himself greater than the law. But in 1660 there for everyone in all times, everywhere. Hence the business of the poet, accord-
was hope that Charles would be a better Augustus, bringing England the ing to Johnson’s Rasselas, is “to examine, not the individual, but the species;
civilized virtues of an Augustan age without its vices. to remark general properties and large appearances . . . to exhibit in his por-
Charles and his followers brought back from exile an admiration of French traits of nature such prominent and striking features as recall the original
literature as well as French fashions, and the theoretical “correctness” of to every mind.” Yet if human nature was held to be uniform, human beings
such writers as Pierre Corneille, René Rapin, and Nicolas Boileau came into were known to be infinitely varied. Pope praises Shakespeare’s characters as
vogue. England also had a native tradition of classicism, derived from Ben “Nature herself,” but continues that “every single character in Shakespeare
Jonson and his followers, whose couplets embodied a refinement Dryden is as much an individual as those in life itself; it is . . . impossible to find any
eagerly inherited and helped codify. The effort to formulate rules of good two alike.” The general need not exclude the par ticular. In The Vanity of
writing appealed to many critics of the age. Even Shakespeare had some- Human Wishes, Johnson describes the sorrows of an old woman: “Now
times been careless; and although writers could not expect to surpass his kindred Merit fills the sable Bier, / Now lacerated Friendship claims a tear.”
genius, they might hope to avoid his faults. But “neoclassical” English litera- Here “kindred Merit” refers particularly to a worthy relative who has died,
ture aimed to be not only classical but new. Rochester and Dryden drew on and “lacerated Friendship” refers to a friend who has been wasted by
literary traditions of variety, humor, and freewheeling fancy represented by violence or disease. Yet Merit and Friendship are also personifications, and
Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, Jonson, and Milton to infuse fresh life into the lines imply that the woman may be mourning the passing of goodness
Greek or Latin or French classical models. like her own or a broken friendship; values and sympathies can die as well
Above all, the new simplicity of style aimed to give pleasure to readers—to as people. This play on words is not a pun. Rather, it indicates a state of mind
express passions that everyone could recognize in language that everyone in which life assumes the form of a perpetual allegory and some abiding truth
could understand. According to Dryden, Donne’s amorous verse misguidedly shines through each circumstance as it passes. The par ticular is already the
“perplexes the minds of the fair sex with nice speculations of philosophy, general, in good eighteenth-century verse.
when he should engage their hearts, and entertain them with the softnesses To study Nature was also to study the ancients. Nature and Homer,
of love.” Dryden’s poems would not make that mistake; like subsequent according to Pope, were the same; and both Pope and his readers applied
English critics, he values poetry according to its power to move an audience. Horace’s satires on Rome to their own world, because Horace had expressed
Thus Timotheus, in Dryden’s “Alexander’s Feast,” is not only a musician but the perennial forms of life. Moreover, modern writers could learn from the
an archetypal poet who can make Alexander tearful or loving or angry at ancients how to practice their craft. If a poem is an object to be made, the
will. Readers, in turn, were supposed to cooperate with authors through the poet (a word derived from the Greek for “maker”) must make the object to
exercise of their own imaginations, creating pictures in the mind. When proper specifications. Thus poets were taught to plan their works in one of
Timotheus describes vengeful ghosts holding torches, Alexander halluci- the classical “kinds” or genres— epic, tragedy, comedy, pastoral, satire, or
nates in response and seizes a torch “with zeal to destroy.” Much eighteenth- ode—to choose a language appropriate to that genre, and to select the right
century poetry demands to be visualized. A phrase from Horace’s Art of style and tone and rhetorical figures. The rules of art, as Pope had said,
Poetry, ut pictura poesis (as in painting, so in poetry), was interpreted to mean “are Nature methodized.” At the same time, however, writers needed wit:
that poetry ought to be a visual as well as verbal art. Pope’s “Eloisa to Abe- quickness of mind, inventiveness, a knack for conceiving images and meta-
lard,” for instance, begins by picturing two rival female personifications: phors and for perceiving resemblances between things apparently unlike.
“heavenly-pensive contemplation” and “ever-musing melancholy” (in the older Shakespeare had surpassed the ancients themselves in wit, and no one
typographical style, the nouns would be capitalized). Readers were expected could deny that Pope was witty. Hence a major project of the age was to
to see these figures: Contemplation, in the habit of a nun, whose eyes roll combine good method with wit, or judgment with fancy. Nature intended
upward toward heaven; and the black goddess Melancholy, in wings and them to be one, and the role of judgment was not to suppress passion,
drapery, who broods upon the darkness. These two competing visions fight energy, and originality but to make them more effective through discipline:
for Eloisa’s soul throughout the poem, which we see entirely through her “The winged courser, like a generous horse, / Shows most true mettle when
perspective. Eighteenth-century readers knew how to translate words into you check his course.”
The test of a poet’s true mettle is language. When Wordsworth, in the

preface to Lyrical Ballads (1800), declared that he wrote “in a selection of
the language really used by men,” he went on to attack eighteenth-century
poets for their use of an artificial and stock “poetic diction.” Many poets did
employ a special language. It is characterized by personification, represent-
ing a thing or abstraction in human form, as when an “Ace of Hearts steps
forth” or “Melancholy frowns”; by periphrasis (a roundabout way of avoid-
ing homely words: “finny tribes” for fish, or “household feathery people”
for chickens); by stock phrases such as “shining sword,” “verdant mead,”
“bounding main,” and “checkered shade”; by words used in their original
Latin sense, such as “genial,” “gelid,” and “horrid”; and by English sentences
forced into Latin syntax (“Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth / A
youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown,” where youth is the subject of the
verb rests). This language originated in the attempt of Renaissance poets
to rival the elegant diction of Virgil and other Roman writers, and Milton
depended on it to help him obtain “answerable style” for the lofty theme of
Paradise Lost. When used mechanically it could become a mannerism. But
Thomas Gray contrives subtle, expressive effects from artificial diction and
syntax, as in the ironic inflation of “Ode on the Death of a Favorite Cat” or
a famous stanza from “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard”:
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,
Awaits alike the inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
It is easy to misread the first sentence. What is the subject of awaits? The
answer must be hour (the only available singular noun), which lurks at the
end of the sentence, ready to spring a trap not only on the reader but on “Here rests his head . . .” Through a crumbling Gothic arch
all those aristocratic, powerful, beautiful, wealthy people who forget that appears a youth reading the epitaph on a tombstone that concludes
their hour will come. Moreover, the intricacy of that sentence sets off the Thomas Gray’s “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard.” Illustra-
simplicity of the next, which says the same thing with deadly directness. tion, Designs by Mr. R. Bentley for Six Poems by Mr. T. Gray (1753).
The artful mix in the “Elegy” of a special poetic language— a language that
O could I flow like thee, | and make thy stream
nobody speaks—with sentiments that everybody feels helps account for the
Parallelism: My great example, | as it is my theme!
poem’s enduring popularity.
Double balance: Though deep, yet clear, | though gentle, yet not dull,
Versification also tests a poet’s skill. The heroic couplet was brought to
Double balance: Strong without rage, | without o’erflowing, full.
such perfection by Pope, Johnson thought, that “to attempt any further
improvement of versification will be dangerous.” Pope’s couplets, in rhymed Once Dryden and Pope had bound such passages more tightly together with
iambic pentameter, typically present a complete statement, closed by a punc- alliteration and assonance, the typical metrical-rhetorical wit of the new
tuation mark. Within the binary system of these two lines, a world of dis- age had been perfected. For most of the eighteenth century its only metri-
tinctions can be compressed. The second line of the couplet might closely cal rival was blank verse: iambic pentameter that does not rhyme and is
parallel the first in structure and meaning, for instance, or the two lines not closed in couplets. Milton’s blank verse in Paradise Lost provided one
might antithetically play against each other. Similarly, because a slight pause model, and the dramatic blank verse of Shakespeare and Dryden provided
called a “caesura” often divides the typical pentameter line (“Know then another. This more expansive form appealed to poets who cared less for wit
thyself, presume not God to scan”), one part of the line can be made paral- than for stories and thoughts with plenty of room to develop. Blank verse
lel with or antithetical to the other or even to one part of the following line. was favored as the best medium for descriptive and meditative poems, from
An often quoted and parodied passage of Sir John Denham’s “Cooper’s Hill” Thomson’s Seasons (1726–30) to Cowper’s The Task (1785), and the tradi-
(1642) illustrates these effects. The poem addresses the Thames and builds tion continued in Wordsworth’s “Tintern Abbey” and Prelude.
up a witty comparison between the flow of a river and the flow of verse (ital- Yet not all poets chose to compete with Pope’s wit or Milton’s heroic striv-
ics are added to highlight the terms compared): ing. Ordinary people also wrote and read verse, and many of them neither
knew nor regarded the classics. Only a minority of men, and very few hearts of impossibly valiant heroes and impossibly high-minded and attrac-
women, had the chance to study Latin and Greek, but that did not keep a tive heroines. Dryden’s best serious drama, however, was his blank verse trag-
good many from playing with verse as a pastime or writing about their own edy All for Love (produced 1677), based on the story of Antony and Cleopatra.
lives. Hence the eighteenth century is the first age to reflect the modern Instead of Shakespeare’s worldwide panorama, his rapid shifts of scene and
tension between “high” and “low” art. While the heroic couplet was being complex characters, this version follows the unities of time, place, and action,
perfected, doggerel also thrived, and Milton’s blank verse was sometimes compressing the plot to the tragic last hours of the lovers. Two other tragic
reduced to describing a drunk or an oyster. Burlesque and broad humor playwrights were celebrated in the Restoration and for a long time to come:
characterize the common run of eighteenth-century verse. As the audience Nathaniel Lee (ca. 1649–1692), known for violent plots and wild ranting,
for poetry became more diversified, so did the subject matter. No readership and the passionately sensitive Thomas Otway (1652–1685).
was too small to address; Isaac Watts, and later Anna Laetitia Barbauld and But comedy was the real distinction of Restoration drama. The best plays
William Blake, wrote songs for children. The rise of unconventional forms of Sir George Etherege (The Man of Mode, 1676), William Wycherley (The
and topics of verse subverted an older poetic ideal: the Olympian art that Country Wife, 1675), Aphra Behn (The Rover, 1677), William Congreve (Love
only a handful of the elect could possibly master. The eighteenth century for Love, 1695; The Way of the World, 1700), and later George Farquhar
brought poetry down to earth. In the future, art that claimed to be high (The Beaux’ Stratagem, 1707) can still hold the stage today. These “comedies
would have to find ways to distinguish itself from the low. of manners” pick social behavior apart, exposing the nasty struggles for power
among the upper classes, who use wit and manners as weapons. Human
nature in these plays often conforms to the worst fears of Hobbes; sensual,
RESTOR ATION LITER ATURE, 1660– 1700 false-hearted, selfish characters prey on each other. The male hero lives for
pleasure and for the money and women that he can conquer. The object of his
Dryden brought England a modern literature between 1660 and 1700. He game of sexual intrigue is a beautiful, witty, pleasure-loving, and emancipated
combined a cosmopolitan outlook on the latest European trends with some lady, every bit his equal in the strategies of love. What makes the favored
of the richness and variety he admired in Chaucer and Shakespeare. In most couple stand out is the true wit and well-bred grace with which they step
of the important contemporary forms— occasional verse, comedy, tragedy, through the minefield of the plot. But during the 1690s “Societies for the
heroic play, ode, satire, translation, and critical essay—both his example and Reformation of Manners” began to attack the blasphemy and obscenity they
his precepts influenced others. As a critic, he spread the word that English detected in such plays, and they sometimes brought offenders to trial. When
literature, particularly his own, could vie with the best of the past. As a Dryden died in 1700, a more respectable society was coming into being.
translator, he made such classics as Ovid and Virgil available to a wide pub-
lic; for the first time, a large number of women and men without a formal
education could feel included in the literary world. EIGH TEENTH- CENTURY LITER ATURE, 1700– 1745
Restoration prose clearly indicated the desire to reach a new audience.
The styles of Donne’s sermons, Milton’s pamphlets, or Browne’s treatises Early in the eighteenth century a new and brilliant group of writers emerged:
now seemed too elaborate and rhetorical for simple communication. By Swift, with A Tale of a Tub (1704–10); Addison, with The Campaign (1705),
contrast, Pepys and Behn head straight to the point, informally and unself- a poetic celebration of the battle of Blenheim; Prior, with Poems on Several
consciously. The Royal Society asked its members to employ a plain, utili- Occasions (1707); Steele, with the Tatler (1709); and the youthful Pope, in
tarian prose style that spelled out scientific truths; rhetorical flourishes and the same year, with his Pastorals. These writers consolidate and popularize
striking metaphors might be acceptable in poetry, which engaged the emo- the social graces of the previous age. Determined to preserve good sense and
tions, but they had no place in rational discourse. In polite literature, exem- civilized values, they turn their wit against fanaticism and innovation. Hence
plified by Cowley, Dryden, and Sir William Temple, the ideal of good prose this is a great age of satire. Deeply conservative but also playful, their finest
came to be a style with the ease and poise of well-bred urbane conversation. works often cast a strange light on modern times by viewing them through
This is a social prose for a sociable age. Later, it became the mainstay of the screen of classical myths and classical forms. Thus Pope exposes the
essayists like Addison and Steele, of eighteenth-century novelists, and of frivolity of fashionable London, in The Rape of the Lock, through the incon-
the host of brilliant eighteenth-century letter writers, including Montagu, gruity of verse that casts the idle rich as epic heroes. Similarly, Swift uses
Horace Walpole, Gray, Cowper, and Burney, who still give readers the sense epic similes to mock the moderns in The Battle of the Books, and John Gay’s
of being their intimate friends. Trivia, or the Art of Walking the Streets of London (1716) uses mock georgics
Yet despite its broad appeal to the public, Restoration literature kept its ties to order his tour of the city. Such incongruities are not entirely negative.
to an aristocratic heroic ideal. The “fierce wars and faithful loves” of epic They also provide a fresh perspective on things that had once seemed too
poems were expected to offer patterns of virtue for noble emulation. These low for poetry to notice—for instance, in The Rape of the Lock, a girl putting
ideals lived on in popular French prose romances and in Behn’s Oroonoko. on her makeup. In this way a parallel with classical literature can show not
But the ideal was most fully expressed in heroic plays like those written by only how far the modern world has fallen but also how fascinating and magi-
Dryden, which push to extremes the conflict between love and honor in the cal it is when seen with “quick, poetic eyes.”
The Augustans’ effort to popular ize and enforce high literary and of landscape gardening, and finally in the cherished English art of landscape
social values was set against the new mass and multiplicity of writings that painting in watercolor or oils (often illustrating Thomson’s Seasons). Many
responded more spontaneously to the expanding commercial possibilities of readers also learned to enjoy a thrilling pleasure or fear in the presence of the
print. The array of popular prose genres—news, thinly disguised political sublime in nature: rushing waters, wild prospects, and mountains shrouded
allegories, biographies of notorious criminals, travelogues, gossip, romantic in mist. Whether enthusiasts went to the landscape in search of God or
tales— often blended facts and patently fictional elements, cemented by a merely of heightened sensations, they came back feeling that they had been
rich lode of exaggeration, misrepresentations, and outright lies. Out of this touched by something beyond the life they knew, by something that could
matrix the modern novel would come to be born. The great master of such hardly be expressed. Tourists as well as poets roamed the countryside, fre-
works was Daniel Defoe, producing first-person accounts such as Robinson quently quoting verse as they gazed at some evocative scene. A partiality for
Crusoe (1719), the famous castaway, and Moll Flanders (1722), mistress of the sublime passed from Thomson to Collins to inspire the poetry of the
lowlife crime. Claims that such works present (as the “editor” of Crusoe Romantic age to come.
says) “a just history of fact,” believed or not, sharpened the public’s avidity
for them. Defoe shows his readers a world plausibly like the one they know,
where ordinary people negotiate familiar, entangled problems of financial, THE EMERGENCE OF NEW LITER ARY
emotional, and spiritual existence. Jane Barker, Mary Davys, and many oth- THEMES AND MODES, 1740– 85
ers brought women’s work and daily lives as well as love affairs to fiction.
Such stories were not only amusing but also served as models of conduct; When Matthew Arnold called the eighteenth century an “age of prose,” he
they influenced the stories that real people told about themselves. meant to belittle its poetry, but he also stated a significant fact: great prose
The theater also began to change its themes and effects to appeal to a does dominate the age. Until the 1740s, poetry tended to set the standards
wider audience. The clergyman Jeremy Collier had vehemently taken Dryden, of literature. But the growth of new kinds of prose took the initiative away
Wycherley, and Congreve to task in A Short View of the Immorality and Pro- from verse. Novelists became better known than poets. Intellectual prose
faneness of the English Stage (1698), which spoke for the moral outrage of also flourished, with the achievements of Johnson in the essay and literary
the pious middle classes. The wits retreated. The comedy of manners was criticism, of Boswell in biography, of Hume in philosophy, of Burke in poli-
replaced by a new kind, later called “sentimental” not only because good- tics, of Edward Gibbon in history, of Sir Joshua Reynolds in aesthetics, of
ness triumphs over vice but also because it deals in high moral sentiments Gilbert White in natural history, and of Adam Smith in economics. Each of
rather than witty dialogue and because the embarrassments of its heroines these authors is a master stylist, whose effort to express himself clearly and
and heroes move the audience not to laughter but to tears. Virtue refuses to fully demands an art as carefully wrought as poetry. Other writers of prose
bow to aristocratic codes. In one crucial scene of Steele’s influential play The were more informal. The memoirs of such women as Laetitia Pilkington,
Conscious Lovers (1722) the hero would rather accept dishonor than fight a Charlotte Charke, Hester Thrale Piozzi, and Frances Burney bring each
duel with a friend. Piety and middle-class values typify tragedies such as reader into their private lives and also remind us that the new print culture
George Lillo’s London Merchant (1731). One luxury invented in eighteenth- created celebrities, who wrote not only about themselves but about other
century Europe was the delicious pleasure of weeping, and comedies as well celebrities they knew. The interest of readers in Samuel Johnson helped
as tragedies brought that pleasure to playgoers through many decades. Some sell his own books as well as a host of books that quoted his sayings. But the
plays resisted the tide. Gay’s cynical Beggar’s Opera (1728) was a tremendous prose of the age also had to do justice to difficult and complicated ideas. An
success, and later in the century the comedies of Goldsmith and Sheridan unprecedented effort to formulate the first principles of philosophy, history,
proved that sentiment is not necessarily an enemy to wit and laughter. Yet psychology, and art required a new style of persuasion.
larger and larger audiences responded more to spectacles and special effects Johnson helped codify that language, not only with his writings but with
than to sophisticated writing. Although the stage prospered during the eigh- the first great English Dictionary (1755). This work established him as a
teenth century, and the star system produced idolized actors and actresses national man of letters; eventually the period would be known as “the Age of
(such as David Garrick and Sarah Siddons), the authors of drama tended to Johnson.” But his dominance was based on an ideal of ser vice to others. The
fade to the background. Dictionary illustrates its definitions with more than 114,000 quotations from
Despite the sociable impulses of much the period’s writing, readers also the best English writers, thus building a bridge from past to present usage;
craved less crowded, more meditative works. Since the seventeenth century, and Johnson’s essays, poems, and criticism also reflect his desire to preserve
no poems had been more popular than those about the pleasures of retire- the lessons of the past. Yet he looks to the future as well, trying both to reach
ment, which invited the reader to dream about a safe retreat in the country and to mold a nation of readers. If Johnson speaks for his age, one reason is
or to meditate, like Finch, on scenery and the soul. But after 1726, when his faith in common sense and the common reader. “By the common sense of
Thomson published Winter, the first of his cycle on the seasons, the poetry readers uncorrupted with literary prejudices,” he wrote in the last of his Lives
of natural description came into its own. A taste for gentle, picturesque of the Poets (1781), “must be finally decided all claim to poetical honors.” A
beauty found expression not only in verse but in the elaborate, cultivated art similar respect for the good judgment of ordinary people, and for standards
of taste and behavior that anyone can share, marks many writers of the age. Often the melancholy poet withdraws into himself and yearns to be living
Both Burke, the great conservative statesman and author, and Thomas Paine, in some other time and place. In his “Ode to Fancy” (1746), Joseph Warton
his radical adversary, proclaim themselves apostles of common sense. associated “fancy” with visions in the wilderness and spontaneous passions;
No prose form better united availability to the common reader and serious- the true poet was no longer defined as a craftsman or maker but as a seer or
ness of artistic purpose than the novel in the hands of two of its early masters, nature’s priest. “The public has seen all that art can do,” William Shenstone
Samuel Richardson and Henry Fielding. Like many writers of fiction earlier wrote in 1761, welcoming James Macpherson’s Ossian, “and they want the
in the century, Richardson initially did not set out to entertain the public with more striking efforts of wild, original, enthusiastic genius.” Macpherson
an avowedly invented tale: he conceived Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded (1740) filled the bill. His primitive, sentimental epics, supposedly translated from
while compiling a little book of model letters. The letters grew into a story an ancient Gaelic warrior-bard, won the hearts of readers around the world;
about a captivating young servant who resists her master’s base designs on Napoleon and Thomas Jefferson, for instance, both thought that Ossian was
her virtue until he gives up and marries her. The combination of a high moral greater than Homer. Poets began to cultivate archaic language and antique
tone with sexual titillation and a minute analysis of the heroine’s emotions forms. Inspired by Thomas Percy’s edition of Reliques of Ancient English
and state of mind proved irresistible to readers, in Britain and in Europe at Poetry (1765), Thomas Chatterton passed off his own ballads as medieval;
large. Richardson topped Pamela’s success with Clarissa (1747– 48), another he died at seventeen, soon after his forgeries were exposed, but the Roman-
epistolary novel, which explored the conflict between the libertine Lovelace, tics later idolized his precocious genius.
an attractive and diabolical aristocrat, and the angelic Clarissa, a middle- The most remarkable consequence of the medieval revival, however, was
class paragon who struggles to stay pure. The sympathy that readers felt for the invention of the Gothic novel. Horace Walpole set The Castle of Otranto
Clarissa was magnified by a host of sentimental novels, including Frances (1765), a dreamlike tale of terror, in a simulacrum of Strawberry Hill, his
Sheridan’s Memoirs of Miss Sidney Bidulph (1761), Rousseau’s Julie, or The own tiny, pseudo-medieval castle, which helped revive a taste for Gothic
New Heloise (1761), and Henry Mackenzie’s The Man of Feeling (1771). architecture. Walpole created a
Henry Fielding made his entrance into the novel by turning Pamela farci- mode of fiction that retains its
cally upside-down, as the hero of Joseph Andrews (1742), Pamela’s brother, popularity to the present day. In
defends his chastity from the lewd advances of Lady Booby. Fielding’s true a typical Gothic romance, amid
model, however, is Cervantes’s great Don Quixote (1605–15), from which he the glooms and secret passages
took an ironic, antiromantic style; a plot of wandering around the country- of some remote castle, the laws
side; and an idealistic central character (Parson Adams) who keeps mistak- of nightmare replace the laws of
ing appearances for reality. The ambition of writing what Fielding called “a probability. Forbidden themes—
comic epic-poem in prose” went still further in The History of Tom Jones, incest, murder, necrophilia, athe-
a Foundling (1749). Crowded with incidents and comments on the state of ism, and the torments of sexual
England, the novel contrasts a good-natured, generous, wayward hero (who desire— are allowed free play.
needs to learn prudence) with cold-hearted people who use moral codes Most such romances, like Wil-
and the law for their own selfish interests. This emphasis on instinctive liam Beckford’s Vathek (1786)
virtue and vice, instead of Richardson’s devotion to good principles, put off and Matthew Lewis’s The Monk
respectable readers like Johnson and Burney. But Coleridge thought that (1796), revel in sensationalism
Tom Jones (along with Oedipus Rex and Jonson’s Alchemist) was one of “the and the grotesque. The Gothic
three most perfect plots ever planned.” vogue suggested that classical
An age of great prose can burden its poets. To Gray, Collins, Mark Aken- canons of taste—simplicity and
side, and the brothers Joseph and Thomas Warton, it seemed that the spirit harmonious balance— might
of poetry might be dying, driven out by the spirit of prose, by uninspiring count for less than the pleasures
truth, by the end of superstitions that had once peopled the land with poetic of fancy—intricate puzzles and
fairies and demons. In an age barren of magic, they ask, where has poetry a willful excess. But Gothicism
gone? That question haunts many poems, suffusing them with melancholy. also resulted in works, like Ann
Poets who muse in silence are never far from thoughts of death, and a mor- Radcliffe’s, that temper romance
bid fascination with suicide and the grave preoccupies many at midcentury. with reality as well as in serious
Such an attitude has little in common with that of poets like Dryden and novels of social purpose, like
Pope, social beings who live in a crowded world and seldom confess their William Godwin’s Caleb Williams Bertie Greatheed, Diego and Jaquez Fright-
ened by the Giant Foot, 1791. A scene from
private feelings in public. Pope’s Essay on Man had taken a sunny view of (1794) and Mary Wollstonecraft’s Horace Walpole’s Gothic novel The Castle of
providence; Edward Young’s The Complaint: or Night Thoughts on Life, Death, Maria, or The Wrongs of Woman Otranto (1764), showing servants terrified by
and Immortality (1742– 46), an immensely long poem in blank verse, is dark- (1798); and Mary Shelley, the the supernatural appearance of an oversize
ened by Christian fear of the life to come. daughter of Wollstonecraft and stone foot in the castle.
Godwin, eventually composed a romantic nightmare, Frankenstein (1818), What Restoration and eighteenth-century literature passed on to the
that continues to haunt our dreams. future, in fact, was chiefly a set of unresolved problems. The age of Enlight-
The century abounded in other remarkable experiments in fiction, antic- enment was also, in England, an age that insisted on holding fast to older
ipating many of the forms that novelists still use today. Tobias Smollett’s beliefs and customs; the age of population explosion was also an age of indi-
picaresque Roderick Random (1748) and Humphry Clinker (1771) delight in vidualism; the age that developed the slave trade was also the age that gave
coarse practical jokes, the freaks and strong odors of life. But the most novel rise to the abolitionist movement; the age that codified rigid standards of
novelist of the age was Laurence Sterne, a humorous, sentimental clergy- conduct for women was also an age when many women took the chance to
man who loves to play tricks on his readers. The Life and Opinions of Tris- read and write and think for themselves; the age of reason was also the age
tram Shandy (1760– 67) abandons clock time for psychological time, when sensibility flourished; the last classical age was also the first modern
whimsically follows chance associations, interrupts its own stories, violates age. These contradictions are far from abstract; writers were forced to choose
the conventions of print by putting chapters 18 and 19 after chapter 25, their own directions. When young James Boswell looked for a mentor whose
sneaks in double entendres, and seems ready to go on forever. And yet these biography he might write, he considered not only Samuel Johnson but also
games get us inside the characters’ minds, as if the world were as capricious David Hume, whose skeptical views of morality, truth, and religion were
as our thoughts. Sterne’s self-conscious art implies that people’s private everything Johnson abhorred. The two writers seem to inhabit different
obsessions shape their lives— or help create reality itself. As unique as worlds, yet Boswell traveled freely between them. That was exciting and also
Sterne’s fictional world is, his interest in private life matched the concerns of instructive. “Without Contraries is no progression,” according to one citizen
the novel toward the end of the century: depictions of characters’ intimate of Johnson’s London, William Blake, who also thought that “Opposition is
feelings dominated the tradition of domestic fiction that included Burney, true Friendship.” Good conversation was a lively eighteenth-century art, and
Radcliffe, and, later, Maria Edgeworth, culminating in the masterworks of sharp disagreements did not keep people from talking. The conversations
Jane Austen. A more “masculine” orientation emerged at the beginning of the period started have not ended yet.
the next century, as Walter Scott’s works, with their broad historical scope
and outdoor scenes of men at work and war, appealed to a large readership.
Yet the copious, acute, often ironic attention to details of private life by Rich-
ardson, Sterne, and Austen continued to influence the novel profoundly
through its subsequent history.
CONTINUIT Y AND REVOLUTION

The history of eighteenth-century literature was first composed by the
Romantics, who wrote it to serve their own interests. Prizing originality,
they naturally preferred to stress how different they were from writers of
the previous age. Later historians have tended to follow their lead, compet-
ing to prove that everything changed in 1776, or 1789, or 1798. This revolu-
tionary view of history accounts for what happened to the word revolution.
The older meaning referred to a movement around a point, a recurrence or
cycle, as in the revolutions of the planets; the newer meaning signified a
violent break with the past, an overthrow of the existing order, as in the Big
Bang or the French Revolution. Romantic rhetoric made heavy use of such
dramatic upheavals. Yet every history devoted to truth must take account of
both sorts of revolution, of continuities as well as changes. The ideals that
many Romantics made their own— the passion for liberty and equality, the
founding of justice on individual rights, the distrust of institutions, the love
of nature, the reverence for imagination, and even the embrace of change—
grew from seeds that had been planted long before. Nor did Augustan litera-
ture abruptly vanish on that day in 1798 when Wordsworth and Coleridge
anonymously published a small and unsuccessful volume of poems called
Lyrical Ballads. Even when they rebel against the work of Pope and Johnson
and Gray, Romantic writers incorporate much of their language and values.
Kant, “What is Enlightenment?” 2
examples of pervasive restrictions on freedom. But which not himself subscribe with complete conviction, but whose
AN ANSWER TO THE QUESTION: WHAT IS restriction hinders enlightenment and which does not, but
instead actually advances it? I reply: The public use of
presentation he can nonetheless undertake, since it is not
entirely impossible that truth lies hidden in them, and, in
ENLIGHTENMENT? one’s reason must always be free, and it alone can bring
about enlightenment among mankind; the private use of
any case, nothing contrary to the very nature of religion is to
be found in them. If he believed he could find anything of
reason may, however, often be very narrowly restricted, the latter sort in them, he could not in good conscience serve
Immanuel Kant without otherwise hindering the progress of enlightenment. in his position; he would have to resign. Thus an appointed
By the public use of one’s own reason I understand the use teacher’s use of his reason for the sake of his congregation
Immanuel Kant (1724-1804) was born, raised, lived, and men timid and usually frightens them out of all further at- that anyone as a scholar makes of reason before the entire is merely private, because, however large the congregation
died in Königsberg (East Prussia, later named Kaliningrad tempts. literate world. I call the private use of reason that which a is, this use is always only domestic; in this regard, as a
as part of the former USSR). Kant was the first modern person may make in a civic post or office that has been en- priest, he is not free and cannot be such because he is acting
philosopher to teach philosophy in a university — and after [3] Thus, it is difficult for any individual man to work him- trusted to him. Now in many affairs conducted in the inter- under instructions from someone else. By contrast, the cleric
Plato, Aristotle, and maybe Descartes, he has done the most self out of the immaturity that has all but become his nature. ests of a community, a certain mechanism is required by — as a scholar who speaks through his writings to the pub-
to alter the way that philosophers pursue their discipline.
He has even become fond of this state and for the time being means of which some of its members must conduct them- lic as such, i.e., the world — enjoys in this public use of
He was “awakened from his dogmatic slumbers” rather late
in life by reading David Hume, and went on to write one of is actually incapable of using his own understanding, for no selves in an entirely passive manner so that through an arti- reason an unrestricted freedom to use his own rational ca-
the greatest (and most difficult) books in the history of phi- one has ever allowed him to attempt it. Rules and formulas, ficial unanimity the government may guide them toward pacities and to speak his own mind. For that the (spiritual)
losophy: The Critique of Pure Reason (1781; 2nd ed.: those mechanical aids to the rational use, or rather misuse, public ends, or at least prevent them from destroying such guardians of a people should themselves be immature is an
1787). While at first widely misunderstood, this book went of his natural gifts, are the shackles of a permanent imma- ends. Here one certainly must not argue, instead one must absurdity that would insure the perpetuation of absurdities.
on to change the way that we think of ourselves and the turity. Whoever threw them off would still make only an obey. However, insofar as this part of the machine also re-
physical universe. The following essay first appeared in a uncertain leap over the smallest ditch, since he is unaccus- gards himself as a member of the community as a whole, or [6] But would a society of pastors, perhaps a church assem-
popular journal of his day, the Berlinischen Monatsschrift even of the world community, and as a consequence ad- bly or venerable presbytery (as those among the Dutch call
tomed to this kind of free movement. Consequently, only a
(December, 1784), pp. 481-494. themselves), not be justified in binding itself by oath to a
few have succeeded, by cultivating their own minds, in free- dresses the public in the role of a scholar, in the proper
ing themselves from immaturity and pursuing a secure sense of that term, he can most certainly argue, without certain unalterable symbol in order to secure a constant
[1] Enlightenment is man’s emergence from his self-
course. thereby harming the affairs for which as a passive member guardianship over each of its members and through them
imposed immaturity. Immaturity is the inability to use one’s
he is partly responsible. Thus it would be disastrous if an over the people, and this for all time: I say that this is
understanding without guidance from another. This im-
[4] But that the public should enlighten itself is more likely; officer on duty who was given a command by his superior wholly impossible. Such a contract, whose intention is to
maturity is self-imposed when its cause lies not in lack of
indeed, if it is only allowed freedom, enlightenment is al- were to question the appropriateness or utility of the order. preclude forever all further enlightenment of the human
understanding, but in lack of resolve and courage to use it
most inevitable. For even among the entrenched guardians He must obey. But as a scholar he cannot be justly con- race, is absolutely null and void, even if it should be ratified
without guidance from another. Sapere Aude! [dare to
of the great masses a few will always think for themselves, a strained from making comments about errors in military by the supreme power, by parliaments, and by the most sol-
know] “Have courage to use your own understanding!” —
few who, after having themselves thrown off the yoke of service, or from placing them before the public for its judg- emn peace treaties. One age cannot bind itself, and thus
that is the motto of enlightenment.
immaturity, will spread the spirit of a rational appreciation ment. The citizen cannot refuse to pay the taxes imposed on conspire, to place a succeeding one in a condition whereby
[2] Laziness and cowardice are the reasons why so great a for both their own worth and for each person’s calling to him; indeed, impertinent criticism of such levies, when they it would be impossible for the later age to expand its knowl-
proportion of men, long after nature has released them from think for himself. But it should be particularly noted that if a should be paid by him, can be punished as a scandal (since it edge (particularly where it is so very important), to rid itself
alien guidance (naturaliter maiorennes), nonetheless gladly public that was first placed in this yoke by the guardians is can lead to widespread insubordination). But the same per- of errors, and generally to increase its enlightenment. That
remain in lifelong immaturity, and why it is so easy for oth- suitably aroused by some of those who are altogether inca- son does not act contrary to civic duty when, as a scholar, he would be a crime against human nature, whose essential
ers to establish themselves as their guardians. It is so easy to pable of enlightenment, it may force the guardians them- publicly expresses his thoughts regarding the impropriety or destiny lies precisely in such progress; subsequent genera-
be immature. If I have a book to serve as my understanding, selves to remain under the yoke — so pernicious is it to in- even injustice of such taxes. Likewise a pastor is bound to tions are thus completely justified in dismissing such
a pastor to serve as my conscience, a physician to determine still prejudices, for they finally take revenge upon their instruct his catecumens and congregation in accordance with agreements as unauthorized and criminal. The criterion of
my diet for me, and so on, I need not exert myself at all. I originators, or on their descendants. Thus a public can only the symbol of the church he serves, for he was appointed on everything that can be agreed upon as a law by a people lies
need not think, if only I can pay: others will readily under- attain enlightenment slowly. Perhaps a revolution can over- that condition. But as a scholar he has complete freedom, in this question: Can a people impose such a law on itself?
take the irksome work for me. The guardians who have so throw autocratic despotism and profiteering or power-grab- indeed even the calling, to impart to the public all of his Now it might be possible, in anticipation of a better state of
benevolently taken over the supervision of men have care- bing oppression, but it can never truly reform a manner of carefully considered and well-intentioned thoughts con- affairs, to introduce a provisional order for a specific, short
fully seen to it that the far greatest part of them (including thinking; instead, new prejudices, just like the old ones they cerning mistaken aspects of that symbol, as well as his sug- time, all the while giving all citizens, especially clergy, in
the entire fair sex) regard taking the step to maturity as very replace, will serve as a leash for the great unthinking mass. gestions for the better arrangement of religious and church their role as scholars, the freedom to comment publicly, i.e.,
dangerous, not to mention difficult. Having first made their matters. Nothing in this can weigh on his conscience. What in writing, on the present institution’s shortcomings. The
[5] Nothing is required for this enlightenment, however, provisional order might last until insight into the nature of
domestic livestock dumb, and having carefully made sure he teaches in consequence of his office as a servant of the
except freedom; and the freedom in question is the least these matters had become so widespread and obvious that
that these docile creatures will not take a single step without church he sets out as something with regard to which he has
harmful of all, namely, the freedom to use reason publicly in the combined (if not unanimous) voices of the populace
the walker to which they are harnessed, these guardians then no discretion to teach in accord with his own lights; rather,
all matters. But on all sides I hear: “Do not argue!” The could propose to the crown that it take under its protection
show them the danger that threatens them, should they athe offers it under the direction and in the name of another.
officer says, “Do not argue, drill!” The tax man says, “Do those congregations that, in accord with their newly gained
tempt to walk alone. Now this danger is not actually so He will say, “Our church teaches this or that and these are
not argue, pay!” The pastor says, “Do not argue, believe!” insight, had organized themselves under altered religious
great, for after falling a few times they would in the end the demonstrations it uses.” He thereby extracts for his con-
(Only one ruler in the World says, “Argue as much as you institutions, but without interfering with those wishing to
certainly learn to walk; but an example of this kind makes gregation all practical uses from precepts to which he would
want and about what you want, but obey!”) In this we have
POLITICAL WRITING | 1855
all strive to enjoy the land? The gentry strive for land, the clergy strive for
land, the common people strive for land; and buying and selling is an art
Kant, “What is Enlightenment?” 3 whereby people endeavor to cheat one another of the land. Now if any can
allow matters to remain as before. However, it is absolutely tiny their judgments and views, even where these occa-
prove from the law of righteousness that the land was made peculiar to him
forbidden that they unite into a religious organization that sionally differ from the accepted symbol. Still greater free- and his successively,2 shutting others out, he shall enjoy it freely for my part.
nobody may for the duration of a man’s lifetime publicly dom is afforded to those who are not restricted by an official But I affirm it was made for all; and true religion is to let everyone enjoy it.
question, for so doing would deny, render fruitless, and post. This spirit of freedom is expanding even where it must Therefore, you rulers of England, make restitution of the lands which the
make detrimental to succeeding generations an era in man’s struggle against the external obstacles of governments that
progress toward improvement. A man may put off enlight- misunderstand their own function. Such governments are
kingly power holds from us: set the oppressed free, and come in and honor
enment with regard to what he ought to know, though only illuminated by the example that the existence of freedom Christ, who is the restoring power, and you shall find rest.
for a short time and for his own person; but to renounce it need not give cause for the least concern regarding public
for himself, or, even more, for subsequent generations, is to order and harmony in the commonwealth. If only they re-
1650
violate and trample man’s divine rights underfoot. And what frain from inventing artifices to keep themselves in it, men
a people may not decree for itself may still less be imposed will gradually raise themselves from barbarism. 2. By inheritance.
on it by a monarch, for his lawgiving authority rests on his
unification of the people’s collective will in his own. If he [9] I have focused on religious matters in setting out my
only sees to it that all genuine or purported improvement is main point concerning enlightenment, i.e., man’s emergence
consonant with civil order, he can allow his subjects to do from self-imposed immaturity, first because our rulers have
what they find necessary to their spiritual well-being, which no interest in assuming the role of their subjects’ guardians
is not his affair. However, he must prevent anyone from
forcibly interfering with another’s working as best he can to
with respect to the arts and sciences, and secondly because
that form of immaturity is both the most pernicious and dis-
THOMAS HOBBES
determine and promote his well-being. It detracts from his graceful of all. But the manner of thinking of a head of state
own majesty when he interferes in these matters, since the who favors religious enlightenment goes even further, for he
writings in which his subjects attempt to clarify their in-
sights lend value to his conception of governance. This
holds whether he acts from his own highest insight —
whereby he calls upon himself the reproach, “Caesar non
realizes that there is no danger to his legislation in allowing
his subjects to use reason publicly and to set before the
world their thoughts concerning better formulations of his
laws, even if this involves frank criticism of legislation cur-
T he English civil war and its aftermath raised fundamental questions about the
nature and legitimacy of state power. In 1651 Thomas Hobbes (1588–1679)
attempted to answer those questions in his ambitious masterwork of political phi-
eat supra grammaticos.” — as well as, indeed even more, rently in effect. We have before us a shining example, with losophy, Leviathan. He grounded his political vision upon a comprehensive phi-
when he despoils his highest authority by supporting the respect to which no monarch surpasses the one whom we losophy of nature and knowledge. Hobbes held that everything in the universe is
spiritual despotism of some tyrants in his state over his other honor. composed only of matter; spirit does not exist. All knowledge is gained through
subjects. sensory impressions, which are nothing but matter in motion. What we call the self
[10] But only a ruler who is himself enlightened and has no
dread of shadows, yet who likewise has a well-disciplined,
is, for Hobbes, simply a tissue of sensory impressions— clear and immediate in the
[7] If it is now asked, “Do we presently live in an enlight-
numerous army to guarantee public peace, can say what no presence of the objects that evoke them, vague and less vivid in their absence. As a
ened age?” the answer is, “No, but we do live in an age of
enlightenment.” As matters now stand, a great deal is still republic may dare, namely: “Argue as much as you want result, an iron determinism of cause and effect governs everything in the universe,
lacking in order for men as a whole to be, or even to put and about what you want, but obey!” Here as elsewhere, including human action.
themselves into a position to be able without external guid- when things are considered in broad perspective, a strange, Because, Hobbes argues, all humans are roughly equal mentally and physically,
ance to apply understanding confidently to religious issues. unexpected pattern in human affairs reveals itself, one in they possess equal hopes of attaining goods, as well as equal fears of danger from
But we do have clear indications that the way is now being which almost everything is paradoxical. A greater degree of others. In the state of nature, before the foundation of some sovereign power to keep
civil freedom seems advantageous to a people’s spiritual
opened for men to proceed freely in this direction and that them in awe, everyone is continually at war with everyone else, and life, in Hobbes’s
the obstacles to general enlightenment — to their release freedom; yet the former established impassable boundaries
for the latter; conversely, a lesser degree of civil freedom
memorable phrase, is “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.” To escape this ghastly
from their self-imposed immaturity — are gradually dimin-
provides enough room for all fully to expand their abilities. strife, humans covenant with one another to establish a sovereign government over all
ishing. In this regard, this age is the age of enlightenment,
the century of Frederick. Thus, once nature has removed the hard shell from this ker- of them. That sovereign power—which need not be a king but is always indivisible—
nel for which she has most fondly cared, namely, the incli- incorporates the wills and individuality of them all, so that the people no longer have
[8] A prince who does not find it beneath him to say that he nation to and vocation for free thinking, the kernel gradually rights or liberties apart from the sovereign’s will. The sovereign’s dominion over his
takes it to be his duty to prescribe nothing, but rather to al- reacts on a people’s mentality (whereby they become in- subjects extends to the right to pronounce on all matters of religion.
low men complete freedom in religious matters — who creasingly able to act freely), and it finally even influences While other versions of covenant theory, for instance Milton’s Tenure of Kings
thereby renounces the arrogant title of tolerance — is him- the principles of government, which finds that it can profit and Magistrates, insisted that the power transferred by the people to the sovereign
self enlightened and deserves to be praised by a grateful by treating men, who are now more than machines, in ac-
could be limited or revoked, in Hobbes’s system, the founding political covenant
present and by posterity as the first, at least where the gov- cord with their dignity.
ernment is concerned, to release the human race from imma- must be a permanent one, since no tyranny can be so evil as the state of war that
turity and to leave everyone free to use his own reason in all I. Kant the sovereign power prevents. Yet if the sovereign power should be overthrown, the
matters of conscience. Under his rule, venerable pastors, in Konigsberg in Prussia, 30 September 1784 individual ruler has no further claim, and the people, for their safety, must accept
their role as scholars and without prejudice to their official the new sovereign unconditionally. Hobbes was generally associated with the royal-
duties, may freely and openly set out for the world’s scru- ist cause, as a tutor to the Cavendish family and as an exile in Paris from 1640 to
1651, where he tutored the future Charles II. Yet his argument made no distinction
between a legitimate monarch and a successful usurper, like Oliver Cromwell.
Moreover, Hobbes’s philosophical materialism led many to suspect him of atheism;
1856 | CRISIS OF AUTHORIT Y POLITICAL WRITING | 1857
after the Restoration, the publication of many of his books, including a history of of all the par ticular members are the strength; salus populi (the people’s
the civil war entitled Behemoth, was prohibited for a number of years. Undeterred, safety) its business; counselors, by whom all things needful for it to know
Hobbes continued to write on a variety of psychological, political, and mathe- are suggested unto it, are the memory; equity and laws an artificial reason
matical topics, completing a translation of Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey at the age of and will; concord, health; sedition, sickness; and civil war, death. Lastly,
eighty-six. the pacts and covenants by which the parts of this body politic were at first
Hobbes’s political theory did not fit easily into the established patterns of English
made, set together, and united, resemble that Fiat or the “let us make man,”
thought partly because his perspective was essentially cosmopolitan. Educated at
Oxford as a classicist, Hobbes traveled widely in Europe between 1610 and 1660 as pronounced by God in the creation.4
a companion and tutor of noblemen, often remaining abroad for years at a time.
* * *
During these lengthy sojourns he became acquainted with many of the leading
intellectuals and scientists on the Continent, including Galileo, Descartes, and the
prominent French mathematician Pierre Gassendi, who argued that the universe
was governed entirely by mechanical principles. The most important political phi-
From Part 1. Of Man
losophers for Hobbes were also Continental figures: the Italian Niccolò Machia- chapter 1. of sense
velli, who saw human beings as naturally competitive and power hungry, and Jean
Bodin, a French theorist of indivisible, absolute monarchy. One English writer who Concerning the thoughts of man, I will consider them first singly and after-
did influence Hobbes profoundly was Francis Bacon, whose amanuensis Hobbes wards in train or dependence upon one another. Singly, they are every one
had been in Bacon’s last years. Ironically, Hobbes was not invited to join the Royal a representation or appearance of some quality or other accident of a body
Society, established after the Restoration on Baconian principles, because his reli- without us, which is commonly called an object. Which object worketh on
gious views were suspect and because he had quarreled with several of the society’s the eyes, ears, and other parts of man’s body, and by diversity of working
founders. Yet Hobbes is truly Bacon’s heir, sharing Bacon’s utter lack of sentimen- produceth diversity of appearances.
tality and a memorably astringent prose style.
The original of them all is that which we call sense. (For there is no con-
ception in a man’s mind which hath not at first, totally or by parts, been
begotten upon the organs of sense.)5 The rest are derived from that original.
To know the natural cause of sense is not very necessary to the business
From Leviathan1 now in hand, and I have elsewhere written of the same at large. Neverthe-
From The Introduction less, to fill each part of my present method, I will briefly deliver the same in
this place.
[the artificial man] The cause of sense is the external body or object which presseth the organ
Nature (the art whereby God hath made and governs the world) is by the art proper to each sense, either immediately as in the taste and touch, or medi-
of man, as in many other things, so in this also imitated, that it can make ately, as in seeing, hearing, and smelling; which pressure, by the mediation
an artificial2 animal. For seeing life is but a motion of limbs, the begin- of nerves and other strings and membranes of the body continued inwards
ning whereof is in some principal part within, why may we not say that all to the brain and heart, causeth there a resistance or counterpressure or
automata (engines that move themselves by springs and wheels as doth a endeavor of the heart to deliver itself;6 which endeavor, because outward,
watch) have an artificial life?3 For what is the heart but a spring; and the seemeth to be some matter without. And this seeming or fancy is that which
nerves but so many strings; and the joints but so many wheels, giving motion men call sense; and consisteth, as to the eye, in a light or color figured; to
to the whole body such as was intended by the artificer? Art goes yet further, the ear, in a sound; to the nostril in an odor; to the tongue and palate in a
imitating that rational and most excellent work of nature, man. For by art savor; and to the rest of the body in heat, cold, hardness, softness, and such
is created that great Leviathan called a Commonwealth or State (in Latin, other qualities as we discern by feeling. All which qualities called “sensible”7
Civitas), which is but an artificial man, though of greater stature and strength are, in the object that causeth them, but so many several motions of the
than the natural, for whose protection and defense it was intended; and in matter by which it presseth our organs diversely. Neither, in us that are
which the sovereignty is an artificial soul, as giving life and motion to the pressed, are they anything else but diverse motions; for motion produceth
whole body; the magistrates and other officers of judicature and execution, nothing but motion. But their appearance to us is fancy, the same waking,
artificial joints; reward and punishment (by which, fastened to the seat of that dreaming. And as pressing, rubbing, or striking the eye makes us fancy
the sovereignty, every joint and member is moved to perform his duty) are a light; and pressing the ear produceth a din; so do the bodies also we see
the nerves, that do the same in the body natural; the wealth and riches or hear produce the same by their strong though unobserved actions. For if
those colors and sounds were in the bodies or objects that cause them, they
1. The title refers to the primordial sea creature as a figure for Satan, on the basis of Job 41.34:
Leviathan, described in Job 41 as the prime evi- “he is a king over all the children of pride.”
dence of and analogue to God’s power, beyond 2. Made by art. 4. Genesis 1.26. 6. Hobbes’s physiology of sense is, in keeping
all human measure and comprehension. Hobbes 3. Hobbes’s definition of life as motion collapses 5. This view of the mind as a blank sheet written with his premises, strictly mechanical.
takes him as figure for the sovereign power in the distinction between the life of humans and on by physical experience will influence the phi- 7. I.e., accessible through the senses.
the state. Leviathan was also sometimes taken the life of machines or institutions. losophy of John Locke and David Hume.
else but original fancy, caused (as I have said) by the pressure, that is by the
motion, of external things upon our eyes, ears, and other organs thereunto
ordained.
But the philosophy schools9 through all the universities of Christendom,
grounded upon certain texts of Aristotle, teach another doctrine, and say for
the cause of vision, that the thing seen sendeth forth on every side a visible
species—in English, a visible show, apparition, or aspect, or a being seen—
the receiving whereof into the eye is seeing. And for the cause of hearing,
that the thing heard sendeth forth an audible species, that is an audible
aspect or audible being seen, which entering at the ear maketh hearing. Nay
for the cause of understanding also they say the thing understood sendeth
forth intelligible species, that is an intelligible being seen, which coming
into the understanding makes us understand. I say not this as disapproving
the use of universities, but because I am to speak hereafter of their office in
a commonwealth, I must let you see on all occasions by the way what things
would be amended in them; amongst which the frequency of insignificant
speech1 is one.
* * *
chapter 13. of the natural condition of mankind as

concerning their felicity and misery
Nature hath made men so equal in the faculties of body and mind as that,
though there be found one man sometimes manifestly stronger in body or of
quicker mind than another, yet when all is reckoned together, the difference
between man and man is not so considerable as that one man can thereupon
claim to himself any benefit, to which another may not pretend as well as he.
For as to the strength of body, the weakest has strength enough to kill the
strongest, either by secret machination, or by confederacy2 with others that
are in the same danger with himself.
And as to the faculties of the mind— setting aside the arts grounded
upon words, and especially that skill of proceeding upon general and infal-
lible rules, called science; which very few have, and but in few things; as
Leviathan. Abraham Bosse’s frontispiece for Leviathan was based being not a native faculty, born with us; nor attained, as prudence, while we
on a sketch by Hobbes. The “Leviathan” or commonwealth is shown look after somewhat else—I find yet a greater equality amongst men than
as a gigantic human figure holding a scepter and a sword; the figure that of strength. For prudence is but experience, which equal time equally
is made up of many tiny individual humans who have joined together bestows on all men, in those things they equally apply themselves unto.
in the social contract. Hobbes’s royalist sympathies are betrayed in That which may perhaps make such equality incredible is but a vain conceit
the figure’s face, which is that of King Charles. The small pictures in of one’s own wisdom, which almost all men think they have in a greater
the lower part of the engraving display the various attributes of civil
power on the left, and ecclesiastical power on the right.
degree than the vulgar— that is, than all men but themselves and a few
others, whom by fame, or for concurring with themselves, they approve. For
such is the nature of men, that howsoever they may acknowledge many
others to be more witty, or more eloquent, or more learned, yet they will
could not be severed from them, as by glasses8 and in echoes by reflection
hardly believe there be many so wise as themselves; for they see their own
we see they are; where we know the thing we see is in one place, the appear-
wit at hand, and other men’s at a distance. But this proveth rather that men
ance in another. And though at some certain distance the real and very
are in that point equal, than unequal. For there is not ordinarily a greater
object seem invested with the fancy it begets in us, yet still the object is one
thing, the image or fancy is another. So that sense in all cases is nothing
9. Led by the Scholastic philosophers (school- the idols of the marketplace and the theater in
men). Novum Organum 43– 44 and 59– 62.
8. Mirrors. 1. Unmeaningful speech. Cf. Bacon’s critique of 2. Alliance.
sign of the equal distribution of anything than that every man is contented inclination thereto of many days together; so the nature of war consisteth
with his share. not in actual fighting, but in the known disposition thereto, during all the
From this equality of ability ariseth equality of hope in the attaining of time there is no assurance to the contrary. All other time is peace.
our ends. And therefore if any two men desire the same thing, which never- Whatsoever therefore is consequent to a time of war, where every man
theless they cannot both enjoy, they become enemies; and in the way to their is enemy to every man, the same is consequent to the time wherein men
end (which is principally their own conservation, and sometimes their delec- live without other security than what their own strength and their own
tation3 only) endeavor to destroy or subdue one another. And from hence it invention shall furnish them withal. In such condition there is no place
comes to pass, that where an invader hath no more to fear than another man’s for industry, because the fruit thereof is uncertain, and consequently no
single power, if one plant, sow, build, or possess a convenient seat, others culture of the earth; no navigation, nor use of the commodities that may
may probably be expected to come prepared with forces united, to dispossess be imported by sea; no commodious building; no instruments of moving, and
and deprive him, not only of the fruit of his labor, but also of his life or lib- removing, such things as require much force; no knowledge of the face of
erty. And the invader again is in the like danger of another. the earth; no account of time; no arts; no letters; no society; and, which is
And from this diffidence4 of one another, there is no way for any man to worst of all, continual fear, and danger of violent death; and the life of man,
secure himself so reasonable as anticipation; that is, by force or wiles to solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.
master the persons of all men he can, so long, till he see no other power It may seem strange to some man that has not well weighed these things,
great enough to endanger him; and this is no more than his own conserva- that nature should thus dissociate and render men apt to invade and destroy
tion requireth, and is generally allowed. Also because there be some, that one another; and he may therefore, not trusting to this inference, made from
taking pleasure in contemplating their own power in the acts of conquest, the passions, desire perhaps to have the same confirmed by experience. Let
which they pursue farther than their security requires; if others that other- him therefore consider with himself, when taking a journey, he arms himself
wise would be glad to be at ease within modest bounds, should not by inva- and seeks to go well accompanied; when going to sleep, he locks his doors;
sion increase their power, they would not be able long time, by standing only when even in his house he locks his chests; and this when he knows there be
on their defense, to subsist. And by consequence, such augmentation of laws, and public officers, armed, to revenge all injuries shall be done him;
dominion over men being necessary to a man’s conservation, it ought to be what opinion he has of his fellow subjects, when he rides armed; of his fel-
allowed him. low citizens, when he locks his doors; and of his children and servants, when
Again, men have no plea sure, but on the contrary a great deal of grief, he locks his chests. Does he not there as much accuse mankind by his
in keeping company, where there is no power able to overawe them all. For actions, as I do by my words? But neither of us accuse man’s nature in it.
every man looketh that his companion should value him at the same rate he The desires and other passions of man are in themselves no sin. No more
sets upon himself; and upon all signs of contempt, or undervaluing, natu- are the actions that proceed from those passions, till they know a law that
rally endeavors, as far as he dares (which amongst them that have no com- forbids them, which, till laws be made, they cannot know; nor can any law
mon power to keep them in quiet, is far enough to make them destroy each be made, till they have agreed upon the person that shall make it.
other), to extort a greater value from his contemners5 by damage, and from It may peradventure be thought there was never such a time nor condi-
others by the example. tion of war as this; and I believe it was never generally so, over all the world;
So that in the nature of man, we find three principal causes of quarrel. but there are many places where they live so now. For the savage people in
First, competition; secondly, diffidence; thirdly, glory. many places of America, except the government of small families, the con-
The first maketh men invade for gain; the second, for safety; and the third, cord whereof dependeth on natural lust, have no government at all and live
for reputation. The first use violence to make themselves masters of other at this day in that brutish manner as I said before. Howsoever, it may be
men’s persons, wives, children, and cattle; the second, to defend them; the perceived what manner of life there would be, where there were no com-
third, for trifles, as a word, a smile, a different opinion, and any other sign mon power to fear, by the manner of life which men that have formerly
of undervalue, either direct in their persons, or by reflection in their kindred, lived under a peaceful government use to degenerate into in a civil war.6
their friends, their nation, their profession, or their name. But though there had never been any time wherein par ticular men were
Hereby it is manifest that during the time men live without a common in a condition of war one against another, yet in all times, kings and per-
power to keep them all in awe, they are in that condition which is called war; sons of sovereign authority, because of their independency, are in continual
and such a war as is of every man against every man. For war consisteth not jealousies, and in the state and posture of gladiators; having their weapons
in battle only, or the act of fighting, but in a tract of time wherein the will to pointing, and their eyes fixed on one another; that is, their forts, garrisons,
contend by battle is sufficiently known; and therefore the notion of time is and guns upon the frontiers of their kingdoms, and continual spies upon
to be considered in the nature of war, as it is in the nature of weather. For their neighbors, which is a posture of war. But because they uphold thereby
as the nature of foul weather lieth not in a shower or two of rain, but in an
3. Pleasure. 5. Scorners. 6. Hobbes is thinking of the recent civil wars in England, and perhaps also of the Greek civil wars
4. Lack of faith, mistrust. described by Thucydides (whom he translated).
the industry of their subjects, there does not follow from it that misery which every thing, even to one another’s body. And therefore as long as this natu-
accompanies the liberty of par ticular men. ral right of every man to every thing endureth, there can be no security to
To this war of every man against every man, this also is consequent: that any man (how strong or wise soever he be) of living out the time which
nothing can be unjust. The notions of right and wrong, justice and injus- nature ordinarily alloweth men to live. And consequently it is a precept or
tice, have there no place. Where there is no common power, there is no law; general rule of reason, That every man ought to endeavor peace, as far as he
where no law, no injustice. Force and fraud are in war the two cardinal has hope of obtaining it; and when he cannot obtain it, that he may seek and
virtues. Justice and injustice are none of the faculties neither of the body use all helps and advantages of war. The first branch of which rule con-
nor mind. If they were, they might be in a man that were alone in the world, taineth the first and fundamental law of nature, which is to seek peace and
as well as his senses and passions. They are qualities that relate to men in follow it. The second, the sum of the right of nature, which is, by all means
society, not in solitude. It is consequent also to the same condition that there we can to defend ourselves.
be no propriety,7 no dominion, no mine and thine distinct; but only that to be From this fundamental law of nature, by which men are commanded to
every man’s, that he can get; and for so long as he can keep it. And thus much endeavor peace, is derived this second law: That a man be willing, when oth-
for the ill condition which man by mere nature is actually placed in; though ers are so too, as far-forth as9 for peace and defense of himself he shall think it
with a possibility to come out of it, consisting partly in the passions, partly in necessary, to lay down this right to all things, and be contented with so much
his reason. liberty against other men as he would allow other men against himself. For as
The passions that incline men to peace are fear of death, desire of such long as any man holdeth this right of doing anything he liketh, so long are all
things as are necessary to commodious living, and a hope by their industry men in the condition of war. But if other men will not lay down their right,
to obtain them. And reason suggesteth convenient articles of peace, upon as well as he, then there is no reason for anyone to divest himself of his. For
which men may be drawn to agreement. These articles are they which oth- that were to expose himself to prey (which no man is bound to) rather than
erwise are called the Laws of Nature, whereof I shall speak more particu- to dispose himself to peace. This is that law of the Gospel: Whatsoever you
larly in the two following chapters. require that others should do to you, that do ye to them.l
from chapter 14. of the first and second natural laws * * *
The Right of Nature, which writers commonly call ius naturale, is the lib-
from chapter 15. of other laws of nature
erty each man hath to use his own power as he will himself for the preser-
vation of his own nature, that is to say, of his own life; and consequently of From that law of nature by which we are obliged to transfer to another such
doing anything which in his own judgment and reason he shall conceive to rights as, being retained, hinder the peace of mankind, there followeth a
be the aptest means thereunto. third, which is this: That men perform their covenants made:2 without which,
By Liberty is understood, according to the proper signification of the word, covenants are in vain, and but empty words; and, the right of all men to all
the absence of external impediments, which impediments may oft take away things remaining, we are still in the condition of war.
part of a man’s power to do what he would, but cannot hinder him from And in this law of nature consisteth the fountain and original of Justice.
using the power left him according as his judgment and reason shall dictate For where no covenant hath preceded, there hath no right been transferred,
to him. and every man has right to every thing; and consequently no action can
A Law of Nature (lex naturalis) is a precept or general rule found out by be unjust. But when a covenant is made, then to break it is unjust; and the
reason, by which a man is forbidden to do that which is destructive of his life definition of injustice is no other than the not per formance of covenant. And
or taketh away the means of preserving the same; and to omit that by which whatsoever is not unjust is just. * * *
he thinketh it may be best preserved. For though they that speak of this For the question is not of promises mutual where there is no security of
subject use to confound8 Ius and Lex, Right and Law, yet they ought to be per for mance on either side, as when there is no civil power erected over
distinguished, because Right consisteth in liberty to do or to forbear, whereas the parties promising; for such promises are no covenants. But either where
Law determineth and bindeth to one of them: so that Law and Right differ as one of the parties has performed already, or where there is a power to make
much as obligation and liberty, which in one and the same matter are incon- him perform: there is the question whether it be against reason, that is
sistent. against the benefit of the other, to perform or not. And I say it is not against
And because the condition of man (as hath been declared in the prece- reason.3 For the manifestation whereof, we are to consider: first, that when
dent chapter) is a condition of war of every one against every one, in which a man doth a thing which (notwithstanding anything can be foreseen and
case every one is governed by his own reason, and there is nothing he can
make use of that may not be a help unto him in preserving his life against
his enemies: it followeth that in such a condition every man has a right to 9. Insofar as. to the sovereign. Milton makes very different use
1. The Golden Rule: Matthew 7.12, Luke 6.31. of covenant theory to justify the rebellion and
2. Though the terms are general, Hobbes refers regicide in The Tenure of Kings and Magistrates.
in this chapter especially to the covenants men 3. I.e., to perform the promise.
7. Property. 8. Confuse. make with each other when they transfer power
1864 | CRISIS OF AUTHORIT Y 3014 | LIBERT Y
reckoned on) tendeth to his own destruction, howsoever4 some accident,

which he could not expect, arriving may turn it to his benefit; yet such
events do not make it reasonably or wisely done. Secondly, that in a condi-
tion of war, wherein every man to every man, for want of a common power JOHN LOCKE
to keep them all in awe, is an enemy, there is no man can hope by his own
strength or wit to defend himself from destruction without the help of con-
federates; where everyone expects the same defense by the confederation
that anyone else does. And therefore he which declares he thinks it reason
to deceive those that help him can in reason expect no other means of safety
A t Stowe in Buckinghamshire, the greatest of eighteenth-century English land-
scape gardens, a bust of John Locke appears in a temple with busts of Pope, New-
ton, Milton, Shakespeare, Queen Elizabeth I, and other “British Worthies.” The
than what can be had from his own single power. He therefore that breaketh inscription under his name says that he, “best of all philosophers, understood the
his covenant, and consequently declareth that he thinks he may with reason powers of the human mind, the nature, end, and bounds of civil government; and
with equal sagacity refuted the slavish system of usurped authority over the rights,
do so, cannot be received into any society that unite themselves for peace and
the consciences, or the reason of mankind.” Locke’s reputation as the philosopher of
defense, but by the error of them that receive him; nor when he is received be political liberty in the eighteenth century was not always this easy to read, nor was it
retained in it without seeing the danger of their error; which errors a man as pervasive as his influence as a philosopher of “the powers of the human mind”
cannot reasonably reckon upon as the means of his security. And therefore if (see the selection from the Essay Concerning Human Understanding, p. 2280, for his
he be left or cast out of society, he perisheth; and if he live in society, it is by program for the liberation of mankind’s reason). Other Whig writers from Locke’s
the errors of other men, which he could not foresee nor reckon upon; and era arguably influenced the developing discourse of liberty as much as or more than
consequently against the reason of his preservation; and so as all men that his Two Treatises of Government did (published 1690). Indeed, it is not clear the radi-
contribute not to his destruction forbear him only out of ignorance of what is calism of the Treatises was always appreciated. Scholars have found they were mostly
good for themselves. composed during the years 1679– 81, before the Glorious Revolution (1688), not
As for the instance of gaining the secure and perpetual felicity of heaven after it: the works represent not an after-the-fact justification of deposing a tyranni-
cal king, James II, but rather a more dangerous meditation on the people’s right to
by any way, it is frivolous: there being but one way imaginable, and that is
depose tyrants during the turbulent years of Charles II’s reign. In any case, the
not breaking, but keeping of covenant. inscription at Stowe, executed half a century later in the 1730s to buoy the Whig and
And for the other instance of attaining sovereignty by rebellion, it is Tory opposition to Robert Walpole’s putatively corrupt, tyrannical Whig administra-
manifest that though the event follow, yet because it cannot reasonably be tion, attests to Locke’s continuing relevance to defenders of liberty as eighteenth-
expected, but rather the contrary; and because by gaining it so others are century politics evolved. A classic articulation of the rights and freedoms of the
taught to gain the same in like manner, the attempt thereof is against rea- individual, Locke’s second Treatise has come to occupy a preeminent place in politi-
son. Justice therefore, that is to say, keeping of covenant, is a rule of reason, cal theory.
by which we are forbidden to do anything destructive to our life, and conse- The degree of Locke’s own opposition to slavish systems was far from unambigu-
quently a law of nature. ous, however. Though he maintains that all men are born free, he himself invested
in the Royal Africa Company (formed 1672) and a group of “Bahamas Adventurers”:
* * * both enterprises were predicated on slavery. Scholars have also argued that he
helped draft “The Fundamental Constitutions of Carolina” (1669), with his employer
Lord Ashley, which granted each freeman “absolute power and authority over his
From Part 2: Of Commonwealth negro slaves.” (Ashley would become the first Earl of Shaftesbury, himself the great
Whig paragon of liberty.) The selection included here from the second Treatise indi-
chapter 17. of the causes, generation, and definition of a cates both Locke’s detestation of the condition of slavery and his allowance for its
commonwealth justification: if he can somehow consider slaveholders the “lawful conquerors” of
The final cause, end, or design of men, who naturally love liberty and domin- their slaves, who themselves may have committed some base act or other, Locke may
defend the slave-owning and slave-trading societies he wished to legitimize. Over
ion over others, in the introduction of that restraint upon themselves in
Britons, however, he believed that civil government should never be tyrannical,
which we see them live in commonwealths, is the foresight of their own because of their natural rights to liberty and property. Locke’s first Treatise (not
preservation and of a more contented life thereby— that is to say, of getting printed here) attacked the writings of Sir Robert Filmer, who insisted that kings hold
themselves out from their miserable condition of war which is necessarily a patriarchal authority over their subjects ultimately derived from God’s authority
consequent, as has been shown (Chapter 13), to the natural passions of men over all mankind. The second Treatise describes the origins and ends of legitimate
when there is no visible power to keep them in awe and tie them by fear of political society, from the state of nature, in which mankind discovers the natural
punishment to the performance of their convenants and observation of those rights to liberty and property, to the institution of civil government, designed solely
laws of nature set down in the fourteenth and fifteenth chapters. to protect these rights and allow them best to flourish.
4. Even though.
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From Two Treatises of Government a certain time he was obliged to let go free out of his ser vice: and the mas-
ter of such a servant was so far from having an arbitrary power over his life,
An Essay Concerning the True Original, Extent, that he could not, at pleasure, so much as maim him, but the loss of an eye,
and End of Civil Government or tooth, set him free, Exod. XXI.
chapter iv. of slavery
chapter ix. of the ends of political society and government
22. The natural liberty of man is to be free from any superior power on earth,
123. If man in the state of nature be so free, as has been said; if he be abso-
and not to be under the will or legislative authority of man, but to have only
lute lord of his own person4 and possessions, equal to the greatest and subject
the law of nature for his rule. The liberty of man in society is to be under
to nobody, why will he part with his freedom? Why will he give up this
no other legislative power, but that established, by consent, in the common-
empire, and subject himself to the dominion and control of any other power?
wealth; nor under the dominion of any will, or restraint of any law, but what
To which ’tis obvious to answer that though in the state of nature he hath
that legislative shall enact, according to the trust put in it. Freedom then is
such a right, yet the enjoyment of it is very uncertain and constantly exposed
not what Sir R. F. tells us, O.A. 55, “A liberty for every one to do what he lists,
to the invasion of others; for all being kings as much as he, every man his
to live as he pleases, and not to be tied by any laws”:1 but freedom of men
equal, and the greater part no strict observers of equity and justice, the enjoy-
under government is to have a standing rule to live by, common to every one
ment of the property he has in this state is very unsafe, very insecure. This
of that society, and made by the legislative power erected in it, a liberty to
makes him willing to quit this condition, which however free is full of fears
follow my own will in all things, where the rule prescribes not, [and] not to
and continual dangers: and ’tis not without reason that he seeks out and is
be subject to the inconstant, uncertain, unknown, arbitrary will of another
willing to join in society with others who are already united or have a mind to
man; as freedom of nature is to be under no other restraint but the law of
unite for the mutual preservation of their lives, liberties, and estates, which I
nature.
call by the general name, property.
23. This freedom from absolute, arbitrary power is so necessary to and
124. The great and chief end therefore of men’s uniting into common-
closely joined with a man’s preservation that he cannot part with it but by
wealths and putting themselves under government is the preservation of their
what forfeits his preservation and life together. For a man, not having the
property. To which in the state of nature there are many things wanting.
power of his own life,2 cannot by compact or his own consent enslave himself
First, there wants an established, settled, known law, received and allowed
to any one, nor put himself under the absolute, arbitrary power of another, to
by common consent to be the standard of right and wrong, and the common
take away his life, when he pleases. Nobody can give more power than he has
measure to decide all controversies between them. For though the law of
himself; and he that cannot take away his own life cannot give another power
nature be plain and intelligible to all rational creatures; yet men being
over it. Indeed having, by his fault, forfeited his own life by some act that
biased by their interest, as well as ignorant for want of study of it, are not apt
deserves death; he to whom he has forfeited it may (when he has him in his
to allow of it as a law binding to them in the application of it to their par tic-
power) delay to take it, and make use of him to his own ser vice, and he does
ular cases.
him no injury by it. For whenever he finds the hardship of his slavery out-
125. Secondly, in the state of nature there wants a known and indifferent5
weigh the value of his life, ’tis in his power by resisting the will of his master
judge, with authority to determine all differences according to the estab-
to draw on himself the death he desires.
lished law. For everyone in that state being both judge and executioner of the
24. This is the perfect condition of slavery, which is nothing else but the
law of nature, men being partial to themselves, passion and revenge is very
state of war continued between a lawful conqueror and a captive. For if once
apt to carry them too far, and with too much heat in their own cases, as well
compact enter between them3 and make an agreement for a limited power on
as negligence and unconcernedness make them too remiss in other men’s.
the one side, and obedience on the other, the state of war and slavery ceases,
126. Thirdly, in the state of nature there often wants power to back and
as long as the compact endures. For as has been said, no man can by agree-
support the sentence when right, and to give it due execution. They who by
ment pass over to another that which he hath not in himself, a power over his
any injustice offended will seldom fail where they are able by force to make
own life.
good their injustice; such resistance many times makes the punishment
I confess we find among the Jews as well as other nations that men did
dangerous and frequently destructive to those who attempt it.
sell themselves; but, ’tis plain this was only to drudgery, not to slavery. For
127. Thus mankind, notwithstanding all the privileges of the state of
it is evident the person sold was not under an absolute, arbitrary, despotical
nature, being but in an ill condition while they remain in it, are quickly
power. For the master could not have power to kill him at any time whom at
driven into society. Hence it comes to pass that we seldom find any number
1. Sir Robert Filmer (1588–1653), a defender of Locke explained that the law of nature, which is
royal prerogative and the divine right of kings, is essentially the will of God as our reason reveals it
Locke’s chief opponent in the first Treatise. to us, dictates that human beings may not com- 4. Body, physical being. Locke earlier defines law of nature, without asking leave or depending
Locke here refers to page 55 of the 1679 republi- mit suicide. “the state of nature,” the “state all men are natu- upon the will of any other man” (chapter 2, sec-
cation of Filmer’s Observations upon Aristotle’s 3. That is, once their relationship attains the rally in,” as “a state of perfect freedom to order tion 4).
Politics (originally published 1652). status of a legal agreement or contract. their actions and dispose of their possessions and 5. Impartial.
2. In chapter 2, section 6 of the second Treatise, persons as they think fit, within the bounds of the
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of men live any time together in this state. The inconveniencies that they
are therein exposed to by the irregular and uncertain exercise of the power
every man has of punishing the transgressions of others make them take
sanctuary under the established laws of government, and therein seek the
preservation of their property. ’Tis this makes them so willingly give up
every one his single power of punishing to be exercised by such alone as
shall be appointed to it amongst them; and by such rules as the community,
or those authorized by them to that purpose, shall agree on. And in this we
have the original right and rise of both the legislative and executive power,6
as well as of the governments and societies themselves.
128. For in the state of nature, to omit the liberty he has of innocent
delights, a man has two powers. The first is to do whatsoever he thinks fit for
the preservation of himself and others within the permission of the law of
nature; by which law common to them all, he and all the rest of mankind are
one community, make up one society distinct from all other creatures, and
were it not for the corruption and viciousness of degenerate men, there
would be no need of any other, no necessity that men should separate from
this great and natural community and associate into lesser combinations.
The other power a man has in the state of nature is the power to punish the
crimes committed against that law. Both these he gives up when he joins in
a private, if I may so call it, or particular political society, and incorporates
into any commonwealth7 separate from the rest of mankind.
129. The first power, viz. of doing whatsoever he thought fit for the pres-
ervation of himself and the rest of mankind, he gives up to be regulated by
laws made by the society, so far forth as the preservation of himself and the
rest of that society shall require; which laws of the society in many things
confine the liberty he had by the law of nature.
130. Secondly, the power of punishing he wholly gives up, and engages his
natural force, which he might before employ in the execution of the law of
nature, by his own single authority, as he thought fit, to assist the executive
power of the society, as the law thereof shall require. For being now in a new
state wherein he is to enjoy many conveniences from the labor, assistance,
and society of others in the same community, as well as protection from its
whole strength; he is to part also with as much of his natural liberty in pro-
viding for himself, as the good, prosperity, and safety of the society shall
require; which is not only necessary but just, since the other members of the
society do the like.
131. But though men when they enter into society give up the equality,
liberty, and executive power they had in the state of nature into the hands of
the society, to be so far disposed of by the legislative as the good of the soci-
ety shall require; yet it being only with an intention in everyone, the better
to preserve himself, his liberty, and property, (for no rational creature can be
supposed to change his condition with an intention to be worse), the power
of the society, or legislative constituted by them, can never be supposed to
extend farther than the common good; but is obliged to secure everyone’s
property by providing against those three defects above-mentioned, that
made the state of nature so unsafe and uneasy. And so whoever has the
6. A branch of government charged with execut- 7. A political unit formed for the common good
ing the laws of a state. of its members.
2236 | JOHN DRYDEN M AC FLECKNOE | 2237
O that my power to saving were confined: and to have circulated only in manuscript until it was printed in 1682 in a pirated
1000 Why am I forced, like Heaven, against my mind, edition by an obscure publisher. By that time, the two playwrights were alienated by
To make examples of another kind? politics as well as by literary quarrels. Shadwell was a violent Whig and the reputed
Must I at length the sword of justice draw? author of a sharp attack on Dryden as the Tory author of Absalom and Achitophel
O curst effects of necessary law! and “The Medal.” It was probably for this reason that the printer added the subtitle
How ill my fear they by my mercy scan°! judge referring to Shadwell’s Whiggism in the phrase “true-blue-Protestant poet.” Political
1005 Beware the fury of a patient man. passions were running high, and sales would be helped if the poem seemed to refer
Law they require, let Law then show her face; to the events of the day.
They could not be content to look on Grace, Whereas Butler had debased and degraded his victims by using burlesque, cari-
cature, and the grotesque, Dryden exposed Shadwell to ridicule by using the devices
Her hinder parts, but with a daring eye
of mock epic, which treats the low, mean, or absurd in the grand language, lofty
To tempt the terror of her front and die.9
style, and solemn tone of epic poetry. The obvious disparity between subject and
1010 By their own arts, ’tis righteously decreed, style makes the satiric point. In 1678, a prolific, untalented writer, Richard Fleck-
Those dire artificers of death shall bleed. noe, died. Dryden conceived the idea of presenting Shadwell (the self-proclaimed
Against themselves their witnesses will swear, heir of Ben Jonson, the laureate) as the son and successor of Flecknoe (an irony
Till viper-like their mother Plot they tear: also because Flecknoe was a Catholic priest)—hence Mac (son of) Flecknoe—from
And suck for nutriment that bloody gore, whom he inherits the throne of dullness. Flecknoe in the triple role of king, priest,
1015 Which was their principle of life before. and poet hails his successor, pronounces a panegyric on his perfect fitness for the
Their Belial with their Belzebub1 will fight; throne, anoints and crowns him, foretells his glorious reign, and as he sinks (leaden
Thus on my foes, my foes shall do me right: dullness cannot soar), leaves his mantle to fall symbolically on Shadwell’s shoul-
Nor doubt the event; for factious crowds engage, ders. The poem abounds in literary allusions— to Roman legend and history and to
In their first onset, all their brutal rage. the Aeneid, to Cowley’s fragmentary epic The Davideis, to Paradise Lost, and to
1020 Then let ’em take an unresisted course, Shadwell’s own plays. Biblical allusions add an unexpected dimension of incongru-
Retire and traverse,° and delude their force: thwart ous dignity to the low scene. The coronation takes place in the City, to the plaudits
But when they stand all breathless, urge the fight, of the citizens, who are fit to admire only what is dull. In 217 lines, Dryden created
And rise upon ’em with redoubled might: an image of Shadwell that has fixed his reputation to this day.
For lawful power is still superior found,
1025 When long driven back, at length it stands the ground.”
He said. The Almighty, nodding, gave consent;
And peals of thunder shook the firmament. Mac Flecknoe
Henceforth a series of new time began,
The mighty years in long procession ran: Or a Satire upon the True-Blue-Protestant Poet, T. S.
1030 Once more the godlike David was restored, All human things are subject to decay,
And willing nations knew their lawful lord. And when fate summons, monarchs must obey.
1681 This Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus,1 young
Was called to empire, and had governed long;
5 In prose and verse, was owned, without dispute,
Through all the realms of Nonsense, absolute.
This aged prince, now flourishing in peace,
Mac Flecknoe The target of this superb satire, which is cast in the form of a
And blest with issue of a large increase,
mock-heroic episode, is Thomas Shadwell (1640–1692), the playwright, with whom
Dryden had been on good terms for a number of years, certainly as late as March Worn out with business, did at length debate
1678. Shadwell considered himself the successor of Ben Jonson and the champion of 10 To settle the succession of the state;
the type of comedy that Jonson had written, the “comedy of humors,” in which each And, pondering which of all his sons was fit
character is presented under the domination of a single psychological trait or eccen- To reign, and wage immortal war with wit,
tricity, his humor. His plays are not without merit, but they are often clumsy and Cried: “ ’Tis resolved; for nature pleads that he
prolix and certainly much inferior to Jonson’s. For many years he had conducted a Should only rule, who most resembles me.
public argument with Dryden on the merits of Jonson’s comedies, which he thought 15 Sh——2 alone my perfect image bears,
Dryden undervalued. Exactly what moved Dryden to attack him is a matter of con- Mature in dullness from his tender years:
jecture: he may simply have grown progressively bored and irritated by Shadwell and Sh———alone, of all my sons, is he
his tedious argument. The poem seems to have been written in late 1678 or 1679
1. In 31 b.c.e. Octavian became the first Roman of the name followed by a dash give the appear-
emperor, at the age of thirty-two. He assumed ance, but only the appearance, of protecting
9. Moses was not allowed to see the counte- 1. A god of the Philistines. “Belial”: the incarna- the title Augustus in 27 b.c.e. Dryden’s victim by concealing his name. A com-
nance of Jehovah (Exodus 33.20–23). tion of all evil. 2. Thomas Shadwell. The initial and second letter mon device in the satire of the period.
Who stands confirmed in full stupidity. The lute and sword, which he in triumph bore,
The rest to some faint meaning make pretense, And vowed he ne’er would act Villerius3 more.”
20 But Sh—— never deviates into sense. 60 Here stopped the good old sire, and wept for joy
Some beams of wit on other souls may fall, In silent raptures of the hopeful boy.
Strike through, and make a lucid interval; All arguments, but most his plays, persuade,
But Sh——’s genuine night admits no ray, That for anointed dullness4 he was made.
His rising fogs prevail upon the day. Close to the walls which fair Augusta° bind London
25 Besides, his goodly fabric3 fills the eye, 65 (The fair Augusta much to fears inclined),5
And seems designed for thoughtless majesty: An ancient fabric,° raised to inform the sight, building
Thoughtless as monarch oaks that shade the plain, There stood of yore, and Barbican it hight:° was called
And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign. A watchtower once; but now, so fate ordains,
Heywood and Shirley were but types of thee,4 Of all the pile an empty name remains.
30 Thou last great prophet of tautology.5 70 From its old ruins brothel houses rise,
Even I, a dunce of more renown than they, Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys,
Was sent before but to prepare thy way; Where their vast courts the mother-strumpets keep,
And, coarsely clad in Norwich drugget,° came coarse woolen cloth And, undisturbed by watch, in silence sleep.
To teach the nations in thy greater name.6 Near these a Nursery6 erects its head,
35 My warbling lute, the lute I whilom° strung, formerly 75 Where queens are formed, and future heroes bred;
When to King John of Portugal7 I sung, Where unfledged actors learn to laugh and cry,
Was but the prelude to that glorious day, Where infant punks° their tender voices try, prostitutes
When thou on silver Thames didst cut thy way, And little Maximins7 the gods defy.
With well-timed oars before the royal barge, Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here,
40 Swelled with the pride of thy celestial charge; 80 Nor greater Jonson dares in socks8 appear;
And big with hymn, commander of a host, But gentle Simkin9 just reception finds
The like was ne’er in Epsom blankets tossed.8 Amidst this monument of vanished minds:
Methinks I see the new Arion9 sail, Pure clinches° the suburbian Muse affords, puns
The lute still trembling underneath thy nail. And Panton1 waging harmless war with words.
45 At thy well-sharpened thumb from shore to shore 85 Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well known,
The treble squeaks for fear, the basses roar; Ambitiously design’d his Sh——’s throne;
Echoes from Pissing Alley Sh—— call, For ancient Dekker2 prophesied long since,
And Sh—— they resound from Aston Hall. That in this pile would reign a mighty prince,
About thy boat the little fishes throng, Born for a scourge of wit, and flail of sense;
50 As at the morning toast° that floats along. sewage 90 To whom true dullness should some Psyches owe,
Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious band, But worlds of Misers from his pen should flow;
Thou wield’st thy papers in thy threshing hand, Humorists and Hypocrites3 it should produce,
St. André’s1 feet ne’er kept more equal time, Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce.
Not ev’n the feet of thy own Psyche’s rhyme; Now Empress Fame had published the renown
55 Though they in number as in sense excel: 95 Of Sh——’s coronation through the town.
So just, so like tautology, they fell, Roused by report of Fame, the nations meet,
That, pale with envy, Singleton2 forswore From near Bunhill, and distant Watling Street.4
3. His body. Shadwell was a corpulent man. 7. Flecknoe boasted of the patronage of the Por- 3. A character in Sir William Davenant’s Siege 1. Said to have been a celebrated punster.
4. Thomas Heywood (ca. 1570–1641) and James tuguese king. of Rhodes (1656), the first English opera. 2. Thomas Dekker (ca. 1572–1632), the play-
Shirley (1596–1666), playwrights popular before 8. A reference to Shadwell’s comedy Epsom 4. The anticipated phrase is “anointed majesty.” wright, whom Jonson had satirized in The
the closing of the theaters in 1642 but now out of Wells and to the farcical scene in his Virtuoso, in English kings are anointed with oil at their Poetaster.
fashion. They are introduced here as “types” which Sir Samuel Hearty is tossed in a blanket. coronations. 3. Three of Shadwell’s plays; The Hypocrite, a
(i.e., prefigurings) of Shadwell, in the sense that 9. A legendary Greek poet. Returning home by 5. This line alludes to the fears excited by the failure, was not published. “Raymond” and
Solomon was regarded as an Old Testament pre- sea, he was robbed and thrown overboard by the Popish Plot (cf. Absalom and Achitophel, p. 2212). “Bruce” (line 93) are characters in The Humor-
figuring of Christ, the “last [final] great prophet.” sailors, but was saved by a dolphin that had been 6. The name of a training school for young actors. ists and The Virtuoso, respectively.
5. Unnecessary repetition of meaning in differ- charmed by his music. 7. Maximin is the cruel emperor, in Dryden’s 4. Because Bunhill is about a quarter mile and
ent words. 1. A French dancer who designed the choreogra- Tyrannic Love (1669), notorious for his bombast. Watling Street little more than a half mile from
6. The parallel between Flecknoe, as forerunner phy of Shadwell’s opera Psyche (1675). Dryden’s 8. “Buskins” and “socks” were the symbols of the site of the Nursery, where the coronation is
of Shadwell, and John the Baptist, as forerunner sneer at the mechanical metrics of the songs in tragedy and comedy, respectively. John Fletcher held, Shadwell’s fame is narrowly circumscribed.
of Jesus, is made plain in lines 32–34 by the use Psyche is justified. (1579–1625), the playwright and collaborator Moreover, his subjects live in the heart of the
of details and even words taken from Matthew 2. John Singleton (d. 1686), a musician at the with Francis Beaumont (ca. 1584–1616). City, regarded by men of wit and fashion as the
3.3– 4 and John 1.23. Theatre Royal. 9. A popular character in low farces. abode of bad taste and middle-class vulgarity.
No Persian carpets spread the imperial way, Full on the filial dullness: long he stood,
But scattered limbs of mangled poets lay; Repelling from his breast the raging god;
100 From dusty shops neglected authors come, At length burst out in this prophetic mood:
Martyrs of pies, and relics of the bum.5 “Heavens bless my son, from Ireland let him reign
Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogilby6 there lay, 140 To far Barbadoes on the western main;5
But loads of Sh—— almost choked the way. Of his dominion may no end be known,
Bilked stationers for yeomen stood prepared, And greater than his father’s be his throne;
105 And Herringman was captain of the guard.7 Beyond Love’s Kingdom let him stretch his pen!”
The hoary prince in majesty appeared, He paused, and all the people cried, “Amen.”
High on a throne of his own labors reared. 145 Then thus continued he: “My son, advance
At his right hand our young Ascanius sate, Still in new impudence, new ignorance.
Rome’s other hope, and pillar of the state. Success let others teach, learn thou from me
110 His brows thick fogs, instead of glories, grace, Pangs without birth, and fruitless industry.
And lambent dullness played around his face.8 Let Virtuosos in five years be writ;
As Hannibal did to the altars come, 150 Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit.
Sworn by his sire a mortal foe to Rome,9 Let gentle George6 in triumph tread the stage,
So Sh—— swore, nor should his vow be vain, Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage;
115 That he till death true dullness would maintain; Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit,
And, in his father’s right, and realm’s defense, And in their folly show the writer’s wit.
Ne’er to have peace with wit, nor truce with sense. 155 Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy defense,
The king himself the sacred unction1 made, And justify their author’s want of sense.
As king by office, and as priest by trade. Let ’em be all by thy own model made
120 In his siníster° hand, instead of ball, left Of dullness, and desire no foreign aid;
He placed a mighty mug of potent ale; That they to future ages may be known,
Love’s Kingdom to his right he did convey, 160 Not copies drawn, but issue of thy own.
At once his scepter, and his rule of sway; Nay, let thy men of wit too be the same,
Whose righteous lore the prince had practiced young, All full of thee, and differing but in name.
125 And from whose loins recorded Psyche sprung. But let no alien S— dl—y7 interpose,
His temples, last, with poppies were o’erspread, To lard with wit8 thy hungry Epsom prose.
That nodding seemed to consecrate his head.2 165 And when false flowers of rhetoric thou wouldst cull,
Just at that point of time, if fame not lie, Trust nature, do not labor to be dull;
On his left hand twelve reverend owls did fly.3 But write thy best, and top; and, in each line,
130 So Romulus, ’tis sung, by Tiber’s brook, Sir Formal’s9 oratory will be thine:
Presage of sway from twice six vultures took. Sir Formal, though unsought, attends thy quill,
The admiring throng loud acclamations make, 170 And does thy northern dedications1 fill.
And omens of his future empire take. Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame,
The sire then shook the honors4 of his head, By arrogating Jonson’s hostile name.
135 And from his brows damps of oblivion shed Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise,
And uncle Ogilby thy envy raise.
175 Thou art my blood, where Jonson has no part:
What share have we in nature, or in art?
5. Unsold books were used to line pie plates and this oath at the age of nine (Livy 21.1). Where did his wit on learning fix a brand,
as toilet paper. 1. The sacramental oil, used in the coronation.
6. John Ogilby, a translator of Homer and Virgil, 2. During the coronation a British monarch holds And rail at arts he did not understand?
ridiculed by both Dryden and Pope as a bad poet. two symbols of the throne: a globe (“ball”) repre- Where made he love in Prince Nicander’s vein,2
7. “Bilked stationers”: cheated publishers, acting senting the world in the left hand and a scepter in
as “yeomen” of the guard, led by Henry Herring- the right. Shadwell’s symbols of monarchy are a
man, who until 1679 was the publisher of both mug of ale; Flecknoe’s dreary play Love’s Kingdom;
Shadwell and Dryden. and a crown of poppies, which suggest heaviness,
8. Ascanius, or Ïulus, was the son of Aeneas. Vir- dullness, and drowsiness. The poppies also refer 5. Shadwell’s empire is vast but empty. 8. This phrase recalls a sentence in Burton’s
gil referred to him as “spes altera Romae” (“Rome’s obliquely to Shadwell’s addiction to opium. 6. Sir George Etherege (ca. 1635–1691), a writer Anatomy of Melancholy: “They lard their lean
other hope,” Aeneid 12.168). As Troy fell, he was 3. Birds of night. Appropriate substitutes for the of brilliant comedies. In the next couplet Dryden books with the fat of others’ works.”
marked as favored by the gods when a flickering twelve vultures whose flight confirmed to Romu- names characters from his plays. 9. Sir Formal Trifle, the ridiculous and vapid
(“lambent”) flame played round his head (Aeneid lus the destined site of Rome, of which he was 7. Sir Charles Sedley (1638–1701), wit, rake, orator in The Virtuoso.
2.680– 84). founder and king. poet, and playwright. Dryden hints that he con- 1. Shadwell frequently dedicated his works to the
9. Hannibal, who almost conquered Rome in 4. Ornaments, hence locks. tributed more than the prologue to Shadwell’s duke of Newcastle and members of his family.
216 b.c.e., during the second Punic War, took Epsom Wells. 2. In Psyche.
2242 | JOHN DRYDEN A DISCOURSE CONCERNING THE ORIGINAL | 2257
180 Or swept the dust in Psyche’s humble strain? that the knowledge of Nature was the original rule, and that all poets ought
Where sold he bargains, ‘whip-stitch,3 kiss my arse,’ to study her, as well as Aristotle and Horace, her interpreters.5 But then this
Promised a play and dwindled to a farce?4 also undeniably follows, that those things which delight all ages must have
When did his Muse from Fletcher scenes purloin, been an imitation of Nature—which is all I contend. Therefore is rhetoric
As thou whole Eth’rege dost transfuse to thine? made an art; therefore the names of so many tropes and figures were invented,
185 But so transfused, as oil on water’s flow, because it was observed they had such and such effect upon the audience.
His always floats above, thine sinks below. Therefore catachreses and hyperboles6 have found their place amongst them;
This is thy province, this thy wondrous way, not that they were to be avoided, but to be used judiciously and placed in
New humors to invent for each new play: poetry as heightenings and shadows are in painting, to make the figure
This is that boasted bias5 of thy mind, bolder, and cause it to stand off to sight. * * *
190 By which one way, to dullness, ’tis inclined;
Which makes thy writings lean on one side still,
[wit as “propriety”]
And, in all changes, that way bends thy will.
Nor let thy mountain-belly make pretense * * * [Wit] is a propriety of thoughts and words; or, in other terms, thought
Of likeness; thine’s a tympany6 of sense. and words elegantly adapted to the subject. If our critics will join issue on
195 A tun° of man in thy large bulk is writ, large cask this definition, that we may convenire in aliquo tertio;7 if they will take it as
But sure thou’rt but a kilderkin° of wit. small cask a granted principle, it will be easy to put an end to this dispute. No man will
Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep; disagree from another’s judgment concerning the dignity of style in heroic
Thy tragic Muse gives smiles, thy comic sleep. poetry; but all reasonable men will conclude it necessary that sublime sub-
With whate’er gall thou sett’st thyself to write, jects ought to be adorned with the sublimest, and, consequently, often with
200 Thy inoffensive satires never bite. the most figurative expressions. * * *
In thy felonious heart though venom lies,
It does but touch thy Irish pen,7 and dies. 1677
Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame
In keen iambics,° but mild anagram. sharp satire
205 Leave writing plays, and choose for thy command
Some peaceful province in acrostic land. From A Discourse Concerning the Original and
There thou may’st wings display and altars raise,8 Progress of Satire1
And torture one poor word ten thousand ways.
Or, if thou wouldst thy different talent suit, [the art of satire]
210 Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy lute.”
He said: but his last words were scarcely heard * * * How easy is it to call rogue and villain, and that wittily! But how hard
For Bruce and Longville had a trap prepared, to make a man appear a fool, a blockhead, or a knave without using any of
And down they sent the yet declaiming bard.9 those opprobrious terms! To spare the grossness of the names, and to do the
Sinking he left his drugget robe behind, thing yet more severely, is to draw a full face, and to make the nose and
215 Borne upwards by a subterranean wind. cheeks stand out, and yet not to employ any depth of shadowing.2 This is the
The mantle fell to the young prophet’s part,1 mystery of that noble trade, which yet no master can teach to his apprentice;
With double portion of his father’s art. he may give the rules, but the scholar is never the nearer in his practice.
ca. 1679 1682 Neither is it true that this fineness of raillery3 is offensive. A witty man is
tickled while he is hurt in this manner, and a fool feels it not. The occasion
3. A nonsense word frequently used by Sir Sam- of these objects as in George Herbert’s “Easter
uel Hearty in The Virtuoso. “Sell bargains”: to Wings” (p. 1709) and “The Altar” (p. 1707). “Ana- 5. In the words of the French critic René Rapin, Dryden and other writers, among them William
answer an innocent question with a coarse or gram”: the transposition of letters in a word so as to the rules (largely derived from Aristotle’s Poetics Congreve. Dryden traces the origin and devel-
indecent phrase, as in this line. make a new one. “Acrostic”: a poem in which the and Horace’s Art of Poetry) were made to “reduce opment of verse satire in Rome and in a very fine
4. Low comedy that depends largely on situa- first letter of each line, read downward, makes up Nature to method” (cf. Pope, An Essay on Criti- passage contrasts Horace and Juvenal as satiric
tion rather than wit, consistently condemned by the name of the person or thing that is the subject cism 1.88– 89, p. 2671). poets. It is plain that he prefers the “tragic” satire
Dryden and other serious playwrights. of the poem. Dryden is citing instances of triviality 6. Deliberate overstatement or exaggeration. of Juvenal to the urbane and laughing satire of
5. In bowling, the spin given to the bowl that and overingenuity in literature. “Catachresis”: the use of a word in a sense remote Horace. But in the passage printed here, he
causes it to swerve. Dryden closely parodies a 9. In The Virtuoso, Bruce and Longville play this from its normal meaning. praises his own satiric character of Zimri (the
passage in Shadwell’s epilogue to The Humorists. trick on Sir Formal Trifle while he makes a speech. 7. To find some means of agreement, in a third duke of Buckingham) in Absalom and Achitophel
6. A swelling in some part of the body caused by 1. When the prophet Elijah was carried to heaven term, between the two opposites [Latin]. for the very reason that it is modeled on Horatian
wind. in a chariot of fire borne on a whirlwind, his 1. This passage is an excerpt from the long and “raillery,” not Juvenalian invective.
7. Dryden accuses Flecknoe and his “son” of being mantle fell on his successor, the younger prophet rambling preface that served as the dedication of 2. Early English miniaturists prided themselves
Irish. Ireland suggested only poverty, superstition, Elisha (2 Kings 2.8–14). Flecknoe, prophet of a translation of the satires of the Roman satirists on the art of giving roundness to the full face
and barbarity to 17th-century Londoners. dullness, naturally cannot ascend, but must sink. Juvenal and Persius to Charles Sackville, sixth without painting in shadows.
8. “Wings” and “altars” refer to poems in the shape earl of Dorset. The translations were made by 3. Satirical mirth, good-natured satire.
2258 | JOHN DRYDEN ALEXANDER POPE | 2665
of an offense may possibly be given, but he cannot take it. If it be granted invisible world, and is that link in the chain of beings which has been often
that in effect this way does more mischief; that a man is secretly wounded, termed the nexus utriusque mundi.7 So that he who, in one respect, is asso-
and though he be not sensible himself, yet the malicious world will find it ciated with angels and archangels, may look upon a Being of infinite per-
out for him; yet there is still a vast difference betwixt the slovenly butchering fection as his father, and the highest order of spirits as his brethren, may, in
of a man, and the fineness of a stroke that separates the head from the body, another respect, say to corruption, “Thou art my father,” and to the worm,
and leaves it standing in its place. A man may be capable, as Jack Ketch’s4 “Thou art my mother and my sister.”8
wife said of his servant, of a plain piece of work, a bare hanging; but to make
a malefactor die sweetly was only belonging to her husband. I wish I could 7. The binding together of both worlds (Latin). 8. Job 17.14.
apply it to myself, if the reader would be kind enough to think it belongs to

me. The character of Zimri in my Absalom5 is, in my opinion, worth the
whole poem: it is not bloody, but it is ridiculous enough; and he, for whom it
was intended, was too witty to resent it as an injury. If I had railed,6 I might
have suffered for it justly; but I managed my own work more happily, per-
haps more dexterously. I avoided the mention of great crimes, and applied ALEXANDER POPE
myself to the representing of blindsides, and little extravagancies; to which,
the wittier a man is, he is generally the more obnoxious.7 It succeeded as
1688–1744
I wished; the jest went round, and he was laughed at in his turn who began
the frolic. * * *
1693
A lexander Pope is the only important writer of his generation who was solely a
man of letters. Because he could not, as a Roman Catholic, attend a university,
vote, or hold public office, he was excluded from the sort of patronage that was
bestowed by statesmen on many writers during the reign of Anne. This disadvantage
From The Preface to Fables Ancient and Modern1 he turned into a positive good, for the translation of Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey, which
he undertook for profit as well as for fame, gave him ample means to live the life of an
[in praise of chaucer] independent suburban gentleman. After 1718 he lived hospitably in his villa by the
Thames at Twickenham (then pronounced Twit’nam), entertaining his friends and
In the first place, as he is the father of English poetry, I hold him in the converting his five acres of land into a diminutive landscape garden. Almost exactly a
same degree of veneration as the Grecians held Homer, or the Romans Vir- century earlier, William Shakespeare had earned enough to retire to a country estate
gil. He is a perpetual fountain of good sense; learned in all sciences;2 and, at Stratford—but he had been an actor-manager as well as a playwright; Pope was the
therefore, speaks properly on all subjects. As he knew what to say, so he first English writer to build a lucrative, lifelong career by publishing his works.
knows also when to leave off; a continence which is practiced by few writers, Ill health plagued Pope almost from birth. Crippled early by tuberculosis of the
and scarcely by any of the ancients, excepting Virgil and Horace. * * * bone, he never grew taller than four and a half feet. In later life he suffered from
Chaucer followed Nature everywhere, but was never so bold to go beyond violent headaches and required constant attention from servants. But Pope did not
allow his infirmities to hold him back; he was always a master at making the best
her; and there is a great difference of being poeta and nimis poeta,3 if we may
of what he had. Around 1700 his father, a well-to-do, retired London merchant,
believe Catullus, as much as betwixt a modest behavior and affectation.
moved to a small property at Binfield in Windsor Forest. There, in rural surround-
The verse of Chaucer, I confess, is not harmonious to us; but ’tis like the ings, young Pope completed his education by reading whatever he pleased, “like a
eloquence of one whom Tacitus commends, it was auribus istius temporis boy gathering flowers in the woods and fields just as they fall in his way”; and there,
accommodata:4 they who lived with him, and some time after him, thought encouraged by his father, he began to write verse. He was already an accomplished
it musical; and it continues so, even in our judgment, if compared with the poet in his teens; no English poet has ever been more precocious.
Pope’s first striking success as a poet was An Essay on Criticism. (1711), which
brought him Joseph Addison’s approval and an intemperate personal attack from the
4. A notorious public executioner of Dryden’s to literature but is simply a man, grown old in the
time (d. 1686). His name later became a generic reading and writing of poetry, who is eager to talk critic John Dennis, who was angered by a casual reference to himself in the poem.
term for all members of his profession. informally with his readers about some of his The Rape of the Lock, both in its original shorter version of 1712 and in its more
5. Absalom and Achitophel, lines 544– 68 favorite authors. His praise of Chaucer (unusually elaborate version of 1714, proved the author a master not only of metrics and of lan-
(p. 2226). sympathetic and perceptive for 1700) is animated
6. Reviled, abused. Observe that the verb differed by that love of great literature that is manifest in guage but also of witty, urbane satire. In An Essay on Criticism, Pope had excelled all
in meaning from its noun, defined above. everything that Dryden wrote. his predecessors in writing a didactic poem after the example of Horace; in the Rape,
7. Liable. 2. Branches of learning.
1. Dryden’s final work, published in the year of 3. A poet (“poeta”) and too much of a poet
he had written the most brilliant mock epic in the language. But there was another
his death, was a collection of translations from (“nimis poeta”). The phrase is not from Catullus vein in Pope’s youthful poetry, a tender concern with natural beauty and love. The
Homer, Ovid, Boccaccio, and Chaucer, and one but from Martial (Epigrams 3.44). Pastorals (1709), his first publication, and Windsor Forest (1713; much of it was writ-
or two other pieces. The Preface is Dryden’s ripest 4. Suitable to the ears of that time (Latin). Taci-
and finest critical essay. He is not concerned here tus (ca. 55– ca. 117 c.e.), Roman historian and ten earlier) abound in visual imagery and descriptive passages of ideally ordered
with critical theory or with a formalistic approach writer on oratory. nature; they remind us that Pope was an amateur painter. The “Elegy to the Memory
2666 | ALEXANDER POPE ALEXANDER POPE | 2667
of an Unfortunate Lady” and Eloisa to Abelard, published in the collected poems of rapid moral, political, and cultural deterioration. The agents of decay fed on the rise
1717, dwell on the pangs of unhappy lovers (Pope himself never married). And even of moneyed (as opposed to landed) wealth, which accounted for the political corrup-
the long task of translating Homer, the “dull duty” of editing Shakespeare, and, in tion encouraged by Sir Robert Walpole and the court party and the corruption of
middle age, his dedication to ethical and satirical poetry did not make less fine his all aspects of the national life by a vulgar class of nouveaux riches. Pope assumed
keen sense of beauty in nature and art. the role of the champion of traditional values: of right reason, humanistic learning,
Pope’s early poetry brought him to the attention of literary men, with whom he sound art, good taste, and public virtue. It was fortunate that many of his enemies
began to associate in the masculine world of coffeehouse and tavern, where he liked happened to illustrate various degrees of unreason, pedantry, bad art, vulgar taste,
to play the rake. Between 1706 and 1711 he came to know, among many others, Wil- and at best, indifferent morals.
liam Congreve; William Walsh, the critic and poet; and Richard Steele and Joseph The satirist traditionally deals in generally prevalent evils and generally observable
Addison. As it happened, all were Whigs. Pope could readily ignore politics in the human types, not with particular individuals. So too with Pope; the bulk of his satire
excitement of taking his place among the leading wits of the town. But after the fall can be read and enjoyed without much biographical information. Usually he used
of the Whigs in 1710 and the formation of the Tory government under Robert Harley fictional or type names, although he most often had an individual in mind— Sappho,
(later the earl of Oxford) and Henry St. John (later Viscount Bolingbroke), party Atossa, Atticus, Sporus— and when he named individuals (as he consistently did in
loyalties bred bitterness among the wits as among the politicians. By 1712, Pope had The Dunciad), his purpose was to raise his victims to emblems of folly and vice. To
made the acquaintance of another group of writers, all Tories, who were soon his judge and censure the age, Pope also created the I of the satires (not identical with
intimate friends: Jonathan Swift, by then the close associate of Harley and St. John Alexander Pope of Twickenham). This semifictional figure is the detached observer,
and the principal propagandist for their policies; Dr. John Arbuthnot, physician to somewhat removed from the City, town, and court, the centers of corruption; he is
the queen, a learned scientist, a wit, and a man of humanity and integrity; John Gay, the friend of the virtuous, whose friendship for him testifies to his integrity; he is
the poet, who in 1728 was to create The Beggar’s Opera, the greatest theatrical suc- fond of peace, country life, the arts, morality, and truth; and he detests their oppo-
cess of the century; and the poet Thomas Parnell. Through them he became the sites that flourish in the great world. In such an age, Pope implies, it is impossible
friend and admirer of Oxford and later the intimate of Bolingbroke. In 1714 this for such a man—honest, truthful, blunt— not to write satire.
group, at the instigation of Pope, formed a club for satirizing all sorts of false learn-
ing. The friends proposed to write jointly the biography of a learned fool whom they Pope was a master of style. From first to last, his verse is notable for its rhythmic
named Martinus Scriblerus (Martin the Scribbler), whose life and opinions would variety, despite the apparently rigid metrical unit— the heroic couplet—in which he
be a running commentary on educated nonsense. Some amusing episodes were wrote; for the precision of meaning and the harmony (or expressive disharmony) of
later rewritten and published as the Memoirs of Martinus Scriblerus (1741). The real his language; and for the union of maximum conciseness with maximum complexity.
importance of the club, however, is that it fostered a satiric temper that would be Variety and harmony can be observed in even so short a passage as lines 71–76 of the
expressed in such mature works of the friends as Gulliver’s Travels, The Beggar’s pastoral “Summer” (1709), lines so lyrical that, in Semele, Handel set them to music.
Opera, and The Dunciad. In the passage quoted below (as also in the quotation that follows), only those
“The life of a wit is a warfare on earth,” said Pope, generalizing from his own expe- rhetorical stresses that distort the normal iambic flow of the verse have been
rience. His very success as a poet (and his astonishing precocity brought him success marked; these distortions often stem from a slight emphasis given to “you,” Summer,
very early) made enemies who were to plague him in pamphlets, verse satires, and the addressee of the passage, on the off beat. Internal pauses within the line are
squibs in the journals throughout his entire literary career. He was attacked for indicated by single and double bars, alliteration and assonance by italics.
his writings, his religion, and his physical deformity. Although he smarted under the
jibes of his detractors, he was a fighter who struck back, always giving better than he Óh déign to visit our forsaken seats,
got. Pope’s literary warfare began in 1713, when he announced his intention of trans- The mossy fountains || and the green retreats!
lating the Iliad and sought subscribers to a deluxe edition of the work. Subscribers
came in droves, but the Whig writers who surrounded Addison at Button’s Coffee Where’er yóu wálk || cóol gáles shall fan the glade,
House did all they could to discredit the venture. The eventual success of the first Trées whére yóu sít || shall crowd into a shade:
published installment of his Iliad in 1715 did not obliterate Pope’s resentment against
Addison and his “little senate”; and he took his revenge in the damaging portrait of Where’er yóu tŕead || the blushing flowers shall rise,
Addison (under the name of Atticus), which was later included in the Epistle to Dr. And all thíngs f lóurish where yóu túrn your eyes.
Arbuthnot (1735), lines 193–214. The not unjustified attacks on Pope’s edition of
Shakespeare (1725) by the learned Shakespeare scholar Lewis Theobald (Pope always Pope has attained metrical variety by the free substitution of trochees and spondees
spelled and pronounced the name “Tibbald” in his satires) led to Theobald’s appear- for the normal iambs; he has achieved rhythmic variety by arranging phrases and
ance as king of the dunces in The Dunciad (1728). In this impressive poem Pope clauses (units of syntax and logic) of different lengths within single lines and cou-
stigmatized his literary enemies as agents of all that he disliked and feared in the plets, so that the passage moves with the sinuous fluency of thought and feeling; and
tendencies of his time—the vulgarization of taste and the arts consequent on the he not only has chosen musical combinations of words but has also subtly modulated
rapid growth of the reading public and the development of journalism, magazines, the harmony of the passage by unobtrusive patterns of alliteration and assonance.
and other popular and cheap publications, which spread scandal, sensationalism, and Contrast with this pastoral passage lines 16–25 of the “Epilogue to the Satires,
political partisanship—in short the new commercial spirit of the nation that was cor- Dialogue 2” (1738), in which Pope is not making music but imitating actual conver-
rupting not only the arts but, as Pope saw it, the national life itself. sation so realistically that the metrical pattern and the integrity of the couplet and
In the 1730s Pope moved on to philosophical, ethical, and political subjects in An individual line seem to be destroyed (although in fact they remain in place). In a
Essay on Man, the Epistles to Several Persons, and the Imitations of Horace. The reigns dialogue with a friend who warns him that his satire is too personal, indeed mere
of George I and George II appeared to him, as to Swift and other Tories, a period of libel, the poet-satirist replies:
2668 | ALEXANDER POPE T HE R APE OF T HE LOCK | 2685
Yé státesmen, | priests of one religion all! 710 Their ancient bounds the banished Muses passed;
Yé trádesmen vile || in army, court, or hall!
Thence arts o’er all the northern world advance,
But critic-learning flourished most in France:
Yé réverend atheists. || f. Scandal! | name them, | Who? The rules a nation, born to serve, obeys;
p. Why that’s the thing you bid me not to do. And Boileau still in right of Horace sways.8
715 But we, brave Britons, foreign laws despised,
Whó stárved a sister, || who foreswore a debt, And kept unconquered— and uncivilized;
Í néver named; || the town’s inquiring yet. Fierce for the liberties of wit, and bold,
We still defied the Romans, as of old.
The poisoning dame—| f. Yóu méan—| p. I don’t—| f. Yóu dó.
Yet some there were, among the sounder few
p. Sée, nów Í kéep the secret, || and nót yóu! 720 Of those who less presumed, and better knew,
The bribing statesman—| f. Hóld, || tóo hígh you go.
Who durst assert the juster ancient cause,
And here restored wit’s fundamental laws.
p. The bribed elector—|| f. There you stoop tóo lów. Such was the Muse, whose rules and practice tell,
In such a passage the language and rhythms of poetry merge with the language and “Nature’s chief masterpiece is writing well.”9
rhythms of impassioned living speech. 725 Such was Roscommon,1 not more learned than good,
A fine example of Pope’s ability to derive the maximum of meaning from the most With manners gen’rous as his noble blood;
economic use of language and image is the description of the manor house in which To him the wit of Greece and Rome was known,
lives old Cotta, the miser (Epistle to Lord Bathurst, lines 187–96): And every author’s merit, but his own.
Such late was Walsh—the Muse’s2 judge and friend,
Like some lone Chartreuse stands the good old Hall,
730 Who justly knew to blame or to commend;
Silence without, and fasts within the wall;
To failings mild, but zealous for desert;
No raftered roofs with dance and tabor sound,
No noontide bell invites the country round;
The clearest head, and the sincerest heart.
Tenants with sighs the smokeless towers survey, This humble praise, lamented shade! receive,
And turn the unwilling steeds another way; This praise at least a grateful Muse may give:
Benighted wanderers, the forest o’er, 735 The Muse, whose early voice you taught to sing,
Curse the saved candle and unopening door; Prescribed her heights, and pruned her tender wing,
While the gaunt mastiff growling at the gate, (Her guide now lost) no more attempts to rise,
Affrights the beggar whom he longs to eat. But in low numbers° short excursions tries: humble verses
Content, if hence the unlearned their wants may view,
The first couplet of this passage associates the “Hall,” symbol of English rural hos-
740 The learned reflect on what before they knew:
pitality, with the Grande Chartreuse, the monastery in the French Alps, which,
Careless of° censure, nor too fond of fame; unconcerned at
although a place of “silence” and “fasts” for the monks, afforded food and shelter to
all travelers. Then the dismal details of Cotta’s miserly dwelling provide a stark con-
Still pleased to praise, yet not afraid to blame;
trast, and the meaning of the scene is concentrated in the grotesque image of the last Averse alike to flatter, or offend;
couplet: the half-starved watchdog and the frightened beggar confronting each other Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend.
in mutual hunger. 1709 1711
But another sort of variety derives from Pope’s respect for the idea that the differ-
ent kinds of literature have their different and appropriate styles. Thus An Essay on
Criticism, an informal discussion of literary theory, is written, like Horace’s Art of
Poetry (a similarly didactic poem), in a plain style, the easy language of well-bred The Rape of the Lock The Rape of the Lock is based on an actual episode
talk. The Rape of the Lock, “a heroi-comical poem” (that is, a comic poem that treats that provoked a quarrel between two prominent Catholic families. Pope’s friend
trivial material in an epic style), employs the lofty heroic language that John Dryden John Caryll, to whom the poem is addressed (line 3), suggested that Pope write it,
had perfected in his translation of Virgil and introduces amusing parodies of pas- in the hope that a little laughter might serve to soothe ruffled tempers. Lord Petre
sages in Paradise Lost, parodies later raised to truly Miltonic sublimity and complex- had cut off a lock of hair from the head of the lovely Arabella Fermor (often spelled
ity by the conclusion of The Dunciad. Eloisa to Abelard renders the brooding, “Farmer” and doubtless so pronounced), much to the indignation of the lady and
passionate voice of its heroine in a declamatory language, given to sudden outbursts her relatives. In its original version of two cantos and 334 lines, published in 1712,
and shifts of tone, that recalls the stage. The grave epistles that make up An Essay on The Rape of the Lock was a great success. In 1713 a new version was undertaken
Man, a philosophical discussion of such majestic themes as the Creator and His
creation, the universe, human nature, society, and happiness, are written in a stately 8. Boileau’s L’Art Poétique (1674) regularized and the important Essay on Translated Verse (1684).
forensic language and tone and constantly employ the traditional rhetorical figures. modernized the lessons of Horace’s Art of Poetry. 2. Here, Pope himself. William Walsh (1663–
9. Quoted from an Essay on Poetry by John Shef- 1708), whom Dryden once called “the best critic
The Imitations of Horace and, above all, the Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, his finest poem field, duke of Buckingham (1648–1721), who of our nation,” had advised Pope to work at
“in the Horatian way,” reveal Pope’s final mastery of the plain style of Horace’s had befriended the young Pope. becoming the first great “correct” poet in English.
epistles and satires and support his image of himself as the heir of the Roman poet. 1. Wentworth Dillon, earl of Roscommon, wrote
2686 | ALEXANDER POPE T HE R APE OF T HE LOCK, CANTO 1 | 2687
against the advice of Addison, who considered the poem perfect as it was first writ- was forced to, before I had executed half my design, for the machinery was
ten. Pope greatly expanded the earlier version, adding the delightful “machinery” entirely wanting to complete it.
(i.e., the supernatural agents in epic action) of the Sylphs, Belinda’s toilet, the card The machinery, Madam, is a term invented by the critics, to signify that
game, and the visit to the Cave of Spleen in canto 4. In 1717, with the addition of part which the deities, angels, or demons are made to act in a poem; for the
Clarissa’s speech on good humor, the poem assumed its final form. ancient poets are in one respect like many modern ladies: let an action be
With delicate fancy and playful wit, Pope elaborated the trivial episode that occa-
never so trivial in itself, they always make it appear of the utmost impor-
sioned the poem into the semblance of an epic in miniature, the most nearly perfect
heroicomical poem in English. The verse abounds in parodies and echoes of the tance. These machines I determined to raise on a very new and odd founda-
Iliad, the Aeneid, and Paradise Lost, thus constantly forcing the reader to compare tion, the Rosicrucian1 doctrine of spirits.
small things with great. The familiar devices of epic are observed, but the incidents I know how disagreeable it is to make use of hard words before a lady; but
or characters are beautifully proportioned to the scale of mock epic. The Rape tells ’tis so much the concern of a poet to have his works understood, and par-
of war, but it is the drawing-room war between the sexes; it has its heroes and hero- ticularly by your sex, that you must give me leave to explain two or three
ines, but they are beaux and belles; it has its supernatural characters (“machinery”), difficult terms.
but they are Sylphs (borrowed, as Pope tells us in his dedicatory letter, from Rosicru- The Rosicrucians are a people I must bring you acquainted with. The
cian lore)— creatures of the air, the souls of dead coquettes, with tasks appropriate best account I know of them is in a French book called Le Comte de
to their nature— or the Gnome Umbriel, once a prude on earth; it has its epic game, Gabalis,2 which both in its title and size is so like a novel, that many of
played on the “velvet plain” of the card table, its feasting heroes, who sip coffee and
the fair sex have read it for one by mistake. According to these gentlemen, the
gossip, and its battle, fought with the clichés of compliment and conceits, with
frowns and angry glances, with snuff and bodkin; it has the traditional epic journey
four elements are inhabited by spirits, which they call Sylphs, Gnomes,
to the underworld—here the Cave of Spleen, emblematic of the ill nature of female Nymphs, and Salamanders. The Gnomes or Demons of earth delight in mis-
hypochondriacs. And Pope creates a world in which these actions take place, a world chief; but the Sylphs, whose habitation is in the air, are the best-conditioned
that is dense with beautiful objects: brocades, ivory and tortoiseshell, cosmetics and creatures imaginable. For they say, any mortals may enjoy the most intimate
diamonds, lacquered furniture, silver teapot, delicate chinaware. It is a world that is familiarities with these gentle spirits, upon a condition very easy to all true
constantly in motion and that sparkles and glitters with light, whether the light of adepts, an inviolate preservation of chastity.
the sun or of Belinda’s eyes or that light into which the “fluid” bodies of the Sylphs As to the following cantos, all the passages of them are as fabulous as the
seem to dissolve as they flutter in shrouds and around the mast of Belinda’s ship. vision at the beginning, or the transformation at the end (except the loss of
Pope laughs at this world, its ritualized triviality, its irrational, upper-class women your hair, which I always mention with reverence). The human persons are as
and feminized men— and remembers that a grimmer, darker world surrounds it fictitious as the airy ones; and the character of Belinda, as it is now managed,
(3.19–24 and 5.145– 48); but he also makes us aware of its beauty and charm.
resembles you in nothing but in beauty.
The epigraph may be translated, “I was unwilling, Belinda, to ravish your locks;
but I rejoice to have conceded this to your prayers” (Martial’s Epigrams 12.84.1–2). If this poem had as many graces as there are in your person, or in your
Pope substituted his heroine for Martial’s Polytimus. The epigraph is intended to mind, yet I could never hope it should pass through the world half so uncen-
suggest that the poem was published at Miss Fermor’s request. sured as you have done. But let its fortune be what it will, mine is happy
enough, to have given me this occasion of assuring you that I am, with the
truest esteem,
Madam,
Your most obedient, humble servant,
The Rape of the Lock A. Pope
An Heroi-Comical Poem
Nolueram, Belinda, tuos violare capillos; Canto 1
sed juvat hoc precibus me tribuisse tuis.
—martial What dire offense from amorous causes springs,
What mighty contests rise from trivial things,
to mrs. arabella fermor I sing—This verse to Caryll, Muse! is due:
This, even Belinda may vouchsafe to view:
Madam, 5 Slight is the subject, but not so the praise,
It will be in vain to deny that I have some regard for this piece, since I dedi- If she inspire, and he approve my lays.
cate it to you. Yet you may bear me witness, it was intended only to divert a Say what strange motive, Goddess! could compel
few young ladies, who have good sense and good humor enough to laugh A well-bred lord to assault a gentle belle?
not only at their sex’s little unguarded follies, but at their own. But as it was Oh, say what stranger cause, yet unexplored,
10 Could make a gentle belle reject a lord?
communicated with the air of a secret, it soon found its way into the world.
An imperfect copy having been offered to a bookseller, you had the good 1. A system of arcane philosophy introduced into 2. By the Abbé de Montfaucon de Villars, pub-
nature for my sake to consent to the publication of one more correct; this I England from Germany in the 17th century. lished in 1670.
In tasks so bold can little men engage, For when the Fair in all their pride expire,
And in soft bosoms dwells such mighty rage? To their first elements8 their souls retire:
Sol through white curtains shot a timorous ray, The sprites of fiery termagants in flame
And oped those eyes that must eclipse the day. 60 Mount up, and take a Salamander’s9 name.
15 Now lapdogs give themselves the rousing shake, Soft yielding minds to water glide away,
And sleepless lovers, just at twelve, awake: And sip, with Nymphs, their elemental tea.1
Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knocked the ground, The graver prude sinks downward to a Gnome,
And the pressed watch3 returned a silver sound. In search of mischief still on earth to roam.
Belinda still her downy pillow pressed, 65 The light coquettes in Sylphs aloft repair,
20 Her guardian Sylph prolonged the balmy rest. And sport and flutter in the fields of air.
’Twas he had summoned to her silent bed “Know further yet; whoever fair and chaste
The morning dream that hovered o’er her head. Rejects mankind, is by some Sylph embraced:
A youth more glittering than a birthnight beau4 For spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease
(That even in slumber caused her cheek to glow) 70 Assume what sexes and what shapes they please.2
25 Seemed to her ear his winning lips to lay, What guards the purity of melting maids,
And thus in whispers said, or seemed to say: In courtly balls, and midnight masquerades,
“Fairest of mortals, thou distinguished care Safe from the treacherous friend, the daring spark,
Of thousand bright inhabitants of air! The glance by day, the whisper in the dark,
If e’er one vision touched thy infant thought, 75 When kind occasion prompts their warm desires,
30 Of all the nurse and all the priest have taught, When music softens, and when dancing fires?
Of airy elves by moonlight shadows seen, ’Tis but their Sylph, the wise Celestials° know, heavenly beings
The silver token, and the circled green,5 Though Honor is the word with men below.
Or virgins visited by angel powers, “Some nymphs3 there are, too conscious of their face,
With golden crowns and wreaths of heavenly flowers, 80 For life predestined to the Gnomes’ embrace.
35 Hear and believe! thy own importance know, These swell their prospects and exalt their pride,
Nor bound thy narrow views to things below. When offers are disdained, and love denied:
Some secret truths, from learned pride concealed, Then gay ideas° crowd the vacant brain, showy images
To maids alone and children are revealed: While peers, and dukes, and all their sweeping train,
What though no credit doubting wits may give? 85 And garters, stars, and coronets4 appear,
40 The fair and innocent shall still believe. And in soft sounds, ‘your Grace’° salutes their ear. a duchess
Know, then, unnumbered spirits round thee fly, ’Tis these that early taint the female soul,
The light militia of the lower sky: Instruct the eyes of young coquettes to roll,
These, though unseen, are ever on the wing, Teach infant cheeks a bidden blush to know,
Hang o’er the box, and hover round the Ring.6 90 And little hearts to flutter at a beau.
45 Think what an equipage thou hast in air, “Oft, when the world imagine women stray,
And view with scorn two pages and a chair.° sedan chair The Sylphs through mystic mazes guide their way,
As now your own, our beings were of old, Through all the giddy circle they pursue,
And once enclosed in woman’s beauteous mold; And old impertinence° expel by new. trifle
Thence, by a soft transition, we repair 95 What tender maid but must a victim fall
50 From earthly vehicles to these of air. To one man’s treat, but for another’s ball?
Think not, when woman’s transient breath is fled, When Florio speaks, what virgin could withstand,
That all her vanities at once are dead: If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand?
Succeeding vanities she still regards, With varying vanities, from every part,
And though she plays no more, o’erlooks the cards. 100 They shift the moving toyshop5 of their heart;
55 Her joy in gilded chariots, when alive,
And love of ombre,7 after death survive.
8. The four elements out of which all things were gants”: shrewish or overbearing women.
believed to have been made were fire, water, earth, 1. Pronounced tay.
3. A watch that chimes the hour and the quarter caused by the round dances of fairies. According and air. One or another of these elements was sup- 2. Cf. Paradise Lost 1.427–31; this is one of
hour when the stem is pressed down. “Knocked to popular belief, fairies skim off the cream from posed to be predominant in both the physical and many allusions to that poem in the Rape.
the ground”: summons to a maid. jugs of milk left standing overnight and leave a the psychological makeup of each human being. 3. Here and after, a fanciful name for a young
4. Courtiers wore especially fine clothes on the coin (“silver token”) in payment. In this context they are spoken of as “humors.” woman, to be distinguished from the “Nymphs”
sovereign’s birthday. 6. The “box” in the theater and the fashionable 9. A lizardlike animal, in antiquity believed to (water spirits) in line 62.
5. Rings of bright green grass, which are com- circular drive (“Ring”) in Hyde Park. live in fire. Each element was inhabited by a 4. Emblems of nobility.
mon in England even in winter, were held to be 7. The popular card game (see n. 1, p. 2694). spirit, as the following lines explain. “Terma- 5. A shop stocked with baubles and trifles.
Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots sword-knots strive,

Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches drive. Canto 2
This erring mortals levity may call; Not with more glories, in the ethereal plain,
Oh, blind to truth! the Sylphs contrive it all. The sun first rises o’er the purpled main,
105 “Of these am I, who thy protection claim, Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams
A watchful sprite, and Ariel is my name. Launched on the bosom of the silver Thames.
Late, as I ranged the crystal wilds of air, 5 Fair nymphs and well-dressed youths around her shone,
In the clear mirror of thy ruling star But every eye was fixed on her alone.
I saw, alas! some dread event impend, On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore,
110 Ere to the main this morning sun descend, Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore.
But Heaven reveals not what, or how, or where: Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose,
Warned by thy Sylph, O pious maid, beware! 10 Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those:
This to disclose is all thy guardian can: Favors to none, to all she smiles extends;
Beware of all, but most beware of Man!” Oft she rejects, but never once offends.
115 He said; when Shock,6 who thought she slept too long, Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike,
Leaped up, and waked his mistress with his tongue. And, like the sun, they shine on all alike.
’Twas then, Belinda, if report say true, 15 Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride,
Thy eyes first opened on a billet-doux; Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide:
Wounds, charms, and ardors were no sooner read, If to her share some female errors fall,
120 But all the vision vanished from thy head. Look on her face, and you’ll forget ’em all.
And now, unveiled, the toilet stands displayed, This nymph, to the destruction of mankind,
Each silver vase in mystic order laid. 20 Nourished two locks which graceful hung behind
First, robed in white, the nymph intent adores, In equal curls, and well conspired to deck
With head uncovered, the cosmetic powers. With shining ringlets her smooth ivory neck.
125 A heavenly image in the glass appears; Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains,
To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears. And mighty hearts are held in slender chains.
The inferior priestess, at her altar’s side, 25 With hairy springes9 we the birds betray,
Trembling begins the sacred rites of Pride. Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey,
Unnumbered treasures ope at once, and here Fair tresses man’s imperial race ensnare,
130 The various offerings of the world appear; And beauty draws us with a single hair.
From each she nicely culls with curious toil, The adventurous Baron the bright locks admired,
And decks the goddess with the glittering spoil. 30 He saw, he wished, and to the prize aspired.
This casket India’s glowing gems unlocks, Resolved to win, he meditates the way,
And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. By force to ravish, or by fraud betray;
135 The tortoise here and elephant unite, For when success a lover’s toil attends,
Transformed to combs, the speckled and the white. Few ask if fraud or force attained his ends.
Here files of pins extend their shining rows, 35 For this, ere Phoebus° rose, he had implored the sun
Puffs, powders, patches, Bibles,7 billet-doux. Propitious Heaven, and every power adored,
Now awful° Beauty puts on all its arms; awe-inspiring But chiefly Love— to Love an altar built,
140 The fair each moment rises in her charms, Of twelve vast French romances, neatly gilt.
Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace, There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves,
And calls forth all the wonders of her face; 40 And all the trophies of his former loves.
Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, With tender billet-doux he lights the pyre,
And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. And breathes three amorous sighs to raise the fire.
145 The busy Sylphs surround their darling care, Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes
These set the head, and those divide the hair, Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize:
Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown; 45 The powers gave ear, and granted half his prayer,
And Betty’s8 praised for labors not her own. The rest the winds dispersed in empty air.
But now secure the painted vessel glides,
The sunbeams trembling on the floating tides,
6. A long-haired poodle, Belinda’s lapdog. interpretation has not gained wide acceptance.
7. It has been suggested that Pope intended here 8. Belinda’s maid, the “inferior priestess” men-
not “Bibles,” but “bibelots” (trinkets), but this tioned in line 127. 9. Snares (pronounced sprìn-jez).
While melting music steals upon the sky, Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs,
50 And softened sounds along the waters die. Nay oft, in dreams invention we bestow,
Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play, 100 To change a flounce, or add a furbelow.
Belinda smiled, and all the world was gay. “This day black omens threat the brightest fair,
All but the Sylph—with careful thoughts oppressed, That e’er deserved a watchful spirit’s care;
The impending woe sat heavy on his breast. Some dire disaster, or by force or slight,
55 He summons straight his denizens of air; But what, or where, the Fates have wrapped in night:
The lucid squadrons round the sails repair: 105 Whether the nymph shall break Diana’s2 law,
Soft o’er the shrouds aërial whispers breathe Or some frail china jar receive a flaw,
That seemed but zephyrs to the train beneath. Or stain her honor, or her new brocade,
Some to the sun their insect-wings unfold, Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade,
60 Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold. Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball;
Transparent forms too fine for mortal sight, 110 Or whether Heaven has doomed that Shock must fall.
Their fluid bodies half dissolved in light, Haste, then, ye spirits! to your charge repair:
Loose to the wind their airy garments flew, The fluttering fan be Zephyretta’s care;
Thin glittering textures of the filmy dew, The drops3 to thee, Brillante, we consign;
65 Dipped in the richest tincture of the skies, And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine;
Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes, 115 Do thou, Crispissa,4 tend her favorite Lock;
While every beam new transient colors flings, Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock.
Colors that change whene’er they wave their wings. “To fifty chosen Sylphs, of special note,
Amid the circle, on the gilded mast, We trust the important charge, the petticoat;
70 Superior by the head was Ariel placed; Oft have we known that sevenfold fence to fail,
His purple1 pinions opening to the sun, 120 Though stiff with hoops, and armed with ribs of whale.5
He raised his azure wand, and thus begun: Form a strong line about the silver bound,
“Ye Sylphs and Sylphids, to your chief give ear! And guard the wide circumference around.
Fays, Fairies, Genïi, Elves, and Daemons, hear! “Whatever spirit, careless of his charge,
75 Ye know the spheres and various tasks assigned His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large,
By laws eternal to the aërial kind. 125 Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o’ertake his sins,
Some in the fields of purest ether play, Be stopped in vials, or transfixed with pins,
And bask and whiten in the blaze of day. Or plunged in lakes of bitter washes lie,
Some guide the course of wandering orbs on high, Or wedged whole ages in a bodkin’s6 eye;
80 Or roll the planets through the boundless sky. Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain,
Some less refined, beneath the moon’s pale light 130 While clogged he beats his silken wings in vain,
Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night, Or alum styptics with contracting power
Or suck the mists in grosser air below, Shrink his thin essence like a riveled7 flower:
Or dip their pinions in the painted bow,° rainbow Or, as Ixion8 fixed, the wretch shall feel
85 Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry main, The giddy motion of the whirling mill,
Or o’er the glebe° distill the kindly rain. cultivated field 135 In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow,
Others on earth o’er human race preside, And tremble at the sea that froths below!”
Watch all their ways, and all their actions guide: He spoke; the spirits from the sails descend;
Of these the chief the care of nations own, Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend;
90 And guard with arms divine the British Throne. Some thread the mazy ringlets of her hair;
“Our humbler province is to tend the Fair, 140 Some hang upon the pendants of her ear:
Not a less pleasing, though less glorious care: With beating hearts the dire event they wait,
To save the powder from too rude a gale, Anxious, and trembling for the birth of Fate.
Nor let the imprisoned essences° exhale; perfumes
95 To draw fresh colors from the vernal flowers; 2. Diana was the goddess of chastity. ing ribbon through eyelets in the edging of wom-
To steal from rainbows e’er they drop in showers 3. Diamond earrings. Observe the appropriate- en’s garments.
A brighter wash;° to curl their waving hairs, cosmetic lotion ness of the names of the Sylphs to their assigned 7. To “rivel” is to “contract into wrinkles and
functions. corrugations” (Johnson’s Dictionary).
4. From Latin crispere, “to curl.” 8. In the Greek myth, he was punished in the
1. In 18th-century poetic diction the word might Eclogue 9.40, purpureum. An example of the Latin- 5. Corsets and the hoops of hoopskirts were underworld by being bound on an everturning
mean bloodred, purple, or simply (as is likely here) ate nature of some poetic diction of the period. made of whalebone. wheel.
brightly colored. The word derives from Virgil’s 6. A blunt needle with a large eye used for draw-
And parti-colored troops, a shining train,

Canto 3 Draw forth to combat on the velvet plain.
Close by those meads, forever crowned with flowers, 45 The skillful nymph reviews her force with care;
Where Thames with pride surveys his rising towers, “Let Spades be trumps!” she said, and trumps they were.
There stands a structure of majestic frame, Now move to war her sable Matadores,
Which from the neighboring Hampton9 takes its name. In show like leaders of the swarthy Moors.
5 Here Britain’s statesmen oft the fall foredoom Spadillio first, unconquerable lord!
Of foreign tyrants and of nymphs at home; 50 Led off two captive trumps, and swept the board.
Here thou, great Anna! whom three realms obey, As many more Manillio forced to yield,
Dost sometimes counsel take— and sometimes tea. And marched a victor from the verdant field.
Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort, Him Basto followed, but his fate more hard
10 To taste awhile the pleasures of a court; Gained but one trump and one plebeian card.
In various talk the instructive hours they passed, 55 With his broad saber next, a chief in years,
Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last; The hoary Majesty of Spades appears,
One speaks the glory of the British Queen, Puts forth one manly leg, to sight revealed,
And one describes a charming Indian screen; The rest his many-colored robe concealed.
15 A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes; The rebel Knave, who dares his prince engage,
At every word a reputation dies. 60 Proves the just victim of his royal rage.
Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat, Even mighty Pam,2 that kings and queens o’erthrew
With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that. And mowed down armies in the fights of loo,
Meanwhile, declining from the noon of day, Sad chance of war! now destitute of aid,
20 The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray; Falls undistinguished by the victor Spade.
The hungry judges soon the sentence sign, 65 Thus far both armies to Belinda yield;
And wretches hang that jurymen may dine; Now to the Baron fate inclines the field.
The merchant from the Exchange returns in peace, His warlike amazon her host invades,
And the long labors of the toilet cease. The imperial consort of the crown of Spades.
25 Belinda now, whom thirst of fame invites, The Club’s black tyrant first her victim died,
Burns to encounter two adventurous knights, 70 Spite of his haughty mien and barbarous pride.
At ombre1 singly to decide their doom, What boots° the regal circle on his head, avails
And swells her breast with conquests yet to come. His giant limbs, in state unwieldy spread?
Straight the three bands prepare in arms to join, That long behind he trails his pompous robe,
30 Each band the number of the sacred nine. And of all monarchs only grasps the globe?3
Soon as she spreads her hand, the aërial guard 75 The Baron now his Diamonds pours apace;
Descend, and sit on each important card: The embroidered King who shows but half his face,
First Ariel perched upon a Matadore, And his refulgent Queen, with powers combined,
Then each according to the rank they bore; Of broken troops an easy conquest find.
35 For Sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient race, Clubs, Diamonds, Hearts, in wild disorder seen,
Are, as when women, wondrous fond of place. 80 With throngs promiscuous strew the level green.
Behold, four Kings in majesty revered, Thus when dispersed a routed army runs,
With hoary whiskers and a forky beard; Of Asia’s troops, and Afric’s sable sons,
And four fair Queens whose hands sustain a flower, With like confusion different nations fly,
40 The expressive emblem of their softer power; Of various habit, and of various dye,
Four Knaves in garbs succinct,° a trusty band, girded up 85 The pierced battalions disunited fall
Caps on their heads, and halberts in their hand; In heaps on heaps; one fate o’erwhelms them all.
The Knave of Diamonds tries his wily arts,
9. Hampton Court, the royal palace, about fif- accurate. Each player holds nine cards (line 30). And wins (oh, shameful chance!) the Queen of Hearts.
teen miles up the Thames from London. The “Matadores” (line 33), when spades are At this, the blood the virgin’s cheek forsook,
1. The game of ombre that Belinda plays against trump, are “Spadillio” (line 49), the ace of spades;
the baron and another young man is too compli- “Manillio” (line 51), the two of spades; and “Basto” 90 A livid paleness spreads o’er all her look;
cated for complete explication here. Pope has (line 53), the ace of clubs. Belinda holds all three She sees, and trembles at the approaching ill,
carefully arranged the cards so that Belinda wins. of these. (For a more complete description of
The baron’s hand is strong enough to be a threat, ombre, see The Rape of the Lock and Other Poems,
but the third player’s is of little account. The hand ed. Geoffrey Tillotson, in the Twickenham Edi-
is played exactly according to the rules of ombre, tion of Pope’s poems, vol. 2, Appendix C.) 2. The knave of clubs, the highest trump in the 3. In the English deck, only the king of clubs
and Pope’s description of the cards is equally game of loo. holds an imperial orb.
Just in the jaws of ruin, and Codille.4 Thrice she looked back, and thrice the foe drew near.
And now (as oft in some distempered state) Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought
On one nice trick depends the general fate. 140 The close recesses of the virgin’s thought;
95 An Ace of Hearts steps forth: the King unseen As on the nosegay in her breast reclined,
Lurked in her hand, and mourned his captive Queen. He watched the ideas rising in her mind,
He springs to vengeance with an eager pace, Sudden he viewed, in spite of all her art,
And falls like thunder on the prostrate Ace. An earthly lover lurking at her heart.
The nymph exulting fills with shouts the sky, 145 Amazed, confused, he found his power expired,
100 The walls, the woods, and long canals reply. Resigned to fate, and with a sigh retired.
O thoughtless mortals! ever blind to fate, The Peer now spreads the glittering forfex° wide, scissors
Too soon dejected, and too soon elate: To enclose the Lock; now joins it, to divide.
Sudden these honors shall be snatched away, Even then, before the fatal engine closed,
And cursed forever this victorious day. 150 A wretched Sylph too fondly interposed;
105 For lo! the board with cups and spoons is crowned, Fate urged the shears, and cut the Sylph in twain
The berries crackle, and the mill turns round;5 (But airy substance soon unites again):
On shining altars of Japan6 they raise The meeting points the sacred hair dissever
The silver lamp; the fiery spirits blaze: From the fair head, forever and forever!
From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide, 155 Then flashed the living lightning from her eyes,
110 While China’s earth receives the smoking tide. And screams of horror rend the affrighted skies.
At once they gratify their scent and taste, Not louder shrieks to pitying heaven are cast,
And frequent cups prolong the rich repast. When husbands, or when lapdogs breathe their last;
Straight hover round the fair her airy band; Or when rich china vessels fallen from high,
Some, as she sipped, the fuming liquor fanned, 160 In glittering dust and painted fragments lie!
115 Some o’er her lap their careful plumes displayed, “Let wreaths of triumph now my temples twine,”
Trembling, and conscious of the rich brocade. The victor cried, “the glorious prize is mine!
Coffee (which makes the politician wise, While fish in streams, or birds delight in air,
And see through all things with his half-shut eyes) Or in a coach and six the British fair,
Sent up in vapors to the Baron’s brain 165 As long as Atalantis8 shall be read,
120 New stratagems, the radiant Lock to gain. Or the small pillow grace a lady’s bed,
Ah, cease, rash youth! desist ere ’tis too late, While visits shall be paid on solemn days,
Fear the just Gods, and think of Scylla’s7 fate! When numerous wax-lights in bright order blaze,
Changed to a bird, and sent to flit in air, While nymphs take treats,° or assignations give, free refreshments
She dearly pays for Nisus’ injured hair! 170 So long my honor, name, and praise shall live!
125 But when to mischief mortals bend their will, “What time would spare, from steel receives its date,
How soon they find fit instruments of ill! And monuments, like men, submit to fate!
Just then, Clarissa drew with tempting grace Steel could the labor of the Gods destroy,
A two-edged weapon from her shining case: And strike to dust the imperial towers of Troy;
So ladies in romance assist their knight, 175 Steel could the works of mortal pride confound,
130 Present the spear, and arm him for the fight. And hew triumphal arches to the ground.
He takes the gift with reverence, and extends What wonder then, fair nymph! thy hairs should feel,
The little engine on his fingers’ ends; The conquering force of unresisted steel?”
This just behind Belinda’s neck he spread,
As o’er the fragrant steams she bends her head.
135 Swift to the Lock a thousand sprites repair, Canto 4
A thousand wings, by turns, blow back the hair, But anxious cares the pensive nymph oppressed,
And thrice they twitched the diamond in her ear, And secret passions labored in her breast.
Not youthful kings in battle seized alive,
Not scornful virgins who their charms survive,
4. The term applied to losing a hand at cards. sea bird because, for the sake of her love for
5. I.e., coffee is roasted and ground. Minos of Crete, who was besieging her father’s
5 Not ardent lovers robbed of all their bliss,
6. I.e., small, lacquered tables. “Altars” suggests city of Megara, she cut from her father’s head the
the ritualistic character of coffee drinking in purple lock on which his safety depended. She is
Belinda’s world. not the Scylla of “Scylla and Charybdis.” 8. Delarivier Manley’s New Atalantis (1709) was notorious for its thinly concealed allusions to contem-
7. Scylla, daughter of Nisus, was turned into a porary scandals.
Not ancient ladies when refused a kiss, Men prove with child, as powerful fancy works,
Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die, And maids, turned bottles, call aloud for corks.
Not Cynthia when her manteau’s° pinned awry, wrap 55 Safe passed the Gnome through this fantastic band,
E’er felt such rage, resentment, and despair, A branch of healing spleenwort4 in his hand.
10 As thou, sad virgin! for thy ravished hair. Then thus addressed the Power: “Hail, wayward Queen!
For, that sad moment, when the Sylphs withdrew Who rule the sex to fifty from fifteen:
And Ariel weeping from Belinda flew, Parent of vapors and of female wit,
Umbriel,9 a dusky, melancholy sprite 60 Who give the hysteric or poetic fit,
As ever sullied the fair face of light, On various tempers act by various ways,
15 Down to the central earth, his proper scene, Make some take physic,° others scribble plays; medicine
Repaired to search the gloomy Cave of Spleen.° Ill Humor Who cause the proud their visits to delay,
Swift on his sooty pinions flits the Gnome, And send the godly in a pet to pray.
And in a vapor reached the dismal dome. 65 A nymph there is that all your power disdains,
No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows, And thousands more in equal mirth maintains.
20 The dreaded east is all the wind that blows. But oh! if e’er thy Gnome could spoil a grace,
Here in a grotto, sheltered close from air, Or raise a pimple on a beauteous face,
And screened in shades from day’s detested glare, Like citron-waters5 matrons’ cheeks inflame,
She sighs forever on her pensive bed, 70 Or change complexions at a losing game;
Pain at her side, and Megrim° at her head. headache If e’er with airy horns6 I planted heads,
25 Two handmaids wait the throne: alike in place Or rumpled petticoats, or tumbled beds,
But differing far in figure and in face. Or caused suspicion when no soul was rude,
Here stood Ill-Nature like an ancient maid, Or discomposed the headdress of a prude,
Her wrinkled form in black and white arrayed; 75 Or e’er to costive lapdog gave disease,
With store of prayers for mornings, nights, and noons, Which not the tears of brightest eyes could ease,
30 Her hand is filled; her bosom with lampoons. Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin:° ill humor
There Affectation, with a sickly mien, That single act gives half the world the spleen.”
Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen, The Goddess with a discontented air
Practiced to lisp, and hang the head aside, 80 Seems to reject him though she grants his prayer.
Faints into airs, and languishes with pride, A wondrous bag with both her hands she binds,
35 On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe, Like that where once Ulysses held the winds;7
Wrapped in a gown, for sickness and for show. There she collects the force of female lungs,
The fair ones° feel such maladies as these, women Sighs, sobs, and passions, and the war of tongues.
When each new nightdress gives a new disease. 85 A vial next she fills with fainting fears,
A constant vapor1 o’er the palace flies, Soft sorrows, melting griefs, and flowing tears.
40 Strange phantoms rising as the mists arise; The Gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away,
Dreadful as hermit’s dreams in haunted shades, Spreads his black wings, and slowly mounts to day.
Or bright as visions of expiring maids. Sunk in Thalestris’8 arms the nymph he found,
Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling spires,° coils 90 Her eyes dejected and her hair unbound.
Pale specters, gaping tombs, and purple fires; Full o’er their heads the swelling bag he rent,
45 Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes, And all the Furies issued at the vent.
And crystal domes, and angels in machines.2 Belinda burns with more than mortal ire,
Unnumbered throngs on every side are seen And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire.
Of bodies changed to various forms by Spleen. 95 “O wretched maid!” she spread her hands, and cried
Here living teapots stand, one arm held out, (While Hampton’s echoes, “Wretched maid!” replied),
50 One bent; the handle this, and that the spout:
A pipkin° there, like Homer’s tripod,3 walks; earthen pot
Here sighs a jar, and there a goose pie talks; 4. An herb, efficacious against diseases of the 7. Aeolus (later conceived of as god of the winds)
spleen. Pope alludes to the golden bough that gave Ulysses a bag containing all the winds
Aeneas and the Cumaean sibyl carry with them adverse to his voyage home. When his ship was in
for protection into the underworld in Aeneid 6. sight of Ithaca, his companions opened the bag
9. The name suggests shade and darkness. tions draws on the sensational stage effects pop- 5. Brandy flavored with orange or lemon peel. and the storms that ensued drove Ulysses far away
1. Emblematic of “the vapors,” a fashionable ular with contemporary audiences. 6. The symbol of the cuckold, the man whose wife (Odyssey 10.19ff.).
hypochondria, melancholy, or peevishness. 3. In the Iliad (18.373–77), Vulcan furnishes the has been unfaithful to him; here “airy,” because 8. The name is borrowed from a queen of the
2. Mechanical devices used in the theaters for gods with self-propelling “tripods” (three-legged they exist only in the jealous suspicions of the Amazons, hence a fierce and warlike woman.
spectacular effects. The cata log of hallucina- stools). husband, the victim of the mischievous Umbriel.
“Was it for this you took such constant care 145 On her heaved bosom hung her drooping head,
The bodkin, comb, and essence to prepare? Which with a sigh she raised, and thus she said:
For this your locks in paper durance bound, “Forever cursed be this detested day,
100 For this with torturing irons wreathed around? Which snatched my best, my favorite curl away!
For this with fillets strained your tender head, Happy! ah, ten times happy had I been,
And bravely bore the double loads of lead?9 150 If Hampton Court these eyes had never seen!
Gods! shall the ravisher display your hair, Yet am not I the first mistaken maid,
While the fops envy, and the ladies stare! By love of courts to numerous ills betrayed.
105 Honor forbid! at whose unrivaled shrine Oh, had I rather unadmired remained
Ease, pleasure, virtue, all, our sex resign. In some lone isle, or distant northern land;
Methinks already I your tears survey, 155 Where the gilt chariot never marks the way,
Already hear the horrid things they say, Where none learn ombre, none e’er taste bohea!3
Already see you a degraded toast, There kept my charms concealed from mortal eye,
110 And all your honor in a whisper lost! Like roses that in deserts bloom and die.
How shall I, then, your helpless fame defend? What moved my mind with youthful lords to roam?
’Twill then be infamy to seem your friend! 160 Oh, had I stayed, and said my prayers at home!
And shall this prize, the inestimable prize, ’Twas this the morning omens seemed to tell;
Exposed through crystal to the gazing eyes, Thrice from my trembling hand the patch box4 fell;
115 And heightened by the diamond’s circling rays, The tottering china shook without a wind,
On that rapacious hand forever blaze? Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most unkind!
Sooner shall grass in Hyde Park Circus grow, 165 A Sylph too warned me of the threats of fate,
And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow;1 In mystic visions, now believed too late!
Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fall, See the poor remnants of these slighted hairs!
120 Men, monkeys, lapdogs, parrots, perish all!” My hands shall rend what e’en thy rapine spares.
She said; then raging to Sir Plume repairs, These in two sable ringlets taught to break,
And bids her beau demand the precious hairs 170 Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck.
(Sir Plume of amber snuffbox justly vain, The sister lock now sits uncouth, alone,
And the nice conduct of a clouded° cane). marbled, veined And in its fellow’s fate foresees its own;
125 With earnest eyes, and round unthinking face, Uncurled it hangs, the fatal shears demands,
He first the snuffbox opened, then the case, And tempts once more thy sacrilegious hands.
And thus broke out—“My Lord, why, what the dev il! 175 Oh, hadst thou, cruel! been content to seize
Z—ds! damn the lock! ’fore Gad, you must be civil! Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these!”
Plague on ’t! ’tis past a jest—nay prithee, pox!
130 Give her the hair”—he spoke, and rapped his box.
“It grieves me much,” replied the Peer again, Canto 5
“Who speaks so well should ever speak in vain. She said: the pitying audience melt in tears.
But by this Lock, this sacred Lock I swear But Fate and Jove had stopped the Baron’s ears.
(Which never more shall join its parted hair; In vain Thalestris with reproach assails,
135 Which never more its honors shall renew, For who can move when fair Belinda fails?
Clipped from the lovely head where late it grew), 5 Not half so fixed the Trojan5 could remain,
That while my nostrils draw the vital air, While Anna begged and Dido raged in vain.
This hand, which won it, shall forever wear.” Then grave Clarissa graceful waved her fan;
He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph spread Silence ensued, and thus the nymph began:
140 The long-contended honors2 of her head. “Say, why are beauties praised and honored most,
But Umbriel, hateful Gnome, forbears not so; 10 The wise man’s passion, and the vain man’s toast?
He breaks the vial whence the sorrows flow. Why decked with all that land and sea afford,
Then see! the nymph in beauteous grief appears, Why angels called, and angel-like adored?
Her eyes half languishing, half drowned in tears; Why round our coaches crowd the white-gloved beaux,
9. The frame on which the elaborate coiffures of ney. No fashionable wit would have so vulgar an 3. A costly sort of tea. the gods, despite her reproaches and the suppli-
the day were arranged. address. 4. To hold the ornamental patches of court plas- cations of her sister Anna. Virgil compares him to
1. A person born within sound of the bells of St. 2. Ornaments, hence locks; a Latinism. ter worn on the face by both sexes. a steadfast oak that withstands a storm (Aeneid
Mary-le-Bow in Cheapside is said to be a cock- 5. Aeneas, who forsook Dido at the bidding of 4.437– 43).
Why bows the side box from its inmost rows? A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards cast,
15 How vain are all these glories, all our pains, “Those eyes are made so killing”—was his last.
Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains; 65 Thus on Maeander’s flowery margin lies
That men may say when we the front box grace, The expiring swan,8 and as he sings he dies.
‘Behold the first in virtue as in face!’ When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down,
Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day, Chloe stepped in, and killed him with a frown;
20 Charmed the smallpox, or chased old age away, She smiled to see the doughty hero slain,
Who would not scorn what housewife’s cares produce, 70 But, at her smile, the beau revived again.
Or who would learn one earthly thing of use? Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air,
To patch, nay ogle, might become a saint, Weighs the men’s wits against the lady’s hair;
Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint. The doubtful beam long nods from side to side;
25 But since, alas! frail beauty must decay, At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside.
Curled or uncurled, since locks will turn to gray; 75 See, fierce Belinda on the Baron flies,
Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade, With more than usual lightning in her eyes;
And she who scorns a man must die a maid; Nor feared the chief the unequal fight to try,
What then remains but well our power to use, Who sought no more than on his foe to die.
30 And keep good humor still whate’er we lose? But this bold lord with manly strength endued,
And trust me, dear, good humor can prevail 80 She with one finger and a thumb subdued:
When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail. Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew,
Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll; A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw;
Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.”6 The Gnomes direct, to every atom just,
35 So spoke the dame, but no applause ensued; The pungent grains of titillating dust.
Belinda frowned, Thalestris called her prude. 85 Sudden, with starting tears each eye o’erflows,
“To arms, to arms!” the fierce virago cries, And the high dome re-echoes to his nose.
And swift as lightning to the combat flies. “Now meet thy fate,” incensed Belinda cried,
All side in parties, and begin the attack; And drew a deadly bodkin9 from her side.
40 Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones crack; (The same, his ancient personage to deck,
Heroes’ and heroines’ shouts confusedly rise, 90 Her great-great-grandsire wore about his neck,
And bass and treble voices strike the skies. In three seal rings; which after, melted down,
No common weapons in their hands are found, Formed a vast buckle for his widow’s gown:
Like Gods they fight, nor dread a mortal wound. Her infant grandame’s whistle next it grew,
45 So when bold Homer makes the Gods engage, The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew;
And heavenly breasts with human passions rage; 95 Then in a bodkin graced her mother’s hairs,
’Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms; Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.)
And all Olympus rings with loud alarms: “Boast not my fall,” he cried, “insulting foe!
Jove’s thunder roars, heaven trembles all around, Thou by some other shalt be laid as low.
50 Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound: Nor think to die dejects my lofty mind:
Earth shakes her nodding towers, the ground gives way, 100 All that I dread is leaving you behind!
And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day! Rather than so, ah, let me still survive,
Triumphant Umbriel on a sconce’s7 height And burn in Cupid’s flames—but burn alive.”
Clapped his glad wings, and sat to view the fight: “Restore the Lock!” she cries; and all around
55 Propped on the bodkin spears, the sprites survey “Restore the Lock!” the vaulted roofs rebound.
The growing combat, or assist the fray. 105 Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain
While through the press enraged Thalestris flies, Roared for the handkerchief that caused his pain.1
And scatters death around from both her eyes, But see how oft ambitious aims are crossed,
A beau and witling perished in the throng, And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost!
60 One died in metaphor, and one in song. The lock, obtained with guilt, and kept with pain,
“O cruel nymph! a living death I bear,” 110 In every place is sought, but sought in vain:
Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair. With such a prize no mortal must be blessed,
6. The speech is a close parody of Pope’s own in his version of the Iliad (12.371–96). 8. The Maeander, a river in Asia Minor, was dagger.
translation of the speech of Sarpedon to Glau- 7. A sconce is a candlestick fastened on the wall. famous in mythology for its swans. 1. Othello 3.4.
cus, first published in 1709 and slightly revised 9. Here, an ornamental hairpin shaped like a
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So Heaven decrees! with Heaven who can contest? He strives to join his fellows of the field;
Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere, 160 Till long-contending nature droops at last,
Since all things lost on earth are treasured there. Declining health rejects his poor repast,
115 There heroes’ wits are kept in ponderous vases, His cheerless spouse the coming danger sees,
And beaux’ in snuffboxes and tweezer cases. And mutual murmurs urge the slow disease.
There broken vows and deathbed alms are found, Yet grant them health, ’tis not for us to tell,
And lovers’ hearts with ends of riband bound, 165 Though the head droops not, that the heart is well;
The courtier’s promises, and sick man’s prayers, Or will you praise that homely, healthy fare,
120 The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, Plenteous and plain, that happy peasants share?
Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea, Oh! trifle not with wants you cannot feel,
Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry. Nor mock the misery of a stinted meal,
But trust the Muse— she saw it upward rise, 170 Homely, not wholesome; plain, not plenteous; such
Though marked by none but quick, poetic eyes As you who praise would never deign to touch.
125 (So Rome’s great founder to the heavens withdrew,2 Ye gentle souls, who dream of rural ease,
To Proculus alone confessed in view); Whom the smooth stream and smoother sonnet please;
A sudden star, it shot through liquid air, Go! if the peaceful cot your praises share,
And drew behind a radiant trail of hair. 175 Go, look within, and ask if peace be there:
Not Berenice’s locks first rose so bright,3 If peace be his—that drooping weary sire,
130 The heavens bespangling with disheveled light. Or theirs, that offspring round their feeble fire;
The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies, Or hers, that matron pale, whose trembling hand
And pleased pursue its progress through the skies. Turns on the wretched hearth the expiring brand!
This the beau monde shall from the Mall4 survey,
And hail with music its propitious ray. * * *
135 This the blest lover shall for Venus take, 1780–83 1783
And send up vows from Rosamonda’s Lake.5
This Partridge6 soon shall view in cloudless skies,
When next he looks through Galileo’s eyes;° telescope
And hence the egregious wizard shall foredoom
140 The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome.
Then cease, bright nymph! to mourn thy ravished hair,
Which adds new glory to the shining sphere! JONATHAN SWIFT
Not all the tresses that fair head can boast
Shall draw such envy as the Lock you lost. 1667–1745
145 For, after all the murders of your eye,
When, after millions slain, yourself shall die:
When those fair suns shall set, as set they must,
150
And all those tresses shall be laid in dust,
This Lock the Muse shall consecrate to fame,
And ’midst the stars inscribe Belinda’s name.
J onathan Swift— a posthumous child—was born of English parents in Dublin.
Through the generosity of an uncle he was educated at Kilkenny School and
Trinity College, Dublin, but before he could fix on a career, the troubles that fol-
lowed upon James II’s abdication and subsequent invasion of Ireland drove Swift
1712 1714, 1717
along with other Anglo-Irish to England. Between 1689 and 1699 he was more or
less continuously a member of the household of his kinsman Sir William Temple,
an urbane, civilized man, a retired diplomat, and a friend of King William. Dur-
ing these years Swift read widely, rather reluctantly decided on the church as a
career and so took orders, and discovered his astonishing gifts as a satirist. About
1696–97 he wrote his powerful satires on corruptions in religion and learning, A
2. Romulus, the “founder” and first king of Rome, Park (London), a resort for strollers of all sorts. Tale of a Tub and The Battle of the Books, which were published in 1704 and
was snatched to heaven in a storm cloud while 5. In St. James’s Park; associated with unhappy reached their final form only in the fifth edition of 1710. These were the years in
reviewing his army in the Campus Martius (Livy lovers.
1.16). 6. John Partridge, an astrologer whose annually which he slowly came to maturity. When, at the age of thirty-two, he returned to
3. Berenice, the wife of Ptolemy III, dedicated a published predictions (among them that Louis Ireland as chaplain to the lord justice, the earl of Berkeley, he had a clear sense of
lock of her hair to the gods to ensure her hus- XIV and the Catholic Church would fall) had
band’s safe return from war. It was turned into a been amusingly satirized by Swift and other wits his genius.
constellation. in 1708. For the rest of his life, Swift devoted his talents to politics and religion— not
4. A walk laid out by Charles II in St. James’s clearly separated at the time— and most of his works in prose were written to
J O N AT H A N S W I F T | 2465 2466 | J O N AT H A N S W I F T
further a specific cause. As a clergyman, a spirited controversialist, and a devoted For all his involvement in public affairs, Swift seems to stand apart from his con-
supporter of the Anglican Church, he was hostile to all who seemed to threaten temporaries— a striking figure among the statesmen of the time, a writer who tow-
it: Deists, freethinkers, Roman Catholics, Nonconformists, or merely Whig politi- ered above others by reason of his imagination, mordant wit, and emotional intensity.
cians. In 1710 he abandoned the Whigs, because he opposed their indifference to He has been called a misanthrope, a hater of humanity, and Gulliver’s Travels has
the welfare of the Anglican Church in Ireland and their desire to repeal the Test been considered an expression of savage misanthropy. It is true that Swift pro-
Act, which required all holders of offices of state to take the Sacrament according claimed himself a misanthrope in a letter to Pope, declaring that, though he loved
to the Anglican rites, thus excluding Roman Catholics and Dissenters. Welcomed individuals, he hated “that animal called man” in general and offering a new defini-
by the Tories, he became the most brilliant political journalist of the day, serving tion of the species not as animal rationale (“a rational animal”) but as merely animal
the government of Oxford and Bolingbroke as editor of the party organ, the rationis capax (“an animal capable of reason”). This, he declared, is the “great foun-
Examiner, and as author of its most powerful articles as well as writing longer dation” on which his “misanthropy” was erected. Swift was stating not his hatred of
pamphlets in support of important policies, such as that favoring the Peace of his fellow creatures but his antagonism to the current optimistic view that human
Utrecht (1713). He was greatly valued by the two ministers, who admitted him to nature is essentially good. To the “philanthropic” flattery that sentimentalism and
social intimacy, although never to their counsels. The reward of his ser vices was Deistic rationalism were paying to human nature, Swift opposed a more ancient
not the English bishopric that he had a right to expect, but the deanship of St. view: that human nature is deeply and permanently flawed and that we can do noth-
Patrick’s Cathedral in Dublin, which came to him in 1713, a year before the death ing with or for the human race until we recognize its moral and intellectual limita-
of Queen Anne and the fall of the Tories put an end to all his hopes of preferment tions. In his epitaph he spoke of the “fierce indignation” that had torn his heart, an
in England. indignation that found superb expression in his greatest satires. It was provoked by
In Ireland, where he lived unwillingly, he became not only an efficient ecclesiasti- the constant spectacle of creatures capable of reason, and therefore of reasonable
cal administrator but also, in 1724, the leader of Irish resistance to English oppres- conduct, steadfastly refusing to live up to their capabilities.
sion. Under the pseudonym “M. B. Drapier,” he published the famous series of Swift is a master of prose. He defined a good style as “proper words in proper
public letters that aroused the country to refuse to accept £100,000 in new copper places,” a more complex and difficult saying than at first appears. Clear, simple, con-
coins (minted in England by William Wood, who had obtained his patent through crete diction; uncomplicated syntax; and economy and conciseness of language mark
court corruption), which, it was feared, would further debase the coinage of the all his writings. His is a style that shuns ornaments and singularity of all kinds, a style
already poverty-stricken kingdom. Although his authorship of the letters was known that grows more tense and controlled the more fierce the indignation that it is called
to all Dublin, no one could be found to earn the £300 offered by the government for on to express. The virtues of his prose are those of his poetry, which shocks us with
information as to the identity of the drapier. Swift is still venerated in Ireland as a its hard look at the facts of life and the body. It is unpoetic poetry, devoid of, indeed
national hero. He earned the right to refer to himself in the epitaph that he wrote for as often as not mocking at, inspiration, romantic love, cosmetic beauty, easily assumed
his tomb as a vigorous defender of liberty. literary attitudes, and conventional poetic language. Like the prose, it is predomi-
His last years were less happy. Swift had suffered most of his adult life from what nantly satiric in purpose, but not without its moments of comedy and lighthearted-
we now recognize as Ménière’s disease, which affects the inner ear, causing dizzi- ness, though most often written less to divert than to agitate the reader.
ness, nausea, and deafness. After 1739, when he was seventy-two years old, his
infirmities cut him off from his duties as dean, and from then on his social life
dwindled. In 1742 guardians were appointed to administer his affairs, and his last
three years were spent in gloom and lethargy. But this dark ending should not put A Description of a City Shower
his earlier life, so full of energy and humor, into a shadow. The writer of the satires
was a man in full control of great intellectual powers.
Careful observers may foretell the hour
He also had a gift for friendship. Swift was admired and loved by many of the
distinguished men of his time. His friendships with Joseph Addison, Alexander
(By sure prognostics) when to dread a shower:
Pope, John Arbuthnot, John Gay, Matthew Prior, Lord Oxford, and Lord Boling- While rain depends,1 the pensive cat gives o’er
broke, not to mention those in his less brilliant but amiable Irish circle, bear witness Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more.
to his moral integrity and social charm. Nor was he, despite some of his writings, 5 Returning home at night, you’ll find the sink° sewer
indifferent to women. Esther Johnson (Swift’s “Stella”) was the daughter of Temple’s Strike your offended sense with double stink.
steward, and when Swift first knew her, she was little more than a child. He edu- If you be wise, then go not far to dine;
cated her, formed her character, and came to love her as he was to love no other You’ll spend in coach hire more than save in wine.
person. After Temple’s death she moved to Dublin, where she and Swift met con- A coming shower your shooting corns presage,
stantly, but never alone. While working with the Tories in London, he wrote letters 10 Old achés throb, your hollow tooth will rage.
to her, later published as The Journal to Stella (1766), and they exchanged poems as Sauntering in coffeehouse is Dulman seen;
well. Whether they were secretly married or never married— and in either case He damns the climate and complains of spleen.2
why—has been often debated. A marriage of any sort seems most unlikely; and how- Meanwhile the South, rising with dabbled wings,
ever perplexing their relationship was to others, it seems to have satisfied them. Not A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings,
even the violent passion that Swift awakened, no doubt unwittingly, in the much 15 That swilled more liquor than it could contain,
younger woman Hester Vanhomrigh (pronounced Van-úm-mery)—with her plead-
ings and reproaches and early death— could unsettle his devotion to Stella. An enig- 1. Impends, is imminent. An example of elevated spleen”) was often attributed to the rainy climate.
matic account of his relations with “Vanessa,” as he called Vanhomrigh, is given in diction used frequently throughout the poem. “Dulman”: a type name (from “dull man”), like
his poem “Cadenus and Vanessa.” 2. The English tendency to melancholy (“the Congreve’s “Petulant” or “Witwoud.”
A MODEST PROPOSAL | 2633 2634 | J O N AT H A N S W I F T
the desire I have to make the society of an English Yahoo by any means not solar year, with little other nourishment; at most not above the value of two
insupportable; and therefore I here entreat those who have any tincture of shillings, which the mother may certainly get, or the value in scraps, by her
this absurd vice, that they will not presume to appear in my sight. lawful occupation of begging; and it is exactly at one year old that I propose
to provide for them in such a manner as instead of being a charge upon their
1726, 1735
parents or the parish, or wanting food and raiment for the rest of their lives,
they shall on the contrary contribute to the feeding, and partly to the cloth-
ing, of many thousands.
There is likewise another great advantage in my scheme, that it will pre-
A Modest Proposal1
vent those voluntary abortions, and that horrid practice of women murder-
ing their bastard children, alas, too frequent among us, sacrificing the poor
for preventing the children of poor people in ireland from being
innocent babes, I doubt, more to avoid the expense than the shame, which
a burden to their parents or country, and for making them
would move tears and pity in the most savage and inhuman breast.
beneficial to the public
The number of souls in this kingdom5 being usually reckoned one million
It is a melancholy object to those who walk through this great town2 or travel and a half, of these I calculate there may be about two hundred thousand
in the country, when they see the streets, the roads, and cabin doors, crowded couple whose wives are breeders; from which number I subtract thirty thou-
with beggars of the female sex, followed by three, four, or six children, all in sand couples who are able to maintain their own children, although I appre-
rags and importuning every passenger for an alms. These mothers, instead of hend there cannot be so many under the present distresses of the kingdom;
being able to work for their honest livelihood, are forced to employ all their but this being granted, there will remain an hundred and seventy thousand
time in strolling to beg sustenance for their helpless infants, who, as they breeders. I again subtract fifty thousand for those women who miscarry, or
grow up, either turn thieves for want of work, or leave their dear native coun- whose children die by accident or disease within the year. There only remain
try to fight for the Pretender in Spain, or sell themselves to the Barbadoes.3 an hundred and twenty thousand children of poor parents annually born.
I think it is agreed by all parties that this prodigious number of children The question therefore is, how this number shall be reared and provided for,
in the arms, or on the backs, or at the heels of their mothers, and frequently which, as I have already said, under the present situation of affairs, is utterly
of their fathers, is in the present deplorable state of the kingdom a very great impossible by all the methods hitherto proposed. For we can neither employ
additional grievance; and therefore whoever could find out a fair, cheap, and them in handicraft or agriculture; we neither build houses (I mean in the
easy method of making these children sound, useful members of the com- country) nor cultivate land. They can very seldom pick up a livelihood by steal-
monwealth would deserve so well of the public as to have his statue set up ing till they arrive at six years old, except where they are of towardly parts;6
for a preserver of the nation. although I confess they learn the rudiments much earlier, during which time
But my intention is very far from being confined to provide only for the they can however be looked upon only as probationers, as I have been informed
children of professed beggars; it is of a much greater extent, and shall take in by a principal gentleman in the county of Cavan, who protested to me that he
the whole number of infants at a certain age who are born of parents in effect never knew above one or two instances under the ages of six, even in a part of
as little able to support them as those who demand our charity in the streets. the kingdom so renowned for the quickest proficiency in that art.
As to my own part, having turned my thoughts for many years upon this I am assured by our merchants that a boy or a girl before twelve years old is
important subject, and maturely weighed the several schemes of other pro- no salable commodity; and even when they come to this age they will not yield
jectors,4 I have always found them grossly mistaken in their computation. It above three pounds, or three pounds and half a crown at most on the
is true, a child just dropped from its dam may be supported by her milk for a Exchange; which cannot turn to account either to the parents or the kingdom,
the charge of nutriment and rags having been at least four times that value.
1. “A Modest Proposal” is an example of Swift’s in Swift’s most controlled style his revulsion at I shall now therefore humbly propose my own thoughts, which I hope
favorite satiric devices used with superb effect. the contemporary state of Ireland and his indig- will not be liable to the least objection.
Irony (from the deceptive adjective modest in the nation at the rapacious English absentee land-
title to the very last sentence) pervades the piece. lords, who were bleeding the country white with I have been assured by a very knowing American of my acquaintance in
A rigorous logic deduces ghastly arguments from the silent approbation of Parliament, ministers, London, that a young healthy child well nursed is at a year old a most deli-
a premise so quietly assumed that readers assent and the crown.
before they are aware of what that assent implies. 2. Dublin. cious, nourishing, and wholesome food, whether stewed, roasted, baked, or
Parody, at which Swift is adept, allows him to 3. James Francis Edward Stuart (1688–1766), the boiled; and I make no doubt that it will equally serve in a fricassee or a ragout.7
glance sardonically at the by then familiar figure son of James II, was claimant (“Pretender”) to the
of the benevolent humanitarian (forerunner of throne of England from which the Glorious Revo- I do therefore humbly offer it to public consideration that of the hundred
the modern sociologist, social worker, and eco- lution had barred his succession. Catholic Ireland
nomic planner) concerned to correct a social evil was loyal to him, and Irishmen joined him in his
and twenty thousand children, already computed, twenty thousand may be
by means of a theoretically conceived plan. The exile on the Continent. Because of the poverty in reserved for breed, whereof only one fourth part to be males, which is more
proposer, as naive as he is apparently logical and Ireland, many Irishmen emigrated to the West
kindly, ignores and therefore emphasizes for the Indies and other British colonies in America; they
than we allow to sheep, black cattle, or swine; and my reason is that these
reader the enormity of his plan. The whole is an paid their passage by binding themselves to work
elaboration of a rather trite metaphor: “The for a stated period for one of the planters.
English are devouring the Irish.” But there is 4. Devisers of schemes. 5. Ireland. 7. A highly seasoned meat stew.
nothing trite about the pamphlet, which expresses 6. Promising abilities.
children are seldom the fruits of marriage, a circumstance not much regarded relations. But with due deference to so excellent a friend and so deserving
by our savages, therefore one male will be sufficient to serve four females. a patriot, I cannot be altogether in his sentiments; for as to the males, my
That the remaining hundred thousand may at a year old be offered in sale to American acquaintance assured me from frequent experience that their
the persons of quality and fortune through the kingdom, always advising the flesh was generally tough and lean, like that of our schoolboys, by continual
mother to let them suck plentifully in the last month, so as to render them exercise, and their taste disagreeable; and to fatten them would not answer
plump and fat for a good table. A child will make two dishes at an entertain- the charge. Then as to the females, it would, I think with humble submis-
ment for friends; and when the family dines alone, the fore or hind quarter sion, be a loss to the public, because they soon would become breeders
will make a reasonable dish, and seasoned with a little pepper or salt will be themselves; and besides, it is not improbable that some scrupulous people
very good boiled on the fourth day, especially in winter. might be apt to censure such a practice (although indeed very unjustly) as a
I have reckoned upon a medium that a child just born will weigh twelve little bordering upon cruelty; which I confess, hath always been with me the
pounds, and in a solar year if tolerably nursed increaseth to twenty-eight strongest objection against any project, how well soever intended.
pounds. But in order to justify my friend, he confessed that this expedient was put
I grant this food will be somewhat dear, and therefore very proper for into his head by the famous Psalmanazar,2 a native of the island Formosa,
landlords, who, as they have already devoured most of the parents, seem to who came from thence to London above twenty years ago, and in conversa-
have the best title to the children. tion told my friend that in his country when any young person happened to
Infant’s flesh will be in season throughout the year, but more plentiful in be put to death, the executioner sold the carcass to persons of quality as a
March, and a little before and after. For we are told by a grave author, an prime dainty; and that in his time the body of a plump girl of fifteen, who
eminent French physician,8 that fish being a prolific diet, there are more was crucified for an attempt to poison the emperor, was sold to his Imperial
children born in Roman Catholic countries about nine months after Lent Majesty’s prime minister of state, and other great mandarins of the court,
than at any other season; therefore, reckoning a year after Lent, the mar- in joints from the gibbet, at four hundred crowns. Neither indeed can I
kets will be more glutted than usual, because the number of popish infants deny that if the same use were made of several plump young girls in this
is at least three to one in this kingdom; and therefore it will have one other town, who without one single groat to their fortunes cannot stir abroad
collateral advantage, by lessening the number of Papists among us. without a chair, and appear at the playhouse and assemblies in foreign fin-
I have already computed the charge of nursing a beggar’s child (in which eries which they never will pay for, the kingdom would not be the worse.
list I reckon all cottagers, laborers, and four fifths of the farmers) to be Some persons of a desponding spirit are in great concern about that vast
about two shillings per annum, rags included; and I believe no gentleman number of poor people who are aged, diseased, or maimed, and I have been
would repine to give ten shillings for the carcass of a good fat child, which, desired to employ my thoughts what course may be taken to ease the nation
as I have said, will make four dishes of excellent nutritive meat, when he of so grievous an encumbrance. But I am not in the least pain upon that
hath only some par ticular friend or his own family to dine with him. Thus matter, because it is very well known that they are every day dying and rot-
the squire will learn to be a good landlord, and grow popular among the ting by cold and famine, and filth and vermin, as fast as can be reasonably
tenants; the mother will have eight shillings net profit, and be fit for the expected. And as to the younger laborers, they are now in almost as hopeful
work till she produces another child. a condition. They cannot get work, and consequently pine away for want of
Those who are more thrifty (as I must confess the times require) may flay nourishment to a degree that if at any time they are accidentally hired to
the carcass; the skin of which artificially 9 dressed will make admirable common labor, they have not strength to perform it; and thus the country
gloves for ladies, and summer boots for fine gentlemen. and themselves are happily delivered from the evils to come.
As to our city of Dublin, shambles1 may be appointed for this purpose in I have too long digressed, and therefore shall return to my subject. I
the most convenient parts of it, and butchers we may be assured will not be think the advantages by the proposal which I have made are obvious and
wanting; although I rather recommend buying the children alive, and dress- many, as well as of the highest importance.
ing them hot from the knife as we do roasting pigs. For first, as I have already observed, it would greatly lessen the number of
A very worthy person, a true lover of his country, and whose virtues I Papists, with whom we are yearly overrun, being the principal breeders of
highly esteem, was lately pleased in discoursing on this matter to offer a the nation as well as our most dangerous enemies; and who stay at home on
refinement upon my scheme. He said that many gentlemen of this kingdom, purpose to deliver the kingdom to the Pretender, hoping to take their
having of late destroyed their deer, he conceived that the want of venison advantage by the absence of so many good Protestants, who have chosen
might be well supplied by the bodies of young lads and maidens, not exceed- rather to leave their country than stay at home and pay tithes against their
ing fourteen years of age nor under twelve, so great a number of both sexes conscience to an Episcopal curate.3
in every county being now ready to starve for want of work and ser vice; and
these to be disposed of by their parents, if alive, or otherwise by their nearest 2. George Psalmanazar (ca. 1679–1763), a human sacrifices and cannibalism.
famous impostor. A Frenchman, he imposed him- 3. Ireland had many Protestant sectarians who
self on English bishops, noblemen, and scientists did not support the “Episcopal” (Anglican)
8. François Rabelais (ca. 1494–1553), a humor- 9. Skillfully. as a Formosan. He wrote an entirely fictitious Church of Ireland.
ist and satirist, by no means grave. 1. Slaughterhouses. account of Formosa, in which he described
Secondly, the poorer tenants will have something valuable of their own, that I calculate my remedy for this one individual kingdom of Ireland and
which by law may be made liable to distress,4 and help to pay their landlord’s for no other that ever was, is, or I think ever can be upon earth. Therefore let
rent, their corn and cattle being already seized and money a thing unknown. no man talk to me of other expedients: of taxing our absentees at five shil-
Thirdly, whereas the maintenance of an hundred thousand children, from lings a pound: of using neither clothes nor household furniture except what
two years old and upwards, cannot be computed at less than ten shillings a is of our own growth and manufacture: of utterly rejecting the materials and
piece per annum, the nation’s stock will be thereby increased fifty thousand instruments that promote foreign luxury: of curing the expensiveness of
pounds per annum, besides the profit of a new dish introduced to the tables pride, vanity, idleness, and gaming in our women: of introducing a vein of
of all gentlemen of fortune in the kingdom who have any refinement in taste. parsimony, prudence, and temperance: of learning to love our country, in
And the money will circulate among ourselves, the goods being entirely of the want of which we differ even from Laplanders and the inhabitants of
our own growth and manufacture. Topinamboo:6 of quitting our animosities and factions, nor acting any longer
Fourthly, the constant breeders, besides the gain of eight shillings sterling like the Jews, who were murdering one another at the very moment their city
per annum by the sale of their children, will be rid of the charge of maintain- was taken:7 of being a little cautious not to sell our country and conscience
ing them after the first year. for nothing: of teaching landlords to have at least one degree of mercy
Fifthly, this food would likewise bring great custom to taverns, where the toward their tenants: lastly, of putting a spirit of honesty, industry, and skill
vintners will certainly be so prudent as to procure the best receipts5 for into our shopkeepers; who, if a resolution could now be taken to buy only
dressing it to perfection, and consequently have their houses frequented by our native goods, would immediately unite to cheat and exact upon us in the
all the fine gentlemen, who justly value themselves upon their knowledge in price, the measure, and the goodness, nor could ever yet be brought to make
good eating; and a skillful cook, who understands how to oblige his guests, one fair proposal of just dealing, though often and earnestly invited to it.8
will contrive to make it as expensive as they please. Therefore I repeat, let no man talk to me of these and the like expedi-
Sixthly, this would be a great inducement to marriage, which all wise ents, till he hath at least some glimpse of hope that there will ever be some
nations have either encouraged by rewards or enforced by laws and penal- hearty and sincere attempt to put them in practice.
ties. It would increase the care and tenderness of mothers toward their chil- But as to myself, having been wearied out for many years with offering
dren, when they were sure of a settlement for life to the poor babes, provided vain, idle, visionary thoughts, and at length utterly despairing of success, I
in some sort by the public, to their annual profit instead of expense. We fortunately fell upon this proposal, which, as it is wholly new, so it hath
should see an honest emulation among the married women, which of them something solid and real, of no expense and little trouble, full in our own
could bring the fattest child to the market. Men would become as fond of power, and whereby we can incur no danger in disobliging England. For this
their wives during the time of their pregnancy as they are now of their mares kind of commodity will not bear exportation, the flesh being of too tender a
in foal, their cows in calf, or sows when they are ready to farrow; nor offer to consistence to admit a long continuance in salt, although perhaps I could
beat or kick them (as is too frequent a practice) for fear of a miscarriage. name a country which would be glad to eat up our whole nation without it.9
Many other advantages might be enumerated. For instance, the addition After all, I am not so violently bent upon my own opinion as to reject any
of some thousand carcasses in our exportation of barreled beef, the propa- offer proposed by wise men, which shall be found equally innocent, cheap,
gation of swine’s flesh, and improvement in the art of making good bacon, easy, and effectual. But before something of that kind shall be advanced in
so much wanted among us by the great destruction of pigs, too frequent at contradiction to my scheme, and offering a better, I desire the author or
our tables, which are no way comparable in taste or magnificence to a well- authors will be pleased maturely to consider two points. First, as things now
grown, fat, yearling child, which roasted whole will make a considerable stand, how they will be able to find food and raiment for an hundred thou-
figure at a lord mayor’s feast or any other public entertainment. But this sand useless mouths and backs. And secondly, there being a round million of
and many others I omit, being studious of brevity. creatures in human figure throughout this kingdom, whose sole subsistence
Supposing that one thousand families in this city would be constant cus- put into a common stock would leave them in debt two millions of pounds
tomers for infants’ flesh, besides others who might have it at merry meet- sterling, adding those who are beggars by profession to the bulk of farmers,
ings, particularly weddings and christenings, I compute that Dublin would cottagers, and laborers, with their wives and children who are beggars in
take off annually about twenty thousand carcasses, and the rest of the effect; I desire those politicians who dislike my overture, and may perhaps be
kingdom (where probably they will be sold somewhat cheaper) the remain- so bold to attempt an answer, that they will first ask the parents of these mor-
ing eighty thousand. tals whether they would not at this day think it a great happiness to have been
I can think of no one objection that will probably be raised against this sold for food at a year old in the manner I prescribe, and thereby have avoided
proposal, unless it should be urged that the number of people will be thereby
much lessened in the kingdom. This I freely own, and it was indeed one
6. I.e., even Laplanders love their frozen, infertile fanatical factions among the defenders.
principal design in offering it to the world. I desire the reader will observe, country and the savage tribes of Brazil love their 8. Swift himself had made all these proposals in
jungle more than the Anglo-Irish love Ireland. various pamphlets. In editions printed during his
7. During the siege of Jerusalem by the Roman lifetime the various proposals were italicized to
4. Distraint, i.e., the seizing, through legal action, obligations. “Corn”: grain. Titus (later emperor), who captured and destroyed indicate Swift’s support for them.
of property for the payment of debts and other 5. Recipes. the city in 70 c.e., bloody fights broke out between 9. England.
JOSEPH ADDISON AND SIR RICHARD STEELE | 2639 2420 | MARY ASTELL
such a perpetual sense of misfortunes as they have since gone through by the In shoals, I’ve marked ’em judging in the pit;
oppression of landlords, the impossibility of paying rent without money or Though they’re on no pretence for judgment fit,
trade, the want of common sustenance, with neither house nor clothes to But that they have been damned for want of wit.
cover them from the inclemencies of the weather, and the most inevitable Since when, they by their own offenses taught
prospect of entailing the like or greater miseries upon their breed forever. 15 Set up for spies on plays, and finding fault.
I profess, in the sincerity of my heart, that I have not the least personal Others there are whose malice we’d prevent;
interest in endeavoring to promote this necessary work, having no other Such, who watch plays, with scurrilous intent
motive than the public good of my country, by advancing our trade, provid- To mark out who by characters are meant.
ing for infants, relieving the poor, and giving some pleasure to the rich. I And though no perfect likeness they can trace,
have no children by which I can propose to get a single penny; the youngest 20 Yet each pretends to know the copied face.
These, with false glosses feed their own ill-nature,
being nine years old, and my wife past childbearing.
And turn to libel, what was meant a satire.5
1729 May such malicious fops this fortune find,
To think themselves alone the fools designed:
25 If any are so arrogantly vain,
To think they singly can support a scene,
And furnish fool enough to entertain.
For well the learn’d and the judicious know,
That satire scorns to stoop so meanly low,
JOSEPH ADDISON and SIR RICHARD STEELE 30 As any one abstracted° fop to show. separated
1672–1719 1672–1729 For, as when painters form a matchless face,
They from each fair one catch some different grace,
And shining features in one portrait blend,
To which no single beauty must pretend:
So poets oft do in one piece expose
T
35
he friendship of Joseph Addison and Richard Steele began when they were
Whole belles assemblées of coquettes and beaux.
schoolboys together in London. Their careers ran parallel courses and brought
them for a while into fruitful collaboration. Addison, although charming when 1700
among friends, was by nature reserved, calculating, and prudent. Steele was impul-
sive and rakish when young (but ardently devoted to his beautiful wife), often 5. Pronounce na-ter and sa-ter.
imprudent, and frequently in want of money. Addison never stumbled in his prog-
ress to financial security, a late marriage to a widowed countess, and a successful
political career; walking less surely, Steele experienced many vicissitudes and faced
serious financial problems during his last years.
Both men attended Oxford, where Addison took his degree, won a fellowship, and
gained a reputation for Latin verse; the less scholarly Steele left the university before
earning a degree to take a commission in the army. For a while he cut a dashing MARY ASTELL
figure in London, even, to his horror, seriously wounding a man in a duel. Both men 1666–1731
enjoyed the patronage of the great Whig magnates; and except during the last four
years of Queen Anne’s reign, when the Tories were in the ascendancy, they were
generously treated. Steele edited and wrote the London Gazette, an official newspa-
per that normally appeared twice a week, listing government appointments and
reporting domestic and foreign news—much like a modern paper. He served in Par-
liament, was knighted by George I, and later became manager of the Theatre Royal,
Drury Lane. Addison held more important positions: he was secretary to the lord
D aughter of a Newcastle merchant, Mary Astell was encouraged and educated by
her uncle, a clergyman. She never forgot what he taught her: a confidence in
her own reason and a religious faith entirely compatible with reason. In her twenties
lieutenant of Ireland and later an undersecretary of state; finally, toward the end she moved to Chelsea, on the outskirts of London, where she spent the rest of her
of his life, he became secretary of state. Both men wrote plays: Addison’s Cato, a life. There she championed the causes of women and the Church of England, and
frigid and very “correct” tragedy, had great success in 1713, and Steele’s later plays at her vigorous way of arguing (not only in print but in person) won her many admirers,
Drury Lane (especially The Conscious Lovers, 1722) were instrumental in establish- both male and female. Her political and religious polemics also put her at odds with
ing the popularity of sentimental comedy throughout the eighteenth century. many important writers, including John Locke and Daniel Defoe (for her response to
Steele’s debts and Addison’s loss of office in 1710 drove them to journalistic enter- Lockean arguments for political liberty, see p. 3019). One of her best-known works,
prises, through which they developed one of the most characteristic types of A Serious Proposal to the Ladies (1694), was, like the rest of her writings, published
eighteenth-century literature, the periodical essay. Steele’s experience as gazetteer anonymously (“by a Lover of her Sex”). It advocates the founding of a monastic
had involved him in journalism and, in need of money, in 1709 he launched the school or retreat for women, where a rigorous, wide-ranging education could be
SOME REFLECTIONS UPON M ARRIAGE | 2421 2422 | MARY ASTELL
combined with moral and religious discipline. Though the idea was never carried rarity, and partly in regard of its extravagancy, and what does his marrying
out, it had a broad influence on later plans for educating women as well as on litera- for love amount to? There’s no great odds between his marrying for the love
ture. At the end of Johnson’s Rasselas, both Pekuah’s dream of leading a religious of money, or for the love of beauty; the man does not act according to reason
order and Nekayah’s desire to found a college of learned women owe something to in either case, but is governed by irregular appetites. But he loves her wit
Astell. perhaps, and this, you’ll say, is more spiritual, more refined: not at all, if you
To question the customs and laws of marriage is to question society itself, its dis-
examine it to the bottom. For what is that which nowadays passes under the
tribution of money and power and love. During the eighteenth century many of the
terms of marriage were renegotiated. The older view of the wife as a chattel, bound name of wit? A bitter and ill-natured raillery, a pert repartee, or a confident
by contract to a husband whom others had chosen for her and whom she was sworn talking at all; and in such a multitude of words, it’s odds if something or other
to obey, was hotly debated and challenged. The witty arguments of Congreve’s The does not pass that is surprising, though every thing that surprises does not
Way of the World (1700) reflect this growing debate between the sexes. Another work please; some things are wondered at for their ugliness, as well as others for
published in the same year, Some Reflections upon Marriage, takes a more indepen- their beauty. True wit, durst one venture to describe it, is quite another thing;
dent position. Marriage, according to Astell, is all too often a trap. She insists that it consists in such a sprightliness of imagination, such a reach and turn of
a woman should be guided by reason, not only in choosing a mate but in choosing thought, so properly expressed, as strikes and pleases a judicious taste.4
whether or not to marry at all (Astell herself never married). So long as the institu-
tion of marriage perpetuates inequality rather than a true partnership of minds, * * *
women had better beware of flattery and look to themselves or to God, not to men,
Thus, whether it be wit or beauty that a man’s in love with, there’s no
for the hope of a better life. The debate on marriage continued throughout the cen-
tury in works such as Defoe’s Roxana, Hogarth’s Marriage A-la-Mode, the novels of
great hopes of a lasting happiness; beauty, with all the helps of art, is of no
Samuel Richardson, Rasselas, and eventually the writings of Mary Wollstonecraft very lasting date; the more it is helped, the sooner it decays; and he, who
and William Godwin. It still continues today. In her sharp, lively style and the perti- only or chiefly chose for beauty, will in a little time find the same reason for
nent questions she raised, Astell has come to be seen as ahead of her time. another choice. Nor is that sort of wit which he prefers, of a more sure ten-
ure; or allowing it to last, it will not always please. For that which has not a
real excellency and value in itself entertains no longer than that giddy
humor which recommended it to us holds; and when we can like on no just,
From Some Reflections upon Marriage1 or on very little ground, ’tis certain a dislike will arise, as lightly and as
unaccountably. And it is not improbable that such a husband may in a little
If marriage be such a blessed state, how comes it, may you say, that there time, by ill usage, provoke such a wife to exercise her wit, that is, her spleen5
are so few happy marriages? Now in answer to this, it is not to be wondered on him, and then it is not hard to guess how very agreeable it will be to him.
that so few succeed; we should rather be surprised to find so many do, con-
sidering how imprudently men engage, the motives they act by, and the very * * *
strange conduct they observe throughout. But do the women never choose amiss? Are the men only in fault? That is
For pray, what do men propose to themselves in marriage? What qualifica- not pretended; for he who will be just must be forced to acknowledge that
tions do they look after in a spouse? What will she bring? is the first enquiry: neither sex is always in the right. A woman, indeed, can’t properly be said to
How many acres? Or how much ready coin? Not that this is altogether an choose; all that is allowed her, is to refuse or accept what is offered. And
unnecessary question, for marriage without a competency,2 that is, not only a when we have made such reasonable allowances as are due to the sex, per-
bare subsistence, but even a handsome and plentiful provision, according to haps they may not appear so much in fault as one would at first imagine,
the quality3 and circumstances of the parties, is no very comfortable condi- and a generous spirit will find more occasion to pity than to reprove. But
tion. They who marry for love, as they call it, find time enough to repent their sure I transgress—it must not be supposed that the ladies can do amiss! He
rash folly, and are not long in being convinced, that whatever fine speeches is but an ill-bred fellow who pretends that they need amendment! They
might be made in the heat of passion, there could be no real kindness between are, no doubt on’t, always in the right, and most of all when they take pity
those who can agree to make each other miserable. But as an estate is to be on distressed lovers; whatever they say carries an authority that no reason can
considered, so it should not be the main, much less the only consideration; resist, and all that they do must needs be exemplary! This is the modish lan-
for happiness does not depend on wealth. guage, nor is there a man of honor amongst the whole tribe that would not
venture his life, nay and his salvation too, in their defense, if any but himself
* * * attempts to injure them. But I must ask pardon if I can’t come up to these
But suppose a man does not marry for money, though for one that does heights, nor flatter them with the having no faults, which is only a malicious
not, perhaps there are thousands that do; suppose he marries for love, an way of continuing and increasing their mistakes.
heroic action, which makes a mighty noise in the world, partly because of its
1. The text is from the first edition. 3. Social position. 4. Cf. Pope’s An Essay on Criticism 2.297–304 (p. 2675).
2. Sufficient income. 5. Bad temper.
SOME REFLECTIONS UPON M ARRIAGE | 2423 2424 | DANIEL DEFOE
* * * * * *
But, alas! what poor woman is ever taught that she should have a higher Again, it may be said, if a wife’s case be as it is here represented, it is not
design than to get her a husband? Heaven will fall in of course; and if she good for a woman to marry, and so there’s an end of human race. But this is
make but an obedient and dutiful wife, she cannot miss of it. A husband no fair consequence, for all that can justly be inferred from hence is that a
indeed is thought by both sexes so very valuable, that scarce a man who can woman has no mighty obligations to the man who makes love to her; she has
keep himself clean and make a bow, but thinks he is good enough to pre- no reason to be fond of being a wife, or to reckon it a piece of preferment
tend6 to any woman; no matter for the difference of birth or fortune, a hus- when she is taken to be a man’s upper-servant;8 it is no advantage to her in
band is such a wonder-working name as to make an equality, or something this world; if rightly managed it may prove one as to the next. For she who
more, whenever it is pronounced. marries purely to do good, to educate souls for heaven, who can be so truly
mortified as to lay aside her own will and desires, to pay such an entire sub-
* * * mission for life, to one whom she cannot be sure will always deserve it, does
To wind up this matter: if a woman were duly principled and taught to certainly perform a more heroic action than all the famous masculine heroes
know the world, especially the true sentiments that men have of her, and can boast of; she suffers a continual martyrdom to bring glory to God, and
the traps they lay for her under so many gilded compliments, and such a benefit to mankind; which consideration indeed may carry her through all
seemingly great respect, that disgrace would be prevented which is brought difficulties, I know not what else can, and engage her to love him who proves
upon too many families; women would marry more discreetly, and demean7 perhaps so much worse than a brute, as to make this condition yet more
themselves better in a married state than some people say they do. grievous than it needed to be. She has need of a strong reason, of a truly
Christian and well-tempered spirit, of all the assistance the best education
* * * can give her, and ought to have some good assurance of her own firmness
But some sage persons may perhaps object, that were women allowed to and virtue, who ventures on such a trial; and for this reason ’tis less to be
improve themselves, and not, amongst other discouragements, driven back wondered at that women marry off in haste, for perhaps if they took time to
by the wise jests and scoffs that are put upon a woman of sense or learning, consider and reflect upon it, they seldom would.
a philosophical lady, as she is called by way of ridicule, they would be too
1700
wise, and too good for the men. I grant it, for vicious and foolish men. Nor is
it to be wondered that he is afraid he should not be able to govern them were 8. High-ranking servant. “Preferment”: advancement in rank.
their understandings improved, who is resolved not to take too much pains
with his own. But these, ’tis to be hoped, are no very considerable number,
the foolish at least; and therefore this is so far from being an argument
against their improvement, that it is a strong one for it, if we do but suppose
the men to be as capable of improvement as the women; but much more if,
according to tradition, we believe they have greater capacities. This, if any-
thing, would stir them up to be what they ought, not permit them to waste
DANIEL DEFOE
their time and abuse their faculties in the ser vice of their irregular appetites ca. 1660– 1731
and unreasonable desires, and so let poor contemptible women, who have
been their slaves, excel them in all that is truly excellent. This would make
them blush at employing an immortal mind no better than in making provi-
sion for the flesh to fulfill the lusts thereof, since women, by a wiser conduct,
have brought themselves to such a reach of thought, to such exactness of
judgment, such clearness and strength of reasoning, such purity and eleva-
B y birth, education, and occupations Daniel Defoe was a stranger to the sphere
of refined tastes and classical learning that dominated polite literature during
his lifetime. Middle class in his birth, Presbyterian in his religion, he belonged
tion of mind, such command of their passions, such regularity of will and among the hardy Nonconformist tradesfolk who, after the Restoration, slowly
affection, and, in a word, to such a pitch of perfection as the human soul increased their wealth and toward the end of the seventeenth century began to
is capable of attaining even in this life by the grace of God; such true wis- achieve political importance.
He began adult life as a small merchant and for a while prospered, but he was not
dom, such real greatness, as though it does not qualify them to make a
overscrupulous in his dealings, and in 1692 he found himself bankrupt, with debts
noise in this world, to found or overturn empires, yet it qualifies them for amounting to £17,000. This was the first of his many financial crises, crises that
what is infinitely better, a Kingdom that cannot be moved, an incorrupt- drove him to make his way, like his own heroes and heroines, by whatever means
ible crown of glory. presented themselves. And however double his dealings, he seems always to have
found the way to reconcile them with his genuine Nonconformist piety. His restless
mind was fertile in “projects,” both for himself and for the country, and his itch for
6. Aspire or lay claim. 7. Behave. politics made the role of passive observer impossible for him.
3018 | LIBERT Y ASTELL: A PREFACE | 3019
legislative or supreme power of any commonwealth is bound to govern by families. Through the very sarcasm with which she accepts the subjection of wives in
established standing laws, promulgated and known to the people, and not by marriage, she draws close to applying a doctrine of English political liberty to women.
extemporary decrees; by indifferent and upright judges, who are to decide
controversies by those laws; and to employ the force of the community at
home, only in the execution of such laws, or abroad to prevent or redress
foreign injuries, and secure the community from inroads and invasion. And From A Preface, in Answer to Some Objections
all this to be directed to no other end, but the peace, safety, and public good to Reflections upon Marriage
of the people.
1690 * * *
[T]his design, which is unfortunately accused of being so destructive to the
government, of the men I mean, is entirely her own.1 She neither advised
with friends, nor turned over2 ancient or modern authors, nor prudently
submitted to the correction of such as are, or such as think they are good
MARY ASTELL judges, but with an English spirit and genius set out upon the forlorn hope,
meaning no hurt to anybody, nor designing any thing but the public good,
and to retrieve, if possible, the native liberty, the rights and privileges of the
subject.
M ary Astell challenged many orthodoxies, including the ideas that women
should not be educated, that they are intellectually inferior to men, and that
they ought to marry at practically any cost (see Some Reflections upon Marriage, p.
Far be it from her to stir up sedition of any sort, none can abhor it more;
and she heartily wishes that our masters3 would pay their civil and ecclesias-
2421). Yet she was also a vigorous Tory controversialist who defended the doctrine of tical governors the same submission which they themselves exact from their
the divine right of kings, argued that English subjects owe (at least) “passive obedi- domestic subjects. Nor can she imagine how she any way undermines the
ence” to their monarchs, and denounced toleration of Dissenters. Astell devoted masculine empire or blows the trumpet of rebellion to the moiety4 of man-
much of her writing to political controversy: she published three substantial political kind. Is it by exhorting women not to expect to have their own will in any
pamphlets in 1704 alone. Her four-hundred-page magnum opus, The Christian Reli- thing, but to be entirely submissive when once they have made choice of a
gion as Profess’d by a Daughter of the Church of England (1705), explicitly attacks lord and master, though he happen not to be so wise, so kind, or even so just
Locke’s Two Treatises of Government; at various places in her work, she criticizes his a governor as was expected?5 She did not indeed advise them to think his
theological essay The Reasonableness of Christianity (1695); and she even mocks folly wisdom, nor his brutality that love and worship he promised in his mat-
what she sees as the political tendency of his epistemology in his Essay Concerning
rimonial oath, for this required a flight of wit and sense much above her
Human Understanding (1689). Her Tory convictions also color her discussions of
gender relations. In Some Reflections upon Marriage, she consistently draws paral-
poor ability, and proper only to masculine understandings. However she did
lels between a wife’s duty of obedience to her husband and the obedience that sub- not in any manner prompt them to resist or to abdicate the perjured spouse,
jects owe their sovereigns: a woman who marries “elects a monarch for life” and though the laws of God and the land make special provision for it in a case
“gives him an authority she cannot recall however he misapply it.” She devoutly held wherein, as is to be feared, few men can truly plead not guilty.6
her belief in obedience, authority, and hierarchy—it was far more than a mere con-
cession to the status quo— and this stance set her against the Whig theorists who * * *
supported the rights of subjects to disobey unjust power. If mankind had never sinned, reason would always have been obeyed, there
Yet Astell’s involvement in contemporary political debate made certain ironies irre- would have been no struggle for dominion, and brutal power would not
sistible to her. Her most famous work, the “Preface, in Answer to Some Objections” have prevailed. But in the lapsed state of mankind, and now that men will
added to the third edition of Reflections upon Marriage (1706; the word some was
not be guided by their reason but by their appetites, and do not what they
dropped from the title) is filled with the language of freedom, tyranny, rights, and
slavery. In the Preface, she singles out some of Locke’s pronouncements in the chap-
ought but what they can, the reason, or that which stands for it, the will and
ter “Of Slavery” from the Second Treatise of Government for ironic commentary. “If pleasure of the governor, is to be the reason of those who will not be guided
all men are born free, how is it that all women are born slaves?” she asks. Such ques- by their own, and must take place for order’s sake, although it should not be
tions expose the hypocrisy of male advocates of liberty who refuse to extend it to conformable to right reason. Nor can there be any society great or little,
domestic relationships. And perhaps Astell’s ironies do more. While she would never
espouse the right to rebel against unjust authority in a marriage or a monarchy, some
readers find in the Preface an awareness of domestic tyranny too keen to be piously 1. As in earlier editions, Astell does not put her 5. Astell advises in the body of Some Reflections
name on the third edition’s title page, but she upon Marriage that women accept their mar-
constrained, and detect in Astell’s deftly ironic repetition of the formulaic praises of here affirms that she, the author, is a woman riages, no matter how tyrannical their husbands
liberty the seeds of women’s liberation. Much of the Preface catalogs strong, sensible (referring to herself in the third person). are.
women from both the Old and New Testaments to prove that the Bible does not pro- 2. Ransacked. 6. In Astell’s time, both ecclesiastical and civil
3. Men in general, masters of women. law allowed wives the right to petition for legal
claim women’s natural intellectual inferiority. In the paragraphs printed here, Astell 4. Half; here referring to the female half of separation (not divorce) from husbands who were
approaches an outright denunciation of the “arbitrary power” that men exercise in humankind. egregiously, physically cruel to them.
3020 | LIBERT Y ASTELL: A PREFACE | 3021
from empires down to private families, without a last resort to determine the Again, men are possessed of all places of power, trust, and profit; they make
affairs of the society by an irresistible sentence.7 Now unless this supremacy laws and exercise the magistracy. Not only the sharpest sword, but even all
be fixed somewhere, there will be a perpetual contention about it, such is the the swords and blunderbusses are theirs, which by the strongest logic in the
love of dominion; and let the reason of things be what it may, those who have world gives them the best title to everything they please to claim as their pre-
least force or cunning to supply it8 will have the disadvantage. So that since rogative. Who shall contend with them? Immemorial prescription5 is on their
women are acknowledged to have least bodily strength, their being com- side in these parts of the world, ancient tradition and modern usage! Our
manded to obey is in pure kindness to them, and for their quiet and security, fathers have all along both taught and practiced superiority over the weaker
as well as for the exercise of their virtue.9 But does it follow that domestic sex, and consequently women are by nature inferior to men, as was to be
governors have more sense than their subjects, any more than that other demonstrated. An argument which must be acknowledged unanswerable; for
governors have? We do not find any man thinks the worse of his own as well as I love my sex, I will not pretend a reply to such demonstration!
understanding because another has superior power; or concludes himself less Only let me beg to be informed, to whom we poor fatherless maids and
capable of a post of honor and authority because he is not preferred1 to it. widows who have lost their masters owe subjection? It can’t be to all men in
How much time would lie on men’s hands, how empty would the places of general, unless all men were agreed to give the same commands. Do we then
concourse be, and how silent most companies, did men forbear to censure fall as strays to the first who finds us? By the maxims of some men and the
their governors; that is, in effect, to think themselves wiser. Indeed, govern- conduct of some women, one would think so. But whoever he be that thus
ment would be much more desirable than it is did it invest the possessor with happens to become our master, if he allows us to be reasonable creatures
a superior understanding as well as power. And if mere power gives a right to and does not merely compliment us with that title, since no man denies our
rule, there can be no such thing as usurpation; but a highway-man, so long as readiness to use our tongues, it would tend I should think to our master’s
he has strength to force, has also a right to require our obedience. advantage, and therefore he may please to be advised, to teach us to improve
Again, if absolute sovereignty be not necessary in a state, how comes it to our reason. But if reason is only allowed us by way of raillery, and the secret
be so in a family? or if in a family why not in a state; since no reason can be maxim is that we have none, or little more than brutes, ’tis the best way to
alleged for the one that will not hold more strongly for the other? If the confine us with chain and block to the chimney-corner, which probably
authority of the husband, so far as it extends, is sacred and inalienable, why might save the estates of some families and the honor of others.
not of the prince? The domestic sovereign is without dispute elected,2 and I do not propose this to prevent a rebellion, for women are not so well
the stipulations and contracts are mutual. Is it not then partial3 in men to the united as to form an insurrection. They are for the most part wise enough to
last degree to contend for and practice that arbitrary dominion in their fami- love their chains and to discern how very becomingly they set. They think as
lies which they abhor and exclaim against in the state? For if arbitrary power humbly of themselves as their masters can wish with respect to the other sex,
is evil in itself, and an improper method of governing rational and free but in regard to their own they have a spice of masculine ambition: every one
agents, it ought not to be practiced anywhere. Nor is it less but rather more would lead, and none would follow—both sexes being too apt to envy and too
mischievous in families than in kingdoms, by how much 100,000 tyrants are backward in emulating, and take more delight in detracting from their neigh-
worse than one. What though a husband can’t deprive a wife of life without bor’s virtue than in improving their own. And therefore as to those women
being responsible to the law, he may however do what is much more grievous who find themselves born for slavery and are so sensible of their own mean-
to a generous mind, render life miserable, for which she has no redress, ness as to conclude it impossible to attain to anything excellent, since they
scarce pity, which is afforded to every other complainant; it being thought are or ought to be best acquainted with their own strength and genius, she’s
a wife’s duty to suffer everything without complaint. If all men are born free, a fool who would attempt their deliverance or improvement. No, let them
how is it that all women are born slaves? as they must be if the being sub- enjoy the great honor and felicity of their tame, submissive, and depending
jected to the inconstant, uncertain, unknown, arbitrary will of men be the temper! Let the men applaud and let them glory in this wonderful humility!
perfect condition of slavery? and if the essence of freedom consists, as our Let them receive the flatteries and grimaces of the other sex, live unenvied by
masters say it does, in having a standing rule to live by?4 And why is slavery so their own, and be as much beloved as one such woman can afford to love
much condemned and strove against in one case and so highly applauded and another! Let them enjoy the glory of treading in the footsteps of their prede-
held so necessary and so sacred in another? cessors, and of having the prudence to avoid that audacious attempt of soar-
ing beyond their sphere! Let them housewife6 or play, dress, and be pretty
* * * entertaining company! Or, which is better, relieve the poor to ease their own
compassions, read pious books, say their prayers and go to church, because
7. I.e., no society can subsist without vesting 1. Promoted.
power in some ultimate authority that incontro- 2. The wife “elects” her husband when she con-
they have been taught and used to do so, without being able to give a better
vertibly decides contentious questions. sents to marry him. reason for their faith and practice! Let them not by any means aspire at being
8. To occupy the place of supremacy. 3. Unfair, or biased.
9. Here Astell presents the crucial link between 4. The last three italicized phrases quote the first
women of understanding, because no man can endure a woman of superior
her politics and her feminism: women must look and third paragraphs of the chapter “Of Slavery” sense or would treat a reasonable woman civilly, but that he thinks he stands
favorably on absolute sovereignty because politi- (sections 22 and 24) from John Locke’s Second
cal instability threatens them, the weakest mem- Treatise of Government (p. 3015).
bers of society, the most. 5. Title or claim based on long possession. 6. Perform domestic duties.
3022 | LIBERT Y 2424 | DANIEL DEFOE
on higher ground and that she is so wise as to make exceptions in his favor
and to take her measures by his directions. They may pretend to sense indeed * * *
since mere pretences only render one the more ridiculous! Let them in short Again, it may be said, if a wife’s case be as it is here represented, it is not
be what is called very women, for this is most acceptable to all sorts of men; good for a woman to marry, and so there’s an end of human race. But this is
or let them aim at the title of good devout women, since some men can bear no fair consequence, for all that can justly be inferred from hence is that a
with this; but let them not judge of the sex by their own scantling.7 For the woman has no mighty obligations to the man who makes love to her; she has
great Author of nature and fountain of all perfection never designed that the no reason to be fond of being a wife, or to reckon it a piece of preferment
mean and imperfect, but that the most complete and excellent, of his crea- when she is taken to be a man’s upper-servant;8 it is no advantage to her in
tures in every kind should be the standard to the rest. this world; if rightly managed it may prove one as to the next. For she who
marries purely to do good, to educate souls for heaven, who can be so truly
* * * mortified as to lay aside her own will and desires, to pay such an entire sub-
1706 mission for life, to one whom she cannot be sure will always deserve it, does
certainly perform a more heroic action than all the famous masculine heroes
7. Small ability. can boast of; she suffers a continual martyrdom to bring glory to God, and
benefit to mankind; which consideration indeed may carry her through all
difficulties, I know not what else can, and engage her to love him who proves
perhaps so much worse than a brute, as to make this condition yet more
JAMES THOMSON grievous than it needed to be. She has need of a strong reason, of a truly
Christian and well-tempered spirit, of all the assistance the best education
can give her, and ought to have some good assurance of her own firmness
J ames Thomson’s Liberty (1735–36), a poem of some thirty-five hundred lines that
portrays British freedom as the culmination of the progress of European civiliza-
tion, is now no longer much read. But his short ode “Rule, Britannia” remains one of
and virtue, who ventures on such a trial; and for this reason ’tis less to be
wondered at that women marry off in haste, for perhaps if they took time to
consider and reflect upon it, they seldom would.
the nation’s most popular patriotic songs. Set to music by Thomas Arne, the poem
was composed for Alfred (1740), a masque in honor of Frederick, Prince of Wales,
1700
whom opponents of Robert Walpole’s administration such as Thomson, Bolingbroke,
8. High-ranking servant. “Preferment”: advancement in rank.
and Pope supported. Many writers of the era evoke the image of Alfred the Great
(849– 899) to locate the origins of British liberty in a Gothic past, free of modern cor-
ruption: the ode was originally sung by an actor dressed as an ancient bard, accompa-
nied by a British harp. The poem’s depiction of Britons as exceptionally unfit for
slavery and willing to fight for their freedom at home and abroad both criticizes the
contemporary antiwar policy of Walpole and contributes to a national self-image that
will shape Britain’s role in the world in the centuries to come. DANIEL DEFOE
ca. 1660– 1731
T. Medland, The Gothic

Temple of Liberty, engraving,
1796. New buildings like this
one (ca. 1748) at Stowe
Landscape Garden revived the
B y birth, education, and occupations Daniel Defoe was a stranger to the sphere
of refined tastes and classical learning that dominated polite literature during
his lifetime. Middle class in his birth, Presbyterian in his religion, he belonged
ancient Gothic architectural
among the hardy Nonconformist tradesfolk who, after the Restoration, slowly
style to recall the liberty
increased their wealth and toward the end of the seventeenth century began to
enjoyed by the forebears of achieve political importance.
modern Britons, who feared He began adult life as a small merchant and for a while prospered, but he was not
their nation was becoming overscrupulous in his dealings, and in 1692 he found himself bankrupt, with debts
slavish and corrupt. From amounting to £17,000. This was the first of his many financial crises, crises that
Stowe. A Description of the drove him to make his way, like his own heroes and heroines, by whatever means
House and Gardens (1796). presented themselves. And however double his dealings, he seems always to have
found the way to reconcile them with his genuine Nonconformist piety. His restless
mind was fertile in “projects,” both for himself and for the country, and his itch for
politics made the role of passive observer impossible for him.
ROX ANA | 2425 2426 | DANIEL DEFOE
An ardent Whig, he first gained notoriety by political verses and pamphlets, and for me your own, and take me for good and all, that we may enjoy ourselves
one of them, “The Shortest Way with the Dissenters” (1702), in which he ironically without any reproach to one another?”
defended Anglican oppression, he stood in the pillory three times and was sentenced I told him, that as I confessed it was the only thing I could not comply
to jail. He was released through the influence of Robert Harley (later earl of Oxford), with him in, so it was the only thing in all my actions that I could not give
who recognized in Defoe, as he was to do in Swift, a useful ally. For the next eleven him a reason for; that it was true I had let him come to bed to me, which was
years Defoe served his benefactor secretly as a political spy and confidential agent,
supposed to be the greatest favor a woman could grant; but it was evident,
traveling throughout England and Scotland, reporting and perhaps influencing opin-
ion. As founder and editor of the Review, he endeavored to gain support for Harley’s and he might see it, that as I was sensible of the obligation I was under to
policies, even when, in 1710, Harley became head of a Tory ministry. It is character- him for saving me from the worst circumstance it was possible for me to
istic of Defoe that, after the fall of the Tories in 1714, he went over to the triumphant be brought to, I could deny him nothing; and if I had had any greater favor
Whigs and served them as loyally as he had their enemy. to yield him, I should have done it, that of matrimony only excepted, and he
When he was nearly sixty, Defoe’s energy and inventiveness enabled him to break could not but see that I loved him to an extraordinary degree, in every part
new ground, indeed to begin a new career. Robinson Crusoe, which appeared in of my behavior to him; but that as to marrying, which was giving up my lib-
1719, is the first of a series of tales of adventure for which Defoe is now admired, but erty, it was what once he knew I had done, and he had seen how it had hur-
which brought him little esteem from the polite world, however much they gratified ried me up and down in the world, and what it had exposed me to;3 that I
the less cultivated readers in the City or the servants’ hall. In Robinson Crusoe and had an aversion to it, and desired he would not insist upon it. He might eas-
other tales that followed, Defoe was able to use all his greatest gifts: the ability to
ily see I had no aversion to him; and that, if I was with child by him, he
re-create a milieu vividly, through the cumulative effect of carefully observed, often
petty details; a special skill in writing easygoing prose, the language of actual
should see a testimony of my kindness to the father, for that I would settle
speech, which seems to reveal the consciousness of the first-person narrator; a wide all I had in the world upon the child.
knowledge of the society in which he lived, both the trading classes and the rogues He was mute a good while. At last says he, “Come, my dear, you are the
who preyed on them; and an absorption in the spectacle of lonely human beings, first woman in the world that ever lay with a man and then refused to marry
whether Crusoe on his island or Moll Flanders in England and Virginia, somehow him, and therefore there must be some other reason for your refusal; and
bending a stubborn and indifferent environment to their own ends of survival or I have therefore one other request, and that is, if I guess at the true reason,
profits. There is something of himself in all his protagonists: enormous vitality, and remove the objection, will you then yield to me?” I told him, if he
humanity, and a scheming and sometimes sneaky ingenuity. In these fictitious auto- removed the objection I must needs comply, for I should certainly do every-
biographies of adventurers or rogues—Captain Singleton (1720), Moll Flanders thing that I had no objection against.
(1722), Colonel Jack (1722), and Roxana (1724)—Defoe spoke for and to the mem- “Why then, my dear, it must be that either you are already engaged or
bers of his own class. Like them, he was engrossed by property and success, and his
married to some other man, or you are not willing to dispose of your money
way of writing made all he touched seem true.
to me, and expect to advance yourself higher with your fortune. Now, if it
be the first of these, my mouth will be stopped, and I have no more to say;
but if it be the last, I am prepared effectually to remove the objection, and
From Roxana1 answer all you can say on that subject.”
I took him up short at the first of these, telling him he must have base
[the cons of marriage] thoughts of me indeed, to think that I could yield to him in such a manner
as I had done, and continue it with so much freedom as he found I did, if I
One morning, in the middle of our unlawful freedoms—that is to say, when had a husband, or were engaged to any other man; and that he might depend
we were in bed together—he sighed, and told me he desired my leave to ask upon it that was not my case, nor any part of my case.
me one question, and that I would give him an answer to it with the same “Why then,” said he, “as to the other, I have an offer to make to you that
ingenuous freedom and honesty that I had used to2 treat him with. I told shall take off all the objections, viz., that I will not touch one pistole4 of your
him I would. Why, then, his question was, why I would not marry him, see- estate more than shall be with your own voluntary consent, neither now or
ing I allowed him all the freedom of a husband. “Or,” says he, “my dear, at any other time, but you shall settle it as you please for your life, and upon
since you have been so kind as to take me to your bed, why will you not make who you please after your death.” That I should see he was able to maintain
me without it; and that it was not for that that he followed me from Paris.
I was indeed surprised at that part of his offer, and he might easily perceive
it; it was not only what I did not expect, but it was what I knew not what
1. Roxana; or, The Fortunate Mistress, is the story, Turkish costume at a ball (Roxalana, a sultana in
told by herself, of a beautiful and ambitious cour- Sir William Davenant’s The Siege of Rhodes,
answer to make to. He had, indeed, removed my principal objection, nay, all
tesan. A bad marriage and early poverty drive her 1656, had come to mean “whore”). In this excerpt
to a career of prostitution, at which she succeeds the narrator, who has been saved from ruin and
brilliantly until eventually her past catches up allowed herself to be seduced by an honest Dutch
3. The Dutch merchant thinks that Roxana is er’s mistress and has since been the lover of a
with her. The story is set in the Restoration, and merchant, expresses her liberated views of
the widow of a jeweler, whose death had left her French prince.
even the title reflects the decadence associated marriage.
alone and friendless; actually she was the jewel- 4. A Spanish coin.
with the period: admirers give “Roxana” her name 2. Been accustomed to.
after she has displayed herself provocatively in
my objections, and it was not possible for me to give any answer; for, if upon I returned, that while a woman was single, she was a masculine in her
so generous an offer I should agree with him, I then did as good as con- politic capacity;7 that she had then the full command of what she had, and
fess that it was upon the account of my money that I refused him; and that the full direction of what she did; that she was a man in her separated capac-
though I could give up my virtue, and expose myself, yet I would not give ity, to all intents and purposes that a man could be so to himself; that she
up my money, which, though it was true, yet was really too gross for me to was controlled by none, because accountable to none, and was in subjection
acknowledge, and I could not pretend to marry him upon that principle nei- to none. So I sung these two lines of Mr ———’s:8
ther. Then as to having him, and make over all my estate out of his hands,
Oh! ’tis pleasant to be free,
so as not to give him the management of what I had, I thought it would be
The sweetest Miss is Liberty.
not only a little Gothic5 and inhumane, but would be always a foundation
of unkindness between us, and render us suspected one to another; so that, I added, that whoever the woman was that had an estate, and would give
upon the whole, I was obliged to give a new turn to it, and talk upon a kind it up to be the slave of a great man, that woman was a fool, and must be fit
of an elevated strain, which really was not in my thoughts, at first, at all; for I for nothing but a beggar; that it was my opinion a woman was as fit to govern
own, as above, the divesting myself of my estate and putting my money out of and enjoy her own estate without a man as a man was without a woman; and
my hand was the sum of the matter that made me refuse to marry; but, I say, that, if she had a mind to gratify herself as to sexes, she might entertain a
I gave it a new turn upon this occasion, as follows. man as a man does a mistress; that while she was thus single she was her
I told him I had, perhaps, different notions of matrimony from what the own, and if she gave away that power she merited to be as miserable as it was
received custom had given us of it; that I thought a woman was a free agent possible that any creature could be.
as well as a man, and was born free, and could she manage herself suitably, All he could say could not answer the force of this, as to argument; only
might enjoy that liberty to as much purpose as the men do; that the laws this, that the other way was the ordinary method that the world was guided
of matrimony were indeed otherwise, and mankind at this time acted quite by; that he had reason to expect I should be content with that which all the
upon other principles, and those such that a woman gave herself entirely world was contented with; that he was of the opinion that a sincere affection
away from herself, in marriage, and capitulated only to be, at best, but an between a man and his wife answered all the objections that I had made
upper servant, and from the time she took the man she was no better or about the being a slave, a servant, and the like; and where there was a mutual
worse than the servant among the Israelites, who had his ears bored—that is, love, there could be no bondage, but that there was but one interest, one aim,
nailed to the doorpost—who by that act gave himself up to be a servant dur- one design, and all conspired to make both very happy.
ing life.6 That the very nature of the marriage contract was, in short, nothing “Aye,” said I, “that is the thing I complain of. The pretense of affection
but giving up liberty, estate, authority, and everything to the man, and the takes from a woman everything that can be called herself; she is to have no
woman was indeed a mere woman ever after—that is to say, a slave. interest, no aim, no view, but all is the interest, aim, and view of the husband;
He replied, that though in some respects it was as I had said, yet I ought she is to be the passive creature you spoke of,” said I. “She is to lead a life
to consider that, as an equivalent to this, the man had all the care of things of perfect indolence, and living by faith (not in God, but) in her husband,
devolved upon him; that the weight of business lay upon his shoulders, and she sinks or swims, as he is either fool or wise man, unhappy or prosperous;
as he had the trust, so he had the toil of life upon him; his was the labor, his and in the middle of what she thinks is her happiness and prosperity, she is
the anxiety of living; that the woman had nothing to do but to eat the fat and engulfed in misery and beggary, which she had not the least notice, knowl-
drink the sweet; to sit still and look around her, be waited on and made edge, or suspicion of. How often have I seen a woman living in all the splen-
much of, be served and loved and made easy, especially if the husband acted dor that a plentiful fortune ought to allow her, with her coaches and
as became him; and that, in general, the labor of the man was appointed to equipages, her family and rich furniture, her attendants and friends, her visi-
make the woman live quiet and unconcerned in the world; that they had the tors and good company, all about her today; tomorrow surprised with a disas-
name of subjection without the thing; and if in inferior families they had the ter, turned out of all by a commission of bankrupt, stripped to the clothes on
drudgery of the house and care of the provisions upon them, yet they had her back; her jointure, suppose she had it, is sacrificed to the creditors so long
indeed much the easier part; for in general, the women had only the care of as her husband lived, and she turned into the street, and left to live on the
managing—that is, spending what their husbands get— and that a woman charity of her friends, if she has any, or follow the monarch, her husband, into
had the name of subjection, indeed, but that they very generally commanded the Mint,9 and live there on the wreck of his fortunes, till he is forced to run
not the men only, but all they had; managed all for themselves; and where away from her even there; and then she sees her children starve, herself mis-
the man did his duty, the woman’s life was all ease and tranquility, and that erable, breaks her heart, and cries herself to death! This,” says I, “is the state
she had nothing to do but to be easy, and to make all that were about her of many a lady that has had ten thousand pound to her portion.”
both easy and merry.
7. A male in her function of making prudent with men’s happiness.
decisions. 9. Debtors took refuge in the area near the Mint,
8. Charles Cotton (1630–1687), from his poem where they could not be arrested. “A commission”:
5. Barbaric. 6. Cf. Exodus 21.5– 6. “Upper”: high-ranking.
“The Joys of Marriage” (1689). Ironically, Cot- a writ. “Jointure”: property settled on a wife.
ton’s poem denounces women as incompatible
He did not know how feelingly I spoke this, and what extremities I had He seemed to be concerned to think that I should take him in that man-
gone through of this kind; how near I was to the very last article above, viz., ner. He assured me that I misunderstood him; that he had more manners as
crying myself to death; and how I really starved for almost two years together.1 well as more kindness for me, and more justice, than to reproach me with
But he shook his head, and said, where had I lived? and what dreadful what he had been the aggressor in, and had surprised me into; that what he
families had I lived among, that had frighted me into such terrible appre- spoke referred to my words above, that the woman, if she thought fit, might
hensions of things? that these things indeed might happen where men run entertain a man, as a man did a mistress; and that I seemed to mention that
into hazardous things in trade, and without prudence or due consideration, way of living as justifiable, and setting it as a lawful thing, and in the place
launched their fortunes in a degree beyond their strength, grasping at adven- of matrimony.
tures beyond their stocks, and the like; but that, as he was stated 2 in the Well, we strained some compliments upon those points, not worth repeat-
world, if I would embark with him, he had a fortune equal with mine; that ing; and I added, I supposed when he got to bed to me he thought himself
together we should have no occasion of engaging in business any more; but sure of me; and indeed, in the ordinary course of things, after he had lain
that in any part of the world where I had a mind to live, whether England, with me he ought to think so; but that, upon the same foot of argument
France, Holland, or where I would, we might settle, and live as happily as which I had discoursed with him upon, it was just the contrary; and when
the world could make any one live; that if I desired the management of our a woman had been weak enough to yield up the last point before wedlock, it
estate, when put together, if I would not trust him with mine, he would trust would be adding one weakness to another to take the man afterwards, to pin
me with his; that we would be upon one bottom,3 and I should steer. “Ay,” down the shame of it upon herself all the days of her life, and bind herself
says I, “you’ll allow me to steer—that is, hold the helm—but you’ll con4 the to live all her time with the only man that could upbraid her with it; that in
ship, as they call it; that is, as at sea, a boy serves to stand at the helm, but yielding at first, she must be a fool, but to take the man is to be sure to be
he that gives him the orders is pilot.” called fool; that to resist a man is to act with courage and vigor, and to cast
He laughed at my simile. “No,” says he; “you shall be pilot then; you shall off the reproach, which, in the course of things, drops out of knowledge and
con the ship.” “Ay,” says I, “as long as you please, but you can take the helm dies. The man goes one way and the woman another, as fate and the circum-
out of my hand when you please, and bid me go spin.5 It is not you,” says I, stances of living direct; and if they keep one another’s counsel, the folly is
“that I suspect, but the laws of matrimony puts the power into your hands, heard no more of. “But to take the man,” says I, “is the most preposterous
bids you do it, commands you to command, and binds me, forsooth, to obey. thing in nature, and (saving your presence) is to befoul one’s self, and live
You, that are now upon even terms with me, and I with you,” says I, “are the always in the smell of it. No, no,” added I; “after a man has lain with me as
next hour set up upon the throne, and the humble wife placed at your foot- a mistress, he ought never to lie with me as a wife; that’s not only preserv-
stool; all the rest, all that you call oneness of interest, mutual affection, and ing the crime in memory, but it is recording it in the family. If the woman
the like, is courtesy and kindness then, and a woman is indeed infinitely marries the man afterwards, she bears the reproach of it to the last hour;
obliged where she meets with it; but can’t help herself where it fails.” if her husband is not a man of a hundred thousand, he some time or other
Well, he did not give it over yet, but came to the serious part, and there upbraids her with it. If he has children, they fail not one way or other to hear
he thought he should be too many for me. He first hinted, that marriage of it. If the children are virtuous, they do their mother the justice to hate
was decreed by Heaven; that it was the fixed state of life, which God had her for it; if they are wicked, they give her the mortification of doing the
appointed for man’s felicity, and for establishing a legal posterity; that there like, and giving her for the example. On the other hand, if the man and the
could be no legal claim of estates by inheritance but by children born in woman part, there is an end of the crime and an end of the clamor. Time
wedlock; that all the rest was sunk under scandal and illegitimacy; and very wears out the memory of it; or a woman may remove6 but a few streets, and
well he talked upon that subject indeed. she soon outlives it, and hears no more of it.”
But it would not do; I took him short there. “Look you, sir,” said I, “you He was confounded at this discourse, and told me he could not say but I
have an advantage of me there indeed, in my par ticular case; but it would was right in the main. That as to that part relating to managing estates, it was
not be generous to make use of it. I readily grant that it were better for me to arguing à la cavalier;7 it was in some sense right, if the woman were able to
have married you than to admit you to the liberty I have given you; but as I carry it on so, but that in general the sex were not capable of it; their heads
could not reconcile my judgment to marriage, for the reasons above, and had were not turned for it, and they had better choose a person capable and hon-
kindness enough for you, and obligation too much on me to resist you, I suf- est, that knew how to do them justice as women, as well as to love them; and
fered your rudeness and gave up my virtue. But I have two things before me that then the trouble was all taken off of their hands.
to heal up that breach of honor without that desperate one of marriage, and I told him it was a dear way of purchasing their ease; for very often when
those are, repentance for what is past, and putting an end to it for time to the trouble was taken off of their hands, so was their money too; and that I
come.” thought it was far safer for the sex not to be afraid of the trouble, but to be
really afraid of their money; that if nobody was trusted, nobody would be
deceived; and the staff in their own hands was the best security in the world.
1. Roxana’s first husband, a profligate brewer, 3. One ship (literally, lowest part of a hull).
had run off, leaving her destitute. 4. Direct the steering of.
2. Established, a person of standing. 5. I.e., spin yarn (women’s work). 6. Move away. 7. Cavalierly, rashly (French).
ANNE FINCH, COUNTESS OF WINCHILSEA | 2431
He replied, that I had started a new thing in the world; that however I
might support it by subtle reasoning, yet it was a way of arguing that was
contrary to the general practice, and that he confessed he was much disap-
pointed in it; that had he known I would have made such a use of it, he
would never have attempted what he did, which he had no wicked design in,
resolving to make me reparation, and that he was very sorry he had been so
unhappy;8 that he was very sure he should never upbraid me with it hereaf-
ter, and had so good an opinion of me as to believe I did not suspect him; but
Mind and God, Faith and Doubt
seeing I was positive in refusing him, notwithstanding what had passed, he
had nothing to do but secure me from reproach by going back again to Paris,
CONTEXTS
that so, according to my own way of arguing, it might die out of memory, and
I might never meet with it again to my disadvantage.
he eighteenth century brought new developments in science and epistemology as philosophers and
* * * T scientists sought to understand the structure of the mind and the process of knowing and
Thus blinded by my own vanity, I threw away the only opportunity I then understanding. John Locke, in his Essay Concerning Human Understanding, was the leader in this
had to have effectually settled my fortunes, and secured them for this search for understanding. As Newton had used scientific enquiry and empiricism to explain the laws
of the universe, Locke used them to investigate the workings of the mind. In the excerpt below, he
world; and I am a memorial to all that shall read my story, a standing monu- suggests that the human mind is like a blank sheet of paper at birth, and derives all knowledge
ment of the madness and distraction which pride and infatuations from through experience, by which it gathers information about the world, and then combines the simple
hell run us into; how ill our passions guide us; and how dangerously we act, ideas resulting from experience into more complex ideas.
The influence of Locke’s ideas spread far outside the realms of philosophy. Both Mary Astell and
when we follow the dictates of an ambitious mind. Judith Drake, in the essays below, use his ideas as a launching point for their own examinations of
1724 the evident inequalities in the education and status of men and women. The portion of Mary Astell’s
A Serious Proposal to the Ladies reprinted here modifies Locke’s assumption that we are born blank
slates. Instead, Astell demonstrates that prejudices, arising from social circumstances, plague us from
8. Troublesome. birth and mar our ability to perceive truth. Her essay was one of the earliest and most famous of many
such texts advocating the more intellectual education of women; she goes on to propose the
establishment of religious communities for “ladies of quality,” funded by dowries and money earned
from the establishment of a school. Judith Drake, in her Essay in Defence of the Female Sex, uses
Locke’s theories to argue that if both women and men are born equal, and females do not exhibit any
difference in physiology that might make them mentally inferior, then they should be as capable of
education and improvement as men. Her essay, framed as a letter to Princess Anne of Denmark,
ANNE FINCH, COUNTESS OF WINCHILSEA argues that the education of women will only improve society in all respects. The fictitious letter from
Eliza Haywood’s Female Spectator included here gives some sense of the ways in which such ideas
1661–1720 concerning female education gained attention and support as the century progressed, though in
simplified and more accessible forms.
Locke’s epistemological investigations also posed problems for religious faith. If, as Locke
suggests, we are born with no pre-existing ideas, how do we arrive at the idea of God? For Locke and
many others, empiricism offered a means of explaining God through a chain of reasoning, and
provided rational grounds for religious belief. John Toland was one of many radical religious thinkers
B orn into an ancient country family, Anne Kingsmill became a maid of honor at
the court of Charles II. There she met Colonel Heneage Finch; in 1684 they mar-
ried. During the short reign of James II they prospered at court, but at the king’s fall
who attempted to use reason to prove the Gospels and Church history. His book Christianity not
Mysterious (whose title page is shown below) was found so offensive that it was publicly burnt in
Dublin. The Spectator article on omens that follows provides commentary on the conflicting religious,
theological, and epistemological beliefs of the period, and on varieties of what the article terms
in 1688 they were forced to retire, eventually settling on a beautiful family estate at “superstitious folly.” The hymns of Isaac Watts, who was also a philosopher and an admirer of
Eastwell, in Kent, near the south coast of England. Here Colonel Finch became, Newton and Locke, nevertheless demonstrate a firm belief that the greatness of God is eternal truth.
in 1712, earl of Winchilsea, and here Anne Finch wrote most of her poems, influ- As his “Against Idleness and Mischief” indicated, however, Watts’s focus was at least as much on
enced, she said, by “the solitude and security of the country,” and by “objects natu- “works” as on faith; his call for children to emulate the “busy bee” remained an educational
rally inspiring soft and poetical imaginations.” Her Miscellany Poems on Several touchstone well into the twentieth century. Watts also composed a number of extraordinarily popular
hymns and psalm translations: among metrical psalms by many authors, his graceful, simple style had
Occasions, Written by a Lady were published in 1713. One poem, “The Spleen,” a
great appeal.
description of the mysterious melancholic illness from which she and many other
fashionable people suffered, achieved some fame; Pope seems to refer to it when he
invokes the goddess Spleen in The Rape of the Lock. But Finch’s larger reputation
began only a century later, when Wordsworth praised her for keeping her eye on
external nature and for a style “often admirable, chaste, tender, and vigorous.”
Three things conspired to keep Finch’s poems in the shade: she was an aristocrat,
her nature was retiring, and she was a woman. Any one of these might have made her
shrink from exposing herself to the jeers that still, at the turn of the century, greeted
Mind and God, Faith and Doubt 125 126 Contexts
David Hume was a particularly controversial thinker of the mid- and late-eighteenth century. from John Locke, An Essay Concerning Human which could not be had from things without; and such
Although Hume believed in God, he did not believe in salvation or personal immortality. He argues Understanding (1689) are perception, thinking, doubting, believing, reasoning,
that “mere reason is insufficient to convince us” of the veracity of the Christian religion, and, as this knowing, willing, and all the different actings of our own
excerpt from his “Of Miracles” demonstrates, he was profoundly skeptical of supernatural or from Book 2, “Of Ideas,” Chapter 1 minds; which we being conscious of, and observing in
miraculous occurrences—on which the Christian religion is quite largely based. A discussion of ourselves, do from these receive into our understand-
Hume’s arguments by James Boswell and Samuel Johnson is also reprinted below. et us then suppose the mind to be, as we say, white ings, as distinct ideas, as we do from bodies affecting our
During the middle of the eighteenth century, the growing Methodist movement set out to make
religious experience real, through emotional appeal, for those unmoved by rational considerations,
L paper,1 void of all characters, without any ideas.
How comes it to be furnished? Whence comes it by that
senses. This source of ideas every man has wholly in
himself. And though it be not sense, as having nothing
or alienated, as many poorer people were, from the established church. Methodism, an evangelical
vast store, which the busy and boundless fancy of man to do with external objects, yet it is very like it, and
movement that originated within the Church of England, spread rapidly in new industrial villages and
poorer areas, where common people were drawn by its emphasis on faith as the only path to salvation,
has painted on it, with an almost endless variety? might properly enough be called internal sense. But as
its strong reliance on hymns, and its fervent and energetic sermons—which are satirized in William Whence has it all the materials of reason and knowl- I call the other sensation, so I call this reflection, the ideas
Hogarth’s engraving Credulity, Superstition, and Fanaticism, included here. Like Addison’s Spectator edge? To this I answer, in one word, from experience. In it affords being such only as the mind gets by reflecting
article, Hogarth’s engraving also speaks to the confusion of religious beliefs during the period, and that, all our knowledge is founded, and from that it on its own operations within itself. By reflection then, in
the hypocrisy that sometimes attended the most vociferous declarations of faith. ultimately derives itself. Our observation employed the following part of this discourse, I would be under-
either about external, sensible objects, or about the internal stood to mean that notice which the mind takes of its
zzz operations of our minds, perceived and reflected on by own operations, and the manner of them, by reason
ourselves, is that which supplies our understandings with all whereof there come to be ideas of these operations in
the materials of thinking. These two are the fountains of the understanding. These two, I say, viz. external,
Physiology became a well-developed field of study in knowledge, from whence all the ideas we have, or can material things, as the objects of sensation, and the
the eighteenth century as scientists began closely to naturally have, do spring. operations of our own minds within, as the objects of
examine human anatomy and to discover the work- First, our senses, conversant about particular sensible reflection, are, to me, the only originals, from whence all
ings of the respiratory system, digestive system, objects, do convey into the mind several distinct percep- our ideas take their beginnings. The term operations here
nervous system, and the brain. In later eighteenth- tions of things, according to those various ways, wherein I use in a large sense, as comprehending not barely the
century England, this field was dominated by those objects do affect them; and thus we come by those actions of the mind about its ideas, but some sort of
physician and anatomist William Hunter, and his ideas we have of yellow, white, heat, cold, soft, hard, passions arising sometimes from them, such as is the
brother, surgeon and physiologist John Hunter. The bitter, sweet, and all those which we call sensible quali- satisfaction or uneasiness arising from any thought.
dissection of human bodies was commonplace in ties, which when I say the senses convey into the mind, The understanding seems to me not to have the least
medical schools (using the bodies of murderers and I mean, they from external objects convey into the mind glimmering of any ideas which it doth not receive from
the unclaimed bodies of poor people who would what produces there those perceptions. This great source one of these two. External objects furnish the mind with
otherwise have had to be buried at public expense), the ideas of sensible qualities, which are all those different
of most of the ideas we have, depending wholly upon
and large audiences gathered for public dissections.
our senses and derived by them to the understanding, I perceptions they produce in us; and the mind furnishes
Anthropologia Nova; or, A New System of Anatomy
call sensation. the understanding with ideas of its own operations.
(1707) by James Drake (husband of Judith Drake,
above) provided a large, illustrated manual of physi- Secondly, the other fountain from which experience These, when we have taken a full survey of them,
ology, and Swiss anatomist Albrecht von Haller furnisheth the understanding with ideas is the perception and their several modes, combinations, and relations, we
published a ground-breaking manual on physiology of the operations of our own minds within us, as it is shall find to contain all our whole stock of ideas; and
in 1747, giving more specific, in-depth instructions employed about the ideas it has got; which operations, that we have nothing in our minds which did not come
for dissection. when the soul comes to reflect on and consider, do in one of these two ways. Let anyone examine his own
furnish the understanding with another set of ideas, thoughts, and thoroughly search into his understanding,
A dissection of a brain by Christopher Wren (1664). and then let him tell me, whether all the original ideas
1
white paper The Latin phrase tabula rasa, meaning “blank (or he has there are any other than of the objects of his
erased) slate,” is generally used to reference the concept Locke
senses, or of the operations of his mind, considered as
discusses here using the phrase “white paper.” The term was first
used in the sixteenth century in connection with the ideas of objects of his reflection; and how great a mass of knowl-
Aristotle, who, like Locke, believed our minds were born void and edge soever he imagines to be lodged there, he will,
ready to receive impressions. It is now most often associated with upon taking a strict view, see that he has not any idea in
Locke, who provided the most comprehensive articulation of the his mind, but what one of these two have imprinted;
“blank slate” theory.
though, perhaps, with infinite variety compounded and water, and making a certain kind of noise, and, perhaps, from Mary Astell, A Serious Proposal to the Ladies other little sordid Passion being really the mistress they
enlarged by the understanding, as we shall see hereafter. to a man who has long observed those kind of birds, (1694) court—whilst she (like Religion in another case) is made
He that attentively considers the state of a child at some other properties, which all terminate in sensible use of for a stale1 to carry on the design the better; since
his first coming into the world, will have little reason to simple ideas, all united in one common subject. [I advise that we] disengage ourselves from all our we’re commonly too much under the power of inordi-
think him stored with plenty of ideas that are to be the Besides the complex ideas we have of material former prejudices, from our opinion of names, authori- nate affections to have our understandings always clear
matter of his future knowledge. ’Tis by degrees he sensible substances, of which I have last spoken, by the ties, customs and the like, not give credit to anything and our judgments certain, are too rash, too precipitate
comes to be furnished with them. And though the ideas simple ideas we have taken from those operations of our any longer because we have once believed it, but because not to need the assistance of a calmer thought, a more
of obvious and familiar qualities imprint themselves own minds, which we experiment daily in ourselves, as it carries clear and uncontested evidence along with it. serious review; Reason wills that we should think again,
before the memory begins to keep a register of time and thinking, understanding, willing, knowing, and power I should think there needed no more to persuade us to and not form our conclusions or fix our foot till we can
order, yet ’tis often so late before some unusual qualities of beginning motion, etc. co-existing in some substance, this, than a consideration of the mischiefs these preju- honestly say that we have with our prejudice or prepos-
come in the way that there are few men that cannot we are able to frame the complex idea of an immaterial dices do us. These are the grand hindrance in our search session viewed the matter in debate on all sides, seen it
recollect the beginning of their acquaintance with them; spirit. And thus by putting together the ideas of think- after truth; these dispose us for the reception of error, in every light, have no bias to incline us either way, but
and if it were worthwhile, no doubt a child might be so ing, perceiving, liberty, and power of moving themselves and when we have imbibed confirm us in it; contract are only determined by Truth itself, shining brightly in
ordered as to have but a very few, even of the ordinary and other things, we have as clear a perception and our souls and shorten our views; hinder the free range of our eyes, and not permitting us to resist the force and
ideas, ’till he were grown up to a man. But all that are notion of immaterial substances as we have of material. our thoughts and confine them only to that particular evidence it carries. This I’m sure is what rational crea-
born into the world being surrounded with bodies that For putting together the ideas of thinking and willing, track which these have taken; and in a word, erect a tures ought to do. What’s then the reason that they do’t
perpetually and diversely affect them, variety of ideas, or the power of moving or quieting corporeal motion, tyranny over our free-born souls, whilst they suffer not? …
whether care be taken about it or no, are imprinted on joined to substance, of which we have no distinct idea, nothing to pass for true that has not been stamped at Again self-love, an excellent principle when true, but
the minds of children: light and colors are busy at hand we have the idea of an immaterial spirit; and by putting their own mint. But this is not all their mischief. They the worst and most mischievous when mistaken, dis-
everywhere, when the eye is but open; sounds and some together the ideas of coherent solid parts, and a power of are really the root of skepticism; for when we have taken poses us to be retentive of our prejudices and errors,
tangible qualities fail not to solicit their proper senses being moved, joined with substance, of which likewise up an opinion of weak grounds and stiffly adhered to it, especially when it is joined, as most commonly it is,
and force an entrance to the mind. But yet, I think, it we have no positive idea, we have the idea of matter. coming afterwards by some chance or other to be with pride and conceitedness. The condition of our
will be granted easily that if a child were kept in a place The one is as clear and distinct an idea as the other: the convinced of its falseness, the same disposition which present state (as was said before), in which we feel the
where he never saw any other but black and white till he idea of thinking, and moving a body, being as clear and induced us to receive the premises without reason now force of our passions e’re we discern the strength of our
were a man, he would have no more ideas of scarlet or distinct ideas as the ideas of extension, solidity, and inclines us to draw as false a conclusion from them. And reason, necessitates us to take up with such principles
green than he that from his childhood never tasted an being moved. … because we seemed once well assured of what now and reasonings to direct and determine these passions as
oyster, or a pineapple, has of those particular relishes. … If we examine the idea we have of the incompre- appears to have no thing in’t to make us so, therefore we we happen to meet with, though probably they are far
hensible Supreme Being, we shall find that we come by fancy there’s nothing certain that all our notions are but from being just ones, and are such as education or
from Book 2, Chapter 23 it the same way; and that the complex ideas we have probabilities, which stand or fall according to the accident, not right reason disposes us to. And being
both of God and separate spirits are made up of the ingenuity of their managers. And so from an unreason- inured2 and habituated to these, we at last take them for
But to return to the matter in hand, the ideas we have simple ideas we receive from reflection; v.g.,1 having, able obstinacy we pass on to as unreasonable a levity; so our own, for parts of our dear beloved selves, and are as
of substances, and the ways we come by them; I say our from what we experiment in ourselves, got the ideas of smooth is the transition from believing too easily and unwilling to be divorced from them as we would be to
specific ideas of substances are nothing else but a existence and duration; of knowledge and power; of too much, to the belief of just nothing at all. part with a hand or an eye or any the most useful
collection of a certain number of simple ideas, consid- pleasure and happiness; and of several other qualities But pray, where’s the force of this argument, “This member. Whoever talks contrary to these received
ered as united in one thing. These ideas of substances, and powers, which it is better to have than to be with- is true because such a person or such a number of men notions seems to banter us, to persuade us out of our
though they are commonly called simple apprehensions, out. When we would frame an idea the most suitable we have said it.” Or, which commonly weighs more, very senses, and does that which our pride cannot bear:
and the names of them simple terms, yet in effect, are can to the Supreme Being, we enlarge every one of these “because I myself, the dear idol of my own heart, have he supposes we’ve been all along deceived and must
complex and compounded. Thus the idea which an with our idea of infinity; and so putting them together, sometimes embraced and perhaps very zealously main- begin anew. We therefore, instead of depositing3 our old
Englishman signifies by the name swan is white color, make our complex idea of God. For that the mind has tained it”? Were we to poll for truth, or were our own errors, fish about for arguments to defend ’em, and do
long neck, red beak, black legs, and whole feet, and all such a power of enlarging some of its ideas, received from particular opinions th’infallible standard of it, there were not raise hypotheses on the discoveries we have made of
these of a certain size, with a power of swimming in the sensation and reflection, has been already showed.… reason to subscribe to the sentiments of the many, or to truth, but search for probabilities to maintain our
be tenacious of our own. But since Truth, though she is
bright and ready to reveal herself to all sincere inquirers, 1
stale Bait.
is not often found by the generality of those who 2
inured Accustomed.
1
pretend to seek after her—Interest, Applause, or some 3
v.g. For verbi gratia (Latin), meaning “for example.” depositing I.e., putting away.
hypotheses. And what’s the result of all this? Having set men only by their habit5 and beards, and are scarce aged, would wipe the dirt of their shoes with their find any difference in sense or understanding between
out in a wrong way we’re resolved to persist in it; we distinguishable from brutes but by their figure and handkerchief, and that value themselves infinitely more males and females. In these we may see nature plainest,
stumble in the dark and quarrel with those who would risibility.6 But I shall wave these reflections at present, upon modish nonsense than upon the best sense against who lie under no constraint of custom or laws but those
lead us out of it. however just, and come closer to our argument. If the fashion. But since I do not intend to make this a of passion or appetite, which are nature’s, and know no
But is there no remedy for this disorder, since we women are not qualified for the conversation of inge- religious argument, I shall leave all further consider- difference of education, nor receive any bias by preju-
hope that all are not irrecoverably lost, though too many nious men, or, to go yet further, their friendship, it ations of this nature to the divines,1 whose more imme- dice. We see great distance in degrees of understanding,
are so enveloped in prejudice that there’s little probabil- must be because they want some one condition, or diate business and study it is to assert the wisdom of wit, cunning, and docility (call them what you please)
ity of disengaging them? Why, really, the best that I can more, necessarily requisite to either. The necessary Providence in the order and distribution of this world, between the several species of brutes. An ape, a dog, a
think of at present is to resolve to be industrious, and to conditions of these are sense and good nature, to which against all that oppose it. fox, are by daily observation found to be more docile
think no pains too much to purchase truth; to consider must be added, for friendship, fidelity and integrity. [No distinction of sexes in souls.] To proceed, there- and more subtle than an ox, a swine, or a sheep. But a
that our forefathers were men of like passions with us, Now, if any of these be wanting to our sex, it must be fore, if we be naturally defective, the defect must be she ape is as full of, and as ready at, imitation as a he; a
and are therefore not to be credited on the score of either because nature has not been so liberal as to bestow either in soul or body. In the soul it can’t be, if what I bitch will learn as many tricks in as short a time as a
authority, but of reason … ’em upon us, or because due care has not been taken to have heard some learned men maintain be true, that all dog;4 a female fox has as many wiles as a male. A thou-
’Tis a great mistake to fancy it a reproach to change cultivate those gifts to a competent measure in us. souls are equal and alike, and that consequently there is sand instances of this kind might be produced; but I
our sentiments; the infamy lies on their side who The first of these causes is that which is most gener- no such distinction as male and female souls; that there think these are so plain that to instance more were a
willfully and unreasonably adhere to ’em. … But as ally urged against us, whether it be in raillery or spite. I are not innate ideas, but that all the notions we have are superfluous labour; I shall only once more take notice,
there is an extreme on one hand in being too resolutely might easily cut this part of the controversy short by an derived from our external senses, either immediately, or that in brutes and other animals there is no difference
bent on our old opinions, so is there on the other in irrefragable 7 argument, which is, that the express intent by reflection. These metaphysical speculations, I must betwixt male and female in point of sagacity, notwith-
inordinately thirsting after novelty. An opinion is and reason for which woman was created, was to be a own, madam, require much more learning and a stron- standing there is the same distinction of sexes that is
neither better nor worse for being old or new; the truth companion and help meet8 to man; and that conse- ger head than I can pretend to be mistress of, to be between man and women. I have read that some philos-
of it is the only thing considerable. quently those that deny ’em to be so must argue a considered as they ought. Yet so bold I may be as to ophers have held brutes to be no more than mere
mistake in Providence, and think themselves wiser than undertake the defense of these opinions when any of our machines, a sort of divine clockwork, that act only by
their Creator. But these gentlemen are generally such jingling opponents think fit to refute ’em. the force of nice unseen springs without sensation, and
from Judith Drake, An Essay in Defense of the passionate admirers of themselves, and have such a [No advantage in the organization of their bodies.] cry out without feeling pain, eat without hunger, drink
Female Sex (1696) profound value and reverence for their own parts,9 that Neither can it be in the body (if I may credit the report of without thirst, fawn upon their keepers without seeing
they are ready at any time to sacrifice their religion to learned physicians), for there is no difference in the ’em, hunt hares without smelling, etc. Here, madam, is
[Some advantages to be allowed to the disparity of educa- the reputation of their wit, and, rather than lose their organization of those parts which have any relation to, or cover for our antagonists against the last argument so
tion.1] point, deny the truth of the history. There are others, influence over, the minds; but the brain, and all other thick that there is no beating ’em out. For my part, I
that though they allow the story, yet affirm that the parts (which I am not anatomist enough to name), are shall not envy ’em their refuge, let ’em lie like the wild
… Our company is generally by our adversaries repre- propagation and continuance of mankind was the only contrived as well for the plentiful conveyance of spirits,2 Irish, secure within their bogs; the field is at least ours,
sented as unprofitable and irksome to men of sense, and, reason for which we were made; as if the wisdom that which are held to be the immediate instruments of so long as they keep to their fastnesses.5 But to quit this
by some of the more vehement sticklers against us, as first made man could not without trouble have contin- sensation, in women, as men. I see therefore no natural topic, I shall only add, that if the learnedest He of ’em
criminal. These imputations, as they are unjust, espe- ued the species by the same or any other method, had impediment in the structure of our bodies; nor does all can convince me of the truth of this opinion, He will
cially the latter, so they savour2 strongly of the malice, not this been most conducive to His happiness, which experience or observation argue any. We use all our very much stagger my faith; for hitherto I have been able
arrogance, and sottishness 3 of those that most frequently was the gracious and only end of His Creation. But natural faculties as well as men—nay, and our rational to observe no difference between our knowledge and
urge ’em, who are commonly either conceited fops,4 these superficial gentlemen wear their understandings too, deducting only for the advantages before mentioned.3 theirs, but a gradual one; and depend upon Revelation
whose success in their pretences to the favour of our sex like their clothes, always set and formal, and would no [Confirmed from experience of brutes.] Let us appeal alone that our souls are immortal, and theirs not.
has been no greater than their merit, and fallen very far more talk than dress out of fashion; beaux that, rather yet further to experience, and observe those creatures [Experience of mankind.] But if an argument from
short of their vanity and presumption, or a sort of than any part of their outward figure should be dam- that deviate least from simple nature, and see if we can brutes and other animals shall not be allowed as conclu-
morose, ill-bred, unthinking fellows, who appear to be sive (though I can’t see why such an inference should
1
5
habit Clothing.
1
divines Clergymen; theologians. not be valid, since the parity6 of reason is the same on
Some … education This heading is by Drake, as are all other 2
pieces of italicized text in square brackets in this piece. 6
risibility Faculty for laughter. spirits I.e., vital powers.
3
2
savour I.e., smell. 7
irrefragable Incontrovertible. advantages before mentioned Earlier Drake acknowledges that 4
dog I.e., a male dog.
3 8
there are some disparities in learning and ingenuity between men 5
sottishness Folly. meet Mate. and women, but she attributes these to men’s “education, freedom fastnesses Strongholds.
4 9 6
fops Fools. parts Abilities. of converse, and variety of business and company.” parity Equality.
both sides in this case), I shall desire those that hold from Eliza Haywood, The Female Spectator No. 10 we are capable of those refined pleasures which last misfortune to themselves, or to their children. At her
against us to observe the country people—I mean the (February 1745) to immortality, our minds, our better parts, are coming into the room, I observed a settled melancholy
inferior sort of them, such as, not having stocks1 to wholly left uncultivated, and, like a rich soil ne- in her countenance, which I should have been troubled
follow husbandry2 upon their own score, subsist upon e were beginning to lament the misfortunes our glected, bring forth nothing but noxious weeds. for, had I not heard from whence it proceeded. We were
their daily labour. For amongst these, though not so
equal as that of brutes, yet the condition of the two sexes
W sex frequently fall into through the want5 of those
improvements we are doubtless capable of, when a
There are, undoubtedly, no sexes in souls, and
we are as able to receive and practice the impres-
no sooner sat down, but after having looked upon me a
little while, “My dear,” says she, turning to her husband,
sions—not only of virtue and religion, but also of “you may now see the stranger that was in the candle
is more level than amongst gentlemen, city traders, or letter, left for us at our publisher’s, was brought in
those sciences which the men engross to them-
rich yeomen.3 Examine them in their several businesses, which happened to be on that subject, and cannot last night.” Soon after this, as they began to talk of
selves—as they can be. Surely our bodies were not
and their capacities will appear equal; but talk to them anywhere be more properly inserted than in this place. family affairs, a little boy at the lower end of the table
formed by the great Creator out of the finest mold,
of things indifferent, and out of the road of their told her that he was to go into join-hand1 on Thursday.
that our souls might be neglected like the coarsest of
constant employment, and the balance will fall on our To the Female Spectator the clay?
“Thursday !” says she. “No, child, if it please God, you
side; the women will be found the more ready and O! would too imperious and too tenacious man shall not begin upon Childermas-day,2 tell your writing-
polite. Let us look a little further, and view our sex in a Ladies, be so just to the world as to be more careful of the master that Friday will be soon enough.” I was reflecting
state of more improvement amongst our neighbours the Permit me to thank you for the kind and generous education of those females to whom they are parents with myself on the oddness of her fancy, and wondering
Dutch. There we shall find them managing not only the task you have undertaken in endeavoring to improve or guardians! Would they convince them in their that anybody would establish it as a rule to lose a day in
domestic affairs of the family, but making, and receiving the minds and manners of our unthinking sex. It is infancy that dress and show are not the essentials of every week. In the midst of these my musings, she
all payments as well great as small, keeping the books, the noblest act of charity you could exercise in an a fine lady, and that true beauty is seated in the desired me to reach her a little salt upon the point of my
age like ours, where the sense of good and evil is mind, how soon should we see our sex retrieve the knife, which I did in such a trepidation and hurry of
balancing the accounts, and doing all the business, even
almost extinguished, and people desire to appear many virtues which false taste has buried in obliv-
the nicest of merchants, with as much dexterity and obedience that I let it drop by the way; at which she
more vicious than they really are, that so they may ion! Strange infatuation, to refuse us what would so
exactness as their—or our—men can do. And I have immediately startled, and said it fell towards her. Upon
be less unfashionable. This humor, which is too much contribute to their own felicity! Would not
often heard some of our considerable merchants blame this I looked very blank and, observing the concern of
prevalent in the female sex, is the true occasion of themselves reap the benefit of our amendment?
the conduct of our countrymen in this point; that they the many evils and dangers to which they are daily
the whole table, began to consider myself, with some
Should we not be more obedient daughters, more confusion, as a person that had brought a disaster upon
breed our women so ignorant of business, whereas were exposed. No wonder the men of sense disregard us! faithful wives, more tender mothers, more sincere
they taught arithmetic, and other arts which require not and the dissolute triumph over that virtue they the family. The lady, however, recovering herself after a
friends, and more valuable in every other station of
much bodily strength, they might supply the places of ought to protect! little space, said to her husband, with a sigh, “My dear,
life?
abundance of lusty4 men now employed in sedentary Yet I think it would be cruel to charge the ladies But I find I have let my pen run a much greater
misfortunes never come single.” …
business; which would be a mighty profit to the nation, with all the errors they commit; it is most com- length than I at first intended. If I have said any- I took my leave immediately after dinner, and
by sending those men to employments where hands and monly the fault of a wrong education, which makes thing worthy your notice, or what you think the withdrew to my own lodgings. Upon my return home,
strength are more required, especially at this time when them frequently do amiss, while they think they act truth of the case, I hope you will mention this I fell into a profound contemplation on the evils that
we are in such a want of people. Beside that it might not only innocently but uprightly. It is therefore subject in some of your future essays; or if you find attend these superstitious follies of mankind; how they
prevent the ruin of many families, which is often only the men—and the men of understanding, I have any way erred in my judgment, to set me subject us to imaginary afflictions, and additional
occasioned by the death of merchants in full business, too—who, in effect, merit the blame of this, and are right will be the greatest favor you can confer on, sorrows, that do not properly come within our lot. As if
and leaving their accounts perplexed, and embroiled to answerable for all the misconduct we are guilty of. Ladies, the natural calamities of life were not sufficient for it, we
Why do they call us silly women, and not endeavor Your constant reader, turn the most indifferent circumstances into misfor-
a widow and orphans, who understanding nothing of
to make us otherwise? God and Nature has endued And humble servant,
the husband or father’s business, occasions the rending, tunes, and suffer as much from trifling accidents as from
them with means, and custom has established them Cleora
and oftentimes the utter confounding a fair estate; real evils. I have known the shooting of a star spoil a
in the power of rendering our minds such as they
which might be prevented, did the wife but understand night’s rest, and have seen a man in love grow pale and
ought to be. How highly ungenerous is it then to
merchants’ accounts, and were made acquainted with give us a wrong turn and then despise us for it!
lose his appetite upon the plucking of a merry-thought.3
the books. from The Spectator No. 7 (March 8, 1711) A screech-owl at midnight has alarmed a family more
The Mahometans indeed enslave their women,
but then they teach them to believe their inferiority
oing yesterday to dine with an old acquaintance, I
1
stocks Capital.
will extend to eternity. But our case is even worse
than this; for while we live in a free country, and are
G had the misfortune to find his whole family very
much dejected. Upon asking him the occasion of it, he
1
2
join-hand Cursive writing.
Childermas-day Day of the Festival of the Innocents, commemo-
2 assured from our excellent Christian principles that rating the slaughter of the children by Herod (see Matthew 2.16).
husbandry Farming. told me that his wife had dreamt a strange dream the Also, the day of the week, throughout the year, that corresponds to
3
yeomen Owners of their own land. night before, which they were afraid portended some the day of this festival.
4 5 3
lusty Vigorous. want Lack. merry-thought Wishbone.
than a band of robbers; nay, the voice of a cricket hath In books, or work, or healthful play, Like flowery fields the nations stand such a kind that its falsehood would be more miraculous
struck more terror than the roaring of a lion. There is Let my first years be passed, 30 Pleased with the morning light. than the fact which it endeavors to establish; and even
nothing so inconsiderable, which may not appear 15 That I may give for every day The flowers beneath the mower’s hand in that case there is a mutual destruction of arguments,
dreadful to an imagination that is filled with omens and Some good account at last. Lie withering ere ’tis night. and the superior only gives us an assurance suitable to
prognostics. A rusty nail, or a crooked pin, shoot up into that degree of force which remains after deducting the
prodigies. … Our God, our help in ages past, inferior.” When anyone tells me that he saw a dead man
For my part, I should be very much troubled were I Isaac Watts, “Man Frail, and God Eternal” 1 (1719) Our hope for years to come, restored to life, I immediately consider with myself
endowed with this divining quality, though it should 35 Be Thou our guard while troubles last, whether it be more probable that this person should
ur God, our help in ages past, either deceive or be deceived, or that the fact which he
inform me truly of everything that can befall me. I
would not anticipate the relish of any happiness, nor feel O Our hope for years to come,
Our shelter from the stormy blast,
And our eternal home.
relates should really have happened. I weigh the one
miracle against the other; and according to the superior-
the weight of any misery, before it actually arrives.
I know but one way of fortifying my soul against And our eternal home. from David Hume, An Enquiry Concerning Human ity which I discover, I pronounce my decision, and
these gloomy presages and terrors of mind, and that is, Understanding (1748) always reject the greater miracle. If the falsehood of his
by securing to myself the friendship and protection of 5 Under the shadow of Thy throne testimony would be more miraculous than the event
that Being who disposes of events, and governs futurity. Thy saints have dwelt secure. from Section 10: “Of M iracles” which he relates, then, and not till then, can he pretend
He sees, at one view, the whole thread of my existence, Sufficient is Thine arm alone, to command my belief or opinion.
not only that part of it which I have already passed And our defense is sure. miracle is a violation of the laws of nature; and, as In the foregoing reasoning we have supposed that
through, but that which runs forward into all the depths
of eternity. When I lay me down to sleep, I recommend Before the hills in order stood,
A a firm and unalterable experience has established
these laws, the proof against a miracle, from the very
the testimony upon which a miracle is founded may
possibly amount to an entire proof, and that the false-
myself to His care. When I awake, I give myself up to 10 Or earth received her frame, nature of the fact, is as entire as any argument from hood of that testimony would be a real prodigy. But it
His direction. Amidst all the evils that threaten me, I From everlasting Thou art God, experience can possibly be imagined. Why is it more is easy to show that we have been a great deal too liberal
will look up to Him for help, and question not but be To endless years the same. than probable that all men must die; that lead cannot, in our concession, and that there never was a miraculous
will either avert them, or turn them to my advantage. of itself, remain suspended in the air; that fire consumes event established on so full an evidence.
Though I know neither the time nor the manner of the Thy word commands our flesh to dust, wood, and is extinguished by water; unless it be, that For first, there is not to be found, in all history, any
death I am to die, I am not at all solicitous about it, Return, ye sons of men. these events are found agreeable to the laws of nature, miracle attested by a sufficient number of men of such
because I am sure that He knows them both, and that 15 All nations rose from earth at first, and there is required a violation of these laws, or in unquestioned good sense, education, and learning, as to
He will not fail to comfort and support me under them. And turn to earth again. other words, a miracle to prevent them? Nothing is secure us against all delusion in themselves; of such
esteemed a miracle if it ever happen in the common undoubted integrity, as to place them beyond all suspi-
A thousand ages in Thy sight course of nature. It is no miracle that a man, seemingly cion of any design to deceive others; of such credit and
Isaac Watts, “Against Idleness and Mischief” (1715) Are like an evening gone; in good health, should die on a sudden; because such a reputation in the eyes of mankind, as to have a great
Short as the watch that ends the night, kind of death, though more unusual than any other, has deal to lose in case of their being detected in any false-
ow doth the little busy bee Before the rising sun. yet been frequently observed to happen. But it is a hood; and at the same time, attesting facts performed in
H Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
20
The busy tribes of flesh and blood

miracle that a dead man should come to life, because
that has never been observed in any age or country.
such a public manner and in so celebrated a part of the
world, as to render the detection unavoidable. All which
From every opening flower! With all their lives and cares There must, therefore, be a uniform experience against circumstances are requisite to give us a full assurance in
Are carried downwards by thy flood, every miraculous event, otherwise the event would not the testimony of men.
5 How skillfully she builds her cell! And lost in following years. merit that appellation. And as a uniform experience Secondly. We may observe in human nature a
How neat she spreads the wax! amounts to a proof, there is here a direct and full proof, principle which, if strictly examined, will be found to
And labours hard to store it well 25 Time, like an ever-rolling stream, from the nature of the fact, against the existence of any diminish extremely the assurance which we might, from
With the sweet food she makes. Bears all its sons away. miracle; nor can such a proof be destroyed, or the human testimony, have in any kind of prodigy. The
They fly forgotten, as a dream miracle rendered credible, but by an opposite proof, maxim by which we commonly conduct ourselves in our
In works of labour, or of skill, Dies at the opening day. which is superior. reasonings is that the objects of which we have no
10 I would be busy too; The plain consequence is (and it is a general maxim experience resemble those of which we have; that what
For Satan finds some mischief still° always worthy of our attention), “That no testimony is suffi- we have found to be most usual is always most probable;
For idle hands to do. cient to establish a miracle, unless the testimony be of and that where there is an opposition of arguments, we
1
Man … Eternal An imitation of lines 1–6 of Psalm 90.
2442 | LOW PEOPLE AND HIGH PEOPLE
60 They led— a kind of— as it were;

Nor wished, nor cared, nor laughed, nor cried;
And so they lived; and so they died.
Mind and God, Faith and Doubt 135
1718
ought to give the preference to such as are founded on amounted to a proof, it would be opposed by another
the greatest number of past observations. But though, in proof derived from the very nature of the fact which it
proceeding by this rule, we readily reject any fact which would endeavor to establish. It is experience only which Working-Class Geniuses
is unusual and incredible in an ordinary degree, yet in gives authority to human testimony; and it is the same
advancing farther, the mind observes not always the
same rule; but when anything is affirmed utterly absurd
and miraculous, it rather the more readily admits of
such a fact, upon account of that very circumstance
experience which assures us of the laws of nature. When,
therefore, these two kinds of experience are contrary, we
have nothing to do but subtract the one from the other
and embrace an opinion, either on one side or the other,
D ecades before Thomas Gray’s famous speculation appeared in “Elegy Written in
a Country Churchyard” (see pp. 3051–54) that “some mute inglorious Mil-
ton” (line 59) may be hidden among the nation’s working people, the notion of the
which ought to destroy all its authority. The passion of with that assurance which arises from the remainder. natural, untutored genius had emerged in Britain’s literary landscape. Stephen Duck
surprise and wonder, arising from miracles, being an But, according to the principle here explained, this (1705–1756), the first and most celebrated such poet of the century, attended a char-
agreeable emotion, gives a sensible tendency towards the subtraction, with regard to all popular religions, ity school until the age of fourteen; and as he worked subsequently as an agricultural
belief of those events from which it is derived. And this amounts to an entire annihilation; and therefore we may laborer by day, by night he read Milton, Dryden, The Spectator, Matthew Prior, and
goes so far that even those who cannot enjoy this establish it as a maxim, that no human testimony can other literature. By 1729, Duck had begun writing the poems that would make him
pleasure immediately, nor can believe those miraculous have such force as to prove a miracle and make it a just first a Wiltshire celebrity, then a national one. In 1730 he came to the attention of
events of which they are informed, yet love to partake of foundation for any such system of religion. … Queen Caroline, who gave him an annuity and a house, and eventually various official
the satisfaction at second-hand or by rebound, and place What we have said of miracles may be applied, posts; after Caroline’s death Duck studied successfully to become a clergyman. But
a pride and delight in exciting the admiration of others.… without any variation, to prophecies; and indeed, all his transformed life cut him off from his roots, and he finally killed himself by
Thirdly. It forms a strong presumption against all prophecies are real miracles, and as such only can be
drowning in a river behind a tavern. A pirated edition of three of his poems had
supernatural and miraculous relations, that they are admitted as proofs of any revelation. If it did not exceed
the capacity of human nature to foretell future events,
appeared in 1730 and went through ten editions in that year alone. The work included
observed chiefly to abound among ignorant and barba-
rous nations; or if a civilized people has ever given it would be absurd to employ any prophecy as an “The Thresher’s Labor,” a poem of nearly 300 lines, advertising Duck’s wages for
admission to any of them, that people will be found to argument for a divine mission or authority from heaven. that job on the title page (“four shillings and six pence per week”) and gaining him
have received them from ignorant and barbarous So that, upon the whole, we may conclude that the the nickname the Thresher Poet. It is from this edition that the excerpt here is
ancestors, who transmitted them with that inviolable Christian religion not only was at first attended with taken. Because Duck was unhappy with the pirated texts, he put out an authorized
sanction and authority which always attend received miracles, but even at this day cannot be believed by any Poems on Several Occasions (1736). The language of the earlier version is fresher,
opinions. When we peruse the first histories of all reasonable person without one. Mere reason is insuffi- though still exhibiting his high literary ambitions: he alludes to classical mythology
nations, we are apt to imagine ourselves transported into cient to convince us of its veracity. And whoever is and (skeptically) to pastoral conventions, and he structures “The Thresher’s Labor”
some new world, where the whole frame of nature is moved by faith to assent to it, is conscious of a contin- to follow the seasons of the year as experienced by farmworkers. The second selection
disjointed, and every element performs its operations in ued miracle in his own person, which subverts all the
from Duck, “On Mites, to a Lady,” from his 1736 collection, wryly comments on
a different manner from what it does at present. Battles, principles of his understanding, and gives him a deter-
human pretensions (of which his new place in high society gave him a good view) by
revolutions, pestilence, famine, and death are never the mination to believe what is most contrary to custom and
experience. employing the magnifying perspective afforded by modern science.
effect of those natural causes which we experience.
Prodigies, omens, oracles, judgments, quite obscure the Mary Collier (1699?–1762), another poet and laborer, was provoked by passages in
few natural events that are intermingled with them. But “The Thresher’s Labor” that depicted working women as lazy, “prattling females.” At
as the former grow thinner every page, in proportion as from James Boswell, The Life of Samuel Johnson her own expense, she printed “The Woman’s Labor: An Epistle to Mr. Duck” in 1739,
we advance nearer the enlightened ages, we soon learn (1791) an explicit, second-person retort to “great Duck,” whom she calls an “Immortal Bard!”
that there is nothing mysterious or supernatural in the Lacking any schooling, as her autobiographical note to a 1761 edition of her poems
ext morning I found [Johnson] alone, and have says, she was “set to such labor as the country afforded. My recreation was reading, I
case, but that all proceeds from the usual propensity of
mankind towards the marvelous, and that, though this
inclination may at intervals receive a check from sense
N preserved the following fragments of his conversa-
tion. Of a gentleman who was mentioned, he said, “I
bought and borrowed many books.” “The Woman’s Labor,” a poem of about 250 lines,
portrays the range of women’s work that Collier knew firsthand: washing clothes,
and learning, it can never be thoroughly extirpated from have not met with any man for a long time who has
polishing the brass and silver of gentry employers, brewing beer, and the field labor,
human nature. … given me such general displeasure. He is totally unfixed
household chores, and child rearing that the excerpt describes. Though she never
Upon the whole, then, it appears that no testimony in his principles, and wants to puzzle other people.” I
for any kind of miracle has ever amounted to a probabil- said his principles had been poisoned by a noted infidel attained the fame that Duck did, she vividly describes the hardships faced by working
ity, much less to a proof; and that, even supposing it women. After Duck and Collier, writings of several other country laborers would find
their way into print, including those of Mary Leapor (see pp. 2783–87) and Ann
Yearsley, the “Milkmaid Poet,” who published her work in 1785. Sponsored and con-
descended to by wealthy patrons, often seen as mere curiosities in the period’s liter-
ary culture, these authors speak in vigorous, singular voices, for the first time in
literature, of experiences shared by multitudes of working people and inaugurate a
tradition of working-class writing that would transform the literary, social, and politi-
cal consciousness of the nation.
DUCK: THE THRESHER’S LABOR | 2443 2444 | LOW PEOPLE AND HIGH PEOPLE
50 Nor yet the tedious labor to beguile,

And make the passing minutes sweetly smile,
Can we, like shepherds, tell a merry tale;3
STEPHEN DUCK The voice is lost, drowned by the noisy flail.
But we may think— Alas! what pleasing thing
55 Here to the mind can the dull fancy bring?
From The Thresher’s Labor The eye beholds no pleasant object here;
No cheerful sound diverts the listening ear.
* * * The shepherd well may tune his voice to sing,
Soon as the harvest hath laid bare the plains, Inspired by all the beauties of the spring,
And barns well filled reward the farmer’s pains; 60 No fountains murmur here, no lambkins play,
15 What corn° each sheaf will yield, intent to hear, grain
No linnets warble, and no fields look gay.
And guess from thence the profits of the year; ’Tis all a dull and melancholy scene,
Or else impending ruin to prevent, Fit only to provoke the muses’ spleen.
By paying, timely, threatening landlord’s rent, * * *
He calls his threshers1 forth: around we stand,
20 With deep attention waiting his command. 1730, 1736
To each our tasks he readily divides,
And pointing, to our different stations guides.
As he directs, to different barns we go;
Here two for wheat, and there for barley two, On Mites, to a Lady
25 But first, to show what he expects to find,
These words, or words like these, disclose his mind: ’Tis but by way of Simile.
Prior1
“So dry the corn was carried from the field,
So easily will thresh, so well ’twill yield.
Dear Madam, did you never gaze,
Sure large day’s work I well may hope for now;
Through optic°-glass, on rotten cheese? magnifying
30 Come, strip, and try, let’s see what you can do.”
There, Madam, did you ne’er perceive
Divested of our clothes, with flail in hand,
A crowd of dwarfish creatures live?
At a just distance, front to front we stand;
5 The little things, elate with pride,
And first the threshall’s° gently swung, to prove flail
Strut to and fro, from side to side:
Whether with just exactness it will move.
In tiny pomp, and pertly vain,
35 That once secure, more quick we whirl them round,
Lords of their pleasing orb, they reign;
From the strong planks our crab-tree staves rebound,
And, filled with hardened curds and cream,
And echoing barns return the rattling sound.
10 Think the whole dairy made for them.
Now in the air our knotty weapons fly,
So men, conceited lords of all,
And now with equal force descend from high:
Walk proudly o’er this pendent ball,° earth
40 Down one, one up, so well they keep the time,
Fond of their little spot below,
The Cyclops’ hammers could not truer chime;
Nor greater beings care to know;
Nor with more heavy strokes could Aetna groan,
15 But think, those worlds, which deck the skies,
When Vulcan forged the arms for Thetis’ son.2
Were only formed to please their eyes.
In briny streams our sweat descends apace,
45 Drops from our locks, or trickles down our face. 1736
No intermission in our works we know;
The noisy threshall must for ever go.
Their master absent, others safely play;
The sleeping threshall doth itself betray.
1. Those who separate grains from their husks Hephaestus, who made Achilles’ shield in the vol-
with a flail, a wooden staff with a short, heavy cano “Aetna,” Sicily. The Cyclops were Hephaes-
stick attached by a chain at the end. tus’ workers. These lines echo a passage from the 3. Duck refers to themes, conventional in pasto- 1. From Matthew Prior’s “A Simile,” which com-
2. Thetis’s son is Achilles, hero of Homer’s Iliad; fourth of Virgil’s Georgics (29 b.c.e.), which ral poetry, about the literary leisure of shepherds’ pares poets to squirrels in a cage.
Vulcan, Roman god identified with the Greek god depict rural labor, as translated by Dryden. lives.
COLLIER: THE WOM AN’S L ABOR | 2445 MARY JONES | 2447
Her toilet° shines with plate° embossed, dressing table / wrought silver
20 What sums her lace and linen cost!
MARY COLLIER The clothes that must his person° grace
Shine with embroidery and lace.
body
The costly pride of Persian looms,

From The Woman’s Labor And Guido’s1 paintings, grace his rooms.
25 His wealth Castalio will not waste,
* * * But must have every thing in taste.
He’s an economist° confessed, thrifty
When harvest comes, into the field we go, But what he buys must be the best.
And help to reap the wheat as well as you; For common use, a set of plate;
Or else we go the ears of corn to glean°; gather 30 Old china, when he dines in state;
90 No labor scorning, be it e’er so mean; A coach and six, to take the air;
But in the work we freely bear a part, Besides a chariot and a chair.° sedan chair
And what we can, perform with all our heart. All these important calls supplied,
To get a living we so willing are, Calls of necessity, not pride,
Our tender babes into the field we bear, 35 His income’s regularly spent;
95 And wrap them in our clothes to keep them warm, He scarcely saves to pay his rent.
While round about we gather up the corn; No man alive would do more good,
And often unto them our course do bend, Or give more freely, if he could.
To keep them safe, that nothing them offend: He grieves, whene’er the wretched sue;° ask for aid
Our children that are able, bear a share 40 But what can poor Castalio do?
100 In gleaning corn, such is our frugal care.
When night comes on, unto our home we go, Would heaven but send ten thousand more,
Our corn we carry, and our infant too; He’d give—just as he did before.
Weary, alas! but ’tis not worth our while
Once to complain, or rest at ev’ry stile;1 1734
105 We must make haste, for when we home are come, 1. Guido Reni, Italian painter (1575–1642).
Alas! we find our work but just begun;
So many things for our attendance call,
Had we ten hands, we could employ them all.
Our children put to bed, with greatest care
110 We all things for your coming home prepare:
You sup, and go to bed without delay, MARY JONES
And rest yourselves till the ensuing day;
While we, alas! but little sleep can have,
Because our froward° children cry and rave; unruly
115 Yet, without fail, soon as day-light doth spring,
We in the field again our work begin,
And there, with all our strength, our toil renew,
I can’t say they, any of ’em, answered to my expectations,” Mary Jones (1707–1778)
joked of her humble ancestors— except her grandmother, “counted the best
housewife in the village.” Daughter of a cooper (a maker or repairer of casks or tubs)
Till Titan’s golden rays2 have dried the dew; in Oxford, Jones found a way to learn French and Italian, and then worked as a
Then home we go unto our children dear, governess in aristocratic households. Her connections in high social circles helped
120 Dress, feed, and bring them to the field with care. her bring a volume of poems and witty letters, Miscellanies in Prose and Verse
Were this your case, you justly might complain (1750), into print, with a subscribers’ list of around fourteen hundred names. As the
That day nor night you are secure from pain; project was conceived, she again adopted a droll tone: despairing of fame, she says,
“I must even stick by my first mover, riches: and as to the other, if it comes, why let
Those mighty troubles which perplex your mind
it.” Fame did come to Jones. The Monthly Review declared that “her compositions
(Thistles before, and Females come behind)3
in verse are superior to those of any other female writer since the days of Catherine
Philips.”
1. What Duck says the exhausted men must do Titan god Hyperion, though other Greek literature Jones’s work, like Mary Barber’s, was represented extensively in the major anthol-
on the way home after a day’s work (“Thresher’s identifies the sun with Hyperion’s son, Helios. ogies of women’s poetry in the century. Though she was keenly aware of the social
Labor,” line 151). Stile: steps over or through a 3. At “Thresher’s Labor,” lines 241– 43, Duck
fence, allowing people but not livestock to cross. complains about thistles and women in the fields.
disparity between her and her wealthy friends, her literary reputation brought its
2. The sun. Homer calls the sun Titan after the
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In short, no other poet of the century can equal Pope in the range of his materials, These born to judge, as well as those to write.
the diversity of his poetic styles, and the wizardry of his technique. 15 Let such teach others who themselves excel,
And censure freely who have written well.
Authors are partial to their wit, ’tis true,
But are not critics to their judgment too?
An Essay on Criticism There is no pleasanter introduction to the canons Yet if we look more closely, we shall find
of taste in the English Augustan age than Pope’s An Essay on Criticism. As Addison 20 Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind:
said in his review in Spectator 253, it assembles the “most known and most received Nature affords at least a glimmering light;
observations on the subject of literature and criticism.” Pope was attempting to do
The lines, though touched but faintly, are drawn right.
for his time what Horace, in his Art of Poetry, and what Nicolas Boileau (French
But as the slightest sketch, if justly traced,
poet, of the age of Louis XIV), in his L’Art Poétique, had done for theirs. Horace is
Pope’s model not only for principles of criticism but also for style, especially in the
Is by ill coloring but the more disgraced,
simple, conversational language and the tone of well-bred ease. 25 So by false learning is good sense defaced:
In framing his critical creed, Pope did not try for novelty: he wished merely to give Some are bewildered in the maze of schools,
to generally accepted doctrines pleasing and memorable expression and make them And some made coxcombs1 Nature meant but fools.
useful to modern poets. Here one meets the key words of neoclassical criticism: wit, In search of wit these lose their common sense,
Nature, ancients, rules, and genius. Wit in the poem is a word of many meanings— a And then turn critics in their own defense:
clever remark or the person who makes it, a conceit, liveliness of mind, inventiveness, 30 Each burns alike, who can, or cannot write,
fancy, genius, a genius, and poetry itself, among others. Nature is an equally ambigu- Or with a rival’s or an eunuch’s spite.
ous word, meaning not “things out there” or “the outdoors” but most important that All fools have still an itching to deride,
which is representative, universal, permanent in human experience as opposed to the And fain would be upon the laughing side.
idiosyncratic, the individual, the temporary. In line 21, Nature comes close to mean- If Maevius2 scribble in Apollo’s spite,
ing “intuitive knowledge.” In line 52, it means that half-personified power manifested 35 There are who judge still worse than he can write.
in the cosmic order, which in its modes of working is a model for art. The reverence Some have at first for wits, then poets passed,
felt by most Augustans for the great writers of ancient Greece and Rome raised the Turned critics next, and proved plain fools at last.
question how far the authority of these ancients extended. Were their works to be Some neither can for wits nor critics pass,
received as models to be conscientiously imitated? Were the rules received from them As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass.
or deducible from their works to be accepted as prescriptive laws or merely conve- 40 Those half-learn’d witlings, numerous in our isle,
nient guides? Was individual genius to be bound by what has been conventionally As half-formed insects on the banks of Nile;3
held to be Nature, by the authority of the ancients, and by the legalistic pedantry of
Unfinished things, one knows not what to call,
rules? Or could it go its own way?
Their generation’s so equivocal:
In part 1 of the Essay, Pope constructs a harmonious system in which he effects a
compromise among all these conflicting forces— a compromise that is typical of his
To tell° them would a hundred tongues require, reckon, count
times. Part 2 analyzes the causes of faulty criticism. Part 3 characterizes the good 45 Or one vain wit’s, that might a hundred tire.
critic and praises the great critics of the past. But you who seek to give and merit fame,
And justly bear a critic’s noble name,
Be sure yourself and your own reach to know,
How far your genius, taste, and learning go;
An Essay on Criticism 50 Launch not beyond your depth, but be discreet,
And mark that point where sense and dullness meet.
Part 1 Nature to all things fixed the limits fit,
And wisely curbed proud man’s pretending° wit. aspiring
’Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill
As on the land while here the ocean gains,
Appear in writing or in judging ill;
55 In other parts it leaves wide sandy plains;
But of the two less dangerous is the offense
Thus in the soul while memory prevails,
To tire our patience than mislead our sense.
The solid power of understanding fails;
5 Some few in that, but numbers err in this,
Where beams of warm imagination play,
Ten censure° wrong for one who writes amiss; judge
The memory’s soft figures melt away.
A fool might once himself alone expose,
60 One science° only will one genius fit, branch of learning
Now one in verse makes many more in prose.
So vast is art, so narrow human wit.
’Tis with our judgments as our watches, none
Not only bounded to peculiar arts,
10 Go just alike, yet each believes his own.
In poets as true genius is but rare, 1. Superficial pretenders to learning. 3. The ancients believed that many forms of life
True taste as seldom is the critic’s share; 2. A silly poet alluded to contemptuously by Vir- were spontaneously generated in the fertile mud
Both must alike from Heaven derive their light, gil in Eclogue 3 and by Horace in Epode 10. of the Nile.
But oft in those confined to single parts. Nor time nor moths e’er spoiled so much as they.
Like kings we lose the conquests gained before, Some dryly plain, without invention’s aid,
65 By vain ambition still to make them more; 115 Write dull receipts5 how poems may be made.
Each might his several province well command, These leave the sense their learning to display,
Would all but stoop to what they understand. And those explain the meaning quite away.
First follow Nature, and your judgment frame You then whose judgment the right course would steer,
By her just standard, which is still the same; Know well each ancient’s proper character;
70 Unerring Nature, still divinely bright, 120 His fable,6 subject, scope° in every page; aim, purpose
One clear, unchanged, and universal light, Religion, country, genius of his age:
Life, force, and beauty must to all impart, Without all these at once before your eyes,
At once the source, and end, and test of art. Cavil you may, but never criticize.
Art from that fund each just supply provides, Be Homer’s works your study and delight,
75 Works without show, and without pomp presides. 125 Read them by day, and meditate by night;
In some fair body thus the informing soul Thence form your judgment, thence your maxims bring,
With spirits feeds, with vigor fills the whole, And trace the Muses upward to their spring.
Each motion guides, and every nerve sustains; Still with itself compared, his text peruse;
Itself unseen, but in the effects remains. And let your comment be the Mantuan Muse.
80 Some, to whom Heaven in wit has been profuse, 130 When first young Maro7 in his boundless mind
Want as much more to turn it to its use; A work to outlast immortal Rome designed,
For wit and judgment often are at strife, Perhaps he seemed above the critic’s law,
Though meant each other’s aid, like man and wife. And but from Nature’s fountains scorned to draw;
’Tis more to guide than spur the Muse’s steed, But when to examine every part he came,
85 Restrain his fury than provoke his speed; 135 Nature and Homer were, he found, the same.
The wingèd courser,4 like a generous° horse, spirited, highly bred Convinced, amazed, he checks the bold design,
Shows most true mettle when you check his course. And rules as strict his labored work confine
Those rules of old discovered, not devised, As if the Stagirite8 o’erlooked each line.
Are Nature still, but Nature methodized; Learn hence for ancient rules a just esteem;
90 Nature, like liberty, is but restrained 140 To copy Nature is to copy them.
By the same laws which first herself ordained. Some beauties yet no precepts can declare,
Hear how learn’d Greece her useful rules indites, For there’s a happiness as well as care.9
When to repress and when indulge our flights: Music resembles poetry, in each
High on Parnassus’ top her sons she showed, Are nameless graces which no methods teach,
95 And pointed out those arduous paths they trod; 145 And which a master hand alone can reach.
Held from afar, aloft, the immortal prize, If, where the rules not far enough extend
And urged the rest by equal steps to rise. (Since rules were made but to promote their end)
Just precepts thus from great examples given, Some lucky license answers to the full
She drew from them what they derived from Heaven. The intent proposed, that license is a rule.
100 The generous critic fanned the poet’s fire, 150 Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take,
And taught the world with reason to admire. May boldly deviate from the common track.
Then criticism the Muse’s handmaid proved, Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend,
To dress her charms, and make her more beloved: And rise to faults true critics dare not mend;
But following wits from that intention strayed, From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part,
105 Who could not win the mistress, wooed the maid; 155 And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art,
Against the poets their own arms they turned, Which, without passing through the judgment, gains
Sure to hate most the men from whom they learned.
So modern ’pothecaries, taught the art 5. Formulas for preparing a dish; recipes. Pope commentary (“comment”) on Homer’s poems.
By doctors’s bills° to play the doctor’s part, prescriptions himself wrote an amusing burlesque, “Receipt to 8. Aristotle, a native of Stagira, from whose
Make an Epic Poem,” first published in the Poetics later critics formulated strict rules for
110 Bold in the practice of mistaken rules, Guardian 78 (1713). writing tragedy and the epic.
Prescribe, apply, and call their masters fools. 6. Plot or story of a play or poem. 9. I.e., no rules (“precepts”) can explain
7. Virgil, who was born in a village adjacent to (“declare”) some beautiful effects in a work of art
Some on the leaves of ancient authors prey, Mantua in Italy, hence “Mantuan Muse.” His epic, that can be the result only of inspiration or good
the Aeneid, was modeled on Homer’s Iliad and luck (“happiness”), not of painstaking labor
Odyssey and was considered to be a refinement, of (“care”).
4. Pegasus, associated with the Muses and poetic inspiration. the Greek poems. Thus it could be thought of as a
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The heart, and all its end at once attains. Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools.
In prospects thus, some objects please our eyes, 205 Whatever Nature has in worth denied,
Which out of Nature’s common order rise, She gives in large recruits° of needful pride; supplies
160 The shapeless rock, or hanging precipice. For as in bodies, thus in souls, we find
But though the ancients thus their rules invade° violate What wants in blood and spirits, swelled with wind:
(As kings dispense with laws themselves have made) Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defense,
Moderns, beware! or if you must offend 210 And fills up all the mighty void of sense.
Against the precept, ne’er transgress its end; If once right reason drives that cloud away,
165 Let it be seldom, and compelled by need; Truth breaks upon us with resistless day.
And have at least their precedent to plead. Trust not yourself: but your defects to know,
The critic else proceeds without remorse, Make use of every friend— and every foe.
Seizes your fame, and puts his laws in force. 215 A little learning is a dangerous thing;
I know there are, to whose presumptuous thoughts Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring.3
170 Those freer beauties, even in them, seem faults.1 There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
Some figures monstrous and misshaped appear, And drinking largely sobers us again.
Considered singly, or beheld too near, Fired at first sight with what the Muse imparts,
Which, but proportioned to their light or place, 220 In fearless youth we tempt° the heights of arts, attempt
Due distance reconciles to form and grace. While from the bounded level of our mind
175 A prudent chief not always must display Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind;
His powers in equal ranks and fair array, But more advanced, behold with strange surprise
But with the occasion and the place comply, New distant scenes of endless science rise!
Conceal his force, nay seem sometimes to fly. 225 So pleased at first the towering Alps we try,
Those oft are stratagems which errors seem, Mount o’er the vales, and seem to tread the sky,
180 Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream. The eternal snows appear already past,
Still green with bays each ancient altar stands And the first clouds and mountains seem the last;
Above the reach of sacrilegious hands, But, those attained, we tremble to survey
Secure from flames, from envy’s fiercer rage, 230 The growing labors of the lengthened way,
Destructive war, and all-involving age. The increasing prospect tires our wandering eyes,
185 See, from each clime the learn’d their incense bring! Hills peep o’er hills, and Alps on Alps arise!
Here in all tongues consenting° paeans ring! agreeing, concurring A perfect judge will read each work of wit
In praise so just let every voice be joined,2 With the same spirit that its author writ:
And fill the general chorus of mankind. 235 Survey the whole, nor seek slight faults to find
Hail, bards triumphant! born in happier days, Where Nature moves, and rapture warms the mind;
190 Immortal heirs of universal praise! Nor lose, for that malignant dull delight,
Whose honors with increase of ages grow, The generous pleasure to be charmed with wit.
As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow; But in such lays as neither ebb nor flow,
Nations unborn your mighty names shall sound, 240 Correctly cold, and regularly low,
And worlds applaud that must not yet be found! That, shunning faults, one quiet tenor keep,
195 Oh, may some spark of your celestial fire, We cannot blame indeed— but we may sleep.
The last, the meanest of your sons inspire In wit, as nature, what affects our hearts
(That on weak wings, from far, pursues your flights, Is not the exactness of peculiar° parts; par ticular
Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes) 245 ’Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call,
To teach vain wits a science little known, But the joint force and full result of all.
200 To admire superior sense, and doubt their own! Thus when we view some well-proportioned dome4
(The world’s just wonder, and even thine, O Rome!),
No single parts unequally surprise,
Part 2 250 All comes united to the admiring eyes:
Of all the causes which conspire to blind No monstrous height, or breadth, or length appear;
Man’s erring judgment, and misguide the mind, The whole at once is bold and regular.
What the weak head with strongest bias rules,
3. The spring in Pieria on Mount Olympus, 4. The dome of St. Peter’s, designed by Michel-
1. Pronounced fawts. 2. Pronounced jined. sacred to the Muses. angelo.
Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, 300 That gives us back the image of our mind.
Thinks what ne’er was, nor is, nor e’er shall be. As shades more sweetly recommend the light,
255 In every work regard the writer’s end, So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit;
Since none can compass more than they intend; For works may have more wit than does them good,
And if the means be just, the conduct true, As bodies perish through excess of blood.
Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due. 305 Others for language all their care express,
As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit, And value books, as women men, for dress.
260 To avoid great errors must the less commit, Their praise is still— the style is excellent;
Neglect the rules each verbal critic lays, The sense they humbly take upon contènt.° mere acquiescence
For not to know some trifles is a praise. Words are like leaves; and where they most abound,
Most critics, fond of some subservient art, 310 Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found.
Still make the whole depend upon a part: False eloquence, like the prismatic glass,
265 They talk of principles, but notions prize, Its gaudy colors spreads on every place;8
And all to one loved folly sacrifice. The face of Nature we no more survey,
Once on a time La Mancha’s knight,5 they say, All glares alike, without distinction gay.
A certain bard encountering on the way, 315 But true expression, like the unchanging sun,
Discoursed in terms as just, with looks as sage, Clears and improves whate’er it shines upon;
270 As e’er could Dennis,6 of the Grecian stage; It gilds all objects, but it alters none.
Concluding all were desperate sots and fools Expression is the dress of thought, and still
Who durst depart from Aristotle’s rules. Appears more decent as more suitable.
Our author, happy in a judge so nice, 320 A vile conceit in pompous words expressed
Produced his play, and begged the knight’s advice; Is like a clown° in regal purple dressed: country bumpkin
275 Made him observe the subject and the plot, For different styles with different subjects sort,
The manners, passions, unities; what not? As several garbs with country, town, and court.
All which exact to rule were brought about, Some by old words to fame have made pretense,
Were but a combat in the lists left out. 325 Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense.
“What! leave the combat out?” exclaims the knight. Such labored nothings, in so strange a style,
280 “Yes, or we must renounce the Stagirite.” Amaze the unlearn’d, and make the learned smile;
“Not so, by Heaven!” he answers in a rage, Unlucky as Fungoso9 in the play,
“Knights, squires, and steeds must enter on the stage.” These sparks with awkward vanity display
“So vast a throng the stage can ne’er contain.” 330 What the fine gentleman wore yesterday;
“Then build a new, or act it in a plain.” And but so mimic ancient wits at best,
285 Thus critics of less judgment than caprice, As apes our grandsires in their doublets dressed.
Curious,° not knowing, not exact, but nice,° laborious / fussy In words as fashions the same rule will hold,
Form short ideas, and offend in arts Alike fantastic if too new or old:
(As most in manners), by a love to parts. 335 Be not the first by whom the new are tried,
Some to conceit7 alone their taste confine, Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.
290 And glittering thoughts struck out at every line; But most by numbers° judge a poet’s song, versification
Pleased with a work where nothing’s just or fit, And smooth or rough with them is right or wrong.
One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit. In the bright Muse though thousand charms conspire,
Poets, like painters, thus unskilled to trace 340 Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire,
The naked nature and the living grace, Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear,
295 With gold and jewels cover every part, Not mend their minds; as some to church repair,
And hide with ornaments their want of art. Not for the doctrine, but the music there.
True wit is Nature to advantage dressed, These equal syllables alone require,
What oft was thought, but ne’er so well expressed; 345 Though oft the ear the open vowels tire,1
Something whose truth convinced at sight we find, While expletives2 their feeble aid do join,
5. Don Quixote. The story comes not from Cer- posity. Pope apparently did not know Dennis 8. A very up-to-date scientific reference. New- 1. In lines 345–57 Pope cleverly contrives to make
vantes’s novel, but from a spurious sequel to it by personally, but his jibe at him in part 3 of this ton’s Opticks, which dealt with the prism and the his own metrics or diction illustrate the faults
Don Alonzo Fernandez de Avellaneda. poem made him a bitter enemy. spectrum, had been published in 1704, although that he is exposing.
6. John Dennis (1657–1734), although one of 7. Pointed wit, ingenuity and extravagance, or his theories had been known earlier. 2. Words used merely to achieve the necessary
the leading critics of the time, was frequently affectation in the use of figures, especially simi- 9. A character in Ben Jonson’s comedy Every number of feet in a line of verse.
ridiculed by the wits for his irascibility and pom- les and metaphors. Man out of His Humor (1599).
And ten low words oft creep in one dull line: Dullness is ever apt to magnify.
While they ring round the same unvaried chimes, Some foreign writers, some our own despise;
With sure returns of still expected rhymes; 395 The ancients only, or the moderns prize.
350 Where’er you find “the cooling western breeze,” Thus wit, like faith, by each man is applied
In the next line, it “whispers through the trees”; To one small sect, and all are damned beside.
If crystal streams “with pleasing murmurs creep,” Meanly they seek the blessing to confine,
The reader’s threatened (not in vain) with “sleep”; And force that sun but on a part to shine,
Then, at the last and only couplet fraught 400 Which not alone the southern wit sublimes,° raises up, purifies
355 With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, But ripens spirits in cold northern climes;
A needless Alexandrine3 ends the song Which from the first has shone on ages past,
That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. Enlights the present, and shall warm the last;
Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know Though each may feel increases and decays,
What’s roundly smooth or languishingly slow; 405 And see now clearer and now darker days.
360 And praise the easy vigor of a line Regard not then if wit be old or new,
Where Denham’s strength and Waller’s sweetness join.4 But blame the false and value still the true.
True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, Some ne’er advance a judgment of their own,
As those move easiest who have learned to dance. But catch the spreading notion of the town;
’Tis not enough no harshness gives offense, 410 They reason and conclude by precedent,
365 The sound must seem an echo to the sense. And own° stale nonsense which they ne’er invent. lay claim to
Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, Some judge of authors’ names, not works, and then
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows; Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men.
But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, Of all this servile herd the worst is he
The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar. 415 That in proud dullness joins with quality,9
370 When Ajax strives some rock’s vast weight to throw, A constant critic at the great man’s board,
The line too labors, and the words move slow; To fetch and carry nonsense for my lord.
Not so when swift Camilla5 scours the plain, What woeful stuff this madrigal would be
Flies o’er the unbending corn, and skims along the main. In some starved hackney sonneteer° or me! hireling poet
Hear how Timotheus’6 varied lays surprise, 420 But let a lord once own the happy lines,
375 And bid alternate passions fall and rise! How the wit brightens! how the style refines!
While at each change the son of Libyan Jove° Alexander the Great Before his sacred name flies every fault,
Now burns with glory, and then melts with love; And each exalted stanza teems with thought!
Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow, The vulgar thus through imitation err;
Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow: 425 As oft the learn’d by being singular;
380 Persians and Greeks like turns of nature7 found So much they scorn the crowd, that if the throng
And the world’s victor stood subdued by sound! By chance go right, they purposely go wrong.
The power of music all our hearts allow, So schismatics1 the plain believers quit,
And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now. And are but damned for having too much wit.
Avoid extremes; and shun the fault of such 430 Some praise at morning what they blame at night,
385 Who still are pleased too little or too much. But always think the last opinion right.
At every trifle scorn to take offense: A Muse by these is like a mistress used,
That always shows great pride, or little sense. This hour she’s idolized, the next abused;
Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best, While their weak heads like towns unfortified,
Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest. 435 ’Twixt sense and nonsense daily change their side.
390 Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move; Ask them the cause; they’re wiser still, they say;
For fools admire,° but men of sense approve:8 wonder And still tomorrow’s wiser than today.
As things seem large which we through mists descry, We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow;
Our wiser sons, no doubt, will think us so.
3. A line of verse containing six iambic feet; it is “sweetness” of the other. 440 Once school divines2 this zealous isle o’erspread;
illustrated in the next line. 5. Fleet-footed virgin warrior (Aeneid 7, 11).
4. Dryden, whom Pope echoes here, considered 6. The musician in Dryden’s “Alexander’s Feast.”
Sir John Denham (1615–1669) and Edmund Pope retells the story of that poem in the follow- 9. People of high rank. tionary.
Waller (1606–1687) to have been the principal ing lines. 1. Those who have divided the church on points 2. The medieval theologians, such as the follow-
shapers of the closed pentameter couplet. He had 7. Alternations of feelings. of theology. Pope stressed the first syllable, the ers of Duns Scotus and St. Thomas Aquinas,
distinguished the “strength” of the one and the 8. Judge favorably only after due deliberation. pronunciation approved by Johnson in his Dic- mentioned below.
Who knew most sentences3 was deepest read. Where a new world leaps out at his command,
Faith, Gospel, all seemed made to be disputed, And ready Nature waits upon his hand;
And none had sense enough to be confuted. When the ripe colors soften and unite,
Scotists and Thomists now in peace remain And sweetly melt into just shade and light;
445 Amidst their kindred cobwebs in Duck Lane.4 490 When mellowing years their full perfection give,
If faith itself has different dresses worn, And each bold figure just begins to live,
What wonder modes in wit should take their turn? The treacherous colors the fair art betray,
Oft, leaving what is natural and fit, And all the bright creation fades away!
The current folly proves the ready wit; Unhappy° wit, like most mistaken things, ill-fated
450 And authors think their reputation safe, 495 Atones not for that envy which it brings.
Which lives as long as fools are pleased to laugh. In youth alone its empty praise we boast,
Some valuing those of their own side or mind, But soon the short-lived vanity is lost;
Still make themselves the measure of mankind: Like some fair flower the early spring supplies,
Fondly° we think we honor merit then, foolishly That gaily blooms, but even in blooming dies.
455 When we but praise ourselves in other men. 500 What is this wit, which must our cares employ?
Parties in wit attend on those of state, The owner’s wife, that other men enjoy;
And public faction doubles private hate. Then most our trouble still when most admired,
Pride, Malice, Folly against Dryden rose, And still the more we give, the more required;
In various shapes of parsons, critics, beaux; Whose fame with pains we guard, but lose with ease,
460 But sense survived, when merry jests were past; 505 Sure some to vex, but never all to please;
For rising merit will buoy up at last. ’Tis what the vicious fear, the virtuous shun,
Might he return and bless once more our eyes, By fools ’tis hated, and by knaves undone!
New Blackmores and new Milbourns5 must arise. If wit so much from ignorance undergo,
Nay, should great Homer lift his awful head, Ah, let not learning too commence its foe!
465 Zoilus6 again would start up from the dead. 510 Of old those met rewards who could excel,
Envy will merit, as its shade, pursue, And such were praised who but endeavored well;
But like a shadow, proves the substance true; Though triumphs were to generals only due,
For envied wit, like Sol eclipsed, makes known Crowns were reserved to grace the soldiers too.8
The opposing body’s grossness, not its own. Now they who reach Parnassus’ lofty crown
470 When first that sun too powerful beams displays, 515 Employ their pains to spurn° some others down; kick
It draws up vapors which obscure its rays; And while self-love each jealous writer rules,
But even those clouds at last adorn its way, Contending wits become the sport of fools;
Reflect new glories, and augment the day. But still the worst with most regret commend,
Be thou the first true merit to befriend; For each ill author is as bad a friend.
475 His praise is lost who stays till all commend. 520 To what base ends, and by what abject ways,
Short is the date, alas! of modern rhymes, Are mortals urged through sacred° lust of praise!9 accursed
And ’tis but just to let them live betimes.° for a brief time Ah, ne’er so dire a thirst of glory boast,
No longer now that golden age appears, Nor in the critic let the man be lost!
When patriarch wits survived a thousand years: Good nature and good sense must ever join;
480 Now length of fame (our second life) is lost, 525 To err is human, to forgive divine.
And bare threescore is all even that can boast; But if in noble minds some dregs remain
Our sons their fathers’ failing language see, Not yet purged off, of spleen° and sour disdain, rancor
And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be.7 Discharge that rage on more provoking crimes,
So when the faithful pencil has designed Nor fear a dearth in these flagitious° times. scandalously wicked
485 Some bright idea of the master’s mind, 530 No pardon vile obscenity should find,
Though wit and art conspire to move your mind;
3. Allusion to Peter Lombard’s Book of Sentences, 6. A Greek critic of the 4th century b.c.e. who
But dullness with obscenity must prove
a book esteemed by Scholastic philosophers. wrote a book of carping criticism of Homer. As shameful sure as impotence in love.
4. Street where publishers’ remainders and sec- 7. The radical changes that took place in the In the fat age of pleasure, wealth, and ease
ondhand books were sold. English language between the death of Chaucer
5. Luke Milbourn had attacked Dryden’s trans- in 1400 and the death of Dryden in 1700 sug-
lation of Virgil. Sir Richard Blackmore, physi- gested that in another three hundred years
cian and poet, had attacked Dryden for the Dryden would be unintelligible. 8. To celebrate Roman victories, valiant soldiers 9. The phrase imitates Virgil’s auri sacra famis,
immorality of his plays. were decorated with a variety of crowns. “accursed hunger for gold” (Aeneid 3.57).
535 Sprung the rank weed, and thrived with large increase: For the worst avarice is that of sense.
When love was all an easy monarch’s1 care, 580 With mean complacence5 ne’er betray your trust,
Seldom at council, never in a war; Nor be so civil as to prove unjust.
Jilts2 ruled the state, and statesmen farces writ; Fear not the anger of the wise to raise;
Nay, wits had pensions, and young lords had wit; Those best can bear reproof, who merit praise.
540 The fair sat panting at a courtier’s play, ’Twere well might critics still this freedom take;
And not a mask 3 went unimproved away; 585 But Appius reddens at each word you speak,
The modest fan was lifted up no more, And stares, tremendous! with a threatening eye,
And virgins smiled at what they blushed before. Like some fierce tyrant in old tapestry.6
The following license of a foreign reign Fear most to tax an honorable fool,
545 Did all the dregs of bold Socinus4 drain; Whose right it is, uncensured to be dull;
Then unbelieving priests reformed the nation, 590 Such, without wit, are poets when they please,
And taught more pleasant methods of salvation; As without learning they can take degrees.7
Where Heaven’s free subjects might their rights dispute, Leave dangerous truths to unsuccessful satyrs,° satires
Lest God himself should seem too absolute; And flattery to fulsome dedicators,
550 Pulpits their sacred satire learned to spare, Whom, when they praise, the world believes no more,
And Vice admired° to find a flatterer there! wondered 595 Than when they promise to give scribbling o’er.
Encouraged thus, wit’s Titans braved the skies, ’Tis best sometimes your censure to restrain,
And the press groaned with licensed blasphemies. And charitably let the dull be vain:
These monsters, critics! with your darts engage, Your silence there is better than your spite,
555 Here point your thunder, and exhaust your rage! For who can rail so long as they can write?
Yet shun their fault, who, scandalously nice,° subtle 600 Still humming on, their drowsy course they keep,
Will needs mistake an author into vice; And lashed so long, like tops, are lashed asleep.8
All seems infected that the infected spy, False steps but help them to renew the race,
As all looks yellow to the jaundiced eye. As, after stumbling, jades° will mend their pace. worn-out horses
What crowds of these, impenitently bold,
605 In sounds and jingling syllables grown old,
Part 3 Still run on poets, in a raging vein,
560 Learn then what morals critics ought to show, Even to the dregs and squeezings of the brain,
For ’tis but half a judge’s task, to know. Strain out the last dull droppings of their sense,
’Tis not enough, taste, judgment, learning, join; And rhyme with all the rage of impotence.
In all you speak, let truth and candor° shine: kindness, impartiality 610 Such shameless bards we have, and yet ’tis true,
That not alone what to your sense is due There are as mad, abandoned critics too.
565 All may allow; but seek your friendship too. The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read,
Be silent always when you doubt your sense; With loads of learned lumber° in his head, rubbish
And speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence: With his own tongue still edifies his ears,
Some positive, persisting fops we know, 615 And always listening to himself appears.
Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so; All books he reads, and all he reads assails,
570 But you, with pleasure own your errors past, From Dryden’s Fables down to Durfey’s Tales.9
And make each day a critic° on the last. critique With him, most authors steal their works, or buy;
’Tis not enough, your counsel still be true; Garth did not write his own Dispensary.1
Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do; 620 Name a new play, and he’s the poet’s friend,
Men must be taught as if you taught them not, Nay showed his faults—but when would poets mend?
575 And things unknown proposed as things forgot. No place so sacred from such fops is barred,
Without good breeding, truth is disapproved;
That only makes superior sense beloved. 5. Softness of manners; desire of pleasing. men of rank.
6. “This picture was taken to himself by John 8. Tops “sleep” when they spin so rapidly that
Be niggards of advice on no pretense; Dennis, a furious old critic by profession, who, they seem not to move.
upon no other provocation, wrote against this 9. Thomas D’Urfey’s Tales (1704) were notorious
Essay and its author, in a manner perfectly luna- potboilers. Dryden’s Fables (1700), a set of trans-
1. Charles II. The concluding lines of part 2 dis- 4. The name of two Italian theologians of the tic” [Pope’s note, 1744]. Pope did intend to ridicule lations, were among his most admired works.
cuss the corruption of wit and poetry under this 16th century who denied the divinity of Jesus. Dennis, whose Appius and Virginia had failed on 1. Samuel Garth (1661–1719), who had been
monarch. Pope charges that freethinkers attained the upper the stage in 1709 and who was known for his stare accused of plagiarizing his mock-epic poem The
2. Mistresses of the king. hand during the “foreign reign” of William III, a and his use of the word tremendous (see line 270). Dispensary (1699), was admired and defended by
3. A woman wearing a mask. Dutchman. 7. Honorary degrees were granted to unqualified Pope.
Nor is Paul’s church more safe than Paul’s churchyard:2 In grave Quintilian’s8 copious work, we find
Nay, fly to altars; there they’ll talk you dead: 670 The justest rules, and clearest method joined:
625 For fools rush in where angels fear to tread. Thus useful arms in magazines° we place, storehouses, arsenals
Distrustful sense with modest caution speaks, All ranged in order, and disposed with grace,
It still looks home, and short excursions makes; But less to please the eye, than arm the hand,
But rattling nonsense in full volleys breaks, Still fit for use, and ready at command.
And never shocked, and never turned aside, 675 Thee, bold Longinus!9 all the nine° inspire, Muses
630 Bursts out, resistless, with a thundering tide. And bless their critic with a poet’s fire.
But where’s the man, who counsel can bestow, An ardent judge, who, zealous in his trust,
Still pleased to teach, and yet not proud to know? With warmth gives sentence, yet is always just;
Unbiased, or° by favor, or by spite: either Whose own example strengthens all his laws,
Not dully prepossessed, nor blindly right; 680 And is himself that great sublime he draws.
635 Though learned, well-bred; and though well-bred, sincere; Thus long succeeding critics justly reigned,
Modestly bold, and humanly severe: License repressed, and useful laws ordained.
Who to a friend his faults can freely show, Learning and Rome alike in empire grew;
And gladly praise the merit of a foe? And arts still followed where her eagles1 flew;
Blessed with a taste exact, yet unconfined; 685 From the same foes, at last, both felt their doom,
640 A knowledge both of books and humankind; And the same age saw learning fall, and Rome.
Gen’rous converse;3 a soul exempt from pride; With tyranny, then superstition joined,
And love to praise, with reason on his side? As that the body, this enslaved the mind;
Such once were critics; such the happy few, Much was believed, but little understood,
Athens and Rome in better ages knew. 690 And to be dull was construed to be good;
645 The mighty Stagirite° first left the shore, Aristotle A second deluge learning thus o’errun,
Spread all his sails, and durst the deeps explore; And the monks finished what the Goths begun.2
He steered securely, and discovered far, At length Erasmus, that great, injured name
Led by the light of the Maeonian star.4 (The glory of the priesthood, and the shame!),3
Poets, a race long unconfined, and free, 695 Stemmed the wild torrent of a barb’rous age,
650 Still fond and proud of savage liberty, And drove those holy Vandals off the stage.
Received his laws; and stood convinced ’twas fit, But see! each Muse, in Leo’s golden days,
Who conquered nature, should preside o’er wit. Starts from her trance, and trims her withered bays!4
Horace still charms with graceful negligence, Rome’s ancient Genius, o’er its ruins spread,
And without method talks us into sense; 700 Shakes off the dust, and rears his reverend head.
655 Will, like a friend, familiarly convey Then sculpture and her sister-arts revive;
The truest notions in the easiest° way. least formal Stones leaped to form, and rocks began to live;
He, who supreme in judgment, as in wit, With sweeter notes each rising temple rung;
Might boldly censure, as he boldly writ, A Raphael painted, and a Vida5 sung.
Yet judged with coolness, though he sung with fire; 705 Immortal Vida: on whose honored brow
660 His precepts teach but what his works inspire. The poet’s bays and critic’s ivy grow:
Our critics take a contrary extreme, Cremona now shall ever boast thy name,
They judge with fury, but they write with fle’me.° phlegmatically As next in place to Mantua, next in fame!6
Nor suffers Horace more in wrong translations But soon by impious arms from Latium7 chased,
By wits, than critics5 in as wrong quotations.
665 See Dionysius6 Homer’s thoughts refine, 8. Author of the Institutio Oratorio (ca. 95 c.e.), of his goodness and learning and its “shame”
And call new beauties forth from every line! a famous treatise on rhetoric. Here as elsewhere, because he was persecuted.
Pope’s terms of praise are drawn from the author 4. The wreath of poetry. Leo X, pope from 1513
Fancy and art in gay Petronius7 please, he is praising. to 1521, was notable for his encouragement of
The scholar’s learning, with the courtier’s ease. 9. Supposed author of the influential treatise artists.
On the Sublime (1st century c.e.), greatly in 5. “M. Hieronymus Vida, an excellent Latin
vogue at the time of Pope. poet, who writ an Art of Poetry in verse. He flour-
1. Emblems on the standards of the Roman army. ished in the time of Leo the Tenth” [Pope’s note].
2. Booksellers’ district near St. Paul’s Cathe- 5. I.e., than by critics. Phrases from Horace’s 2. Pope thought that the Scholastic theologians Raphael (1483–1520) painted many of his great-
dral, whose aisles were used as a place to meet Art of Poetry were quoted incessantly by critics. of the Middle Ages were “holy Vandals” who had est works under the patronage of Leo X.
and do business. 6. Dionysius of Halicarnassus (1st century “sacked” learning as the Goths and Vandals had 6. Vida came from Cremona, near Mantua, the
3. Well-bred conversation. b.c.e.) wrote an important treatise on the artistic sacked Rome. birthplace of Virgil, his favorite poet.
4. Homer, who was supposed to have been born arrangement of words. 3. Erasmus (1466–1536), the great humanist 7. Italy. German and Spanish troops sacked
in Maeonia. 7. Author of the Satyricon (1st century c.e.). scholar, was the “glory of the priesthood” because Rome in 1527.
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710 Their ancient bounds the banished Muses passed; And even my Abelard be loved no more.
Thence arts o’er all the northern world advance, 335 O death all-eloquent! you only prove
But critic-learning flourished most in France: What dust we doat on, when ’tis man we love.
The rules a nation, born to serve, obeys; Then too, when fate shall thy fair frame destroy,
And Boileau still in right of Horace sways.8 (That cause of all my guilt, and all my joy)
715 But we, brave Britons, foreign laws despised, In trance ecstatic may thy pangs be drowned,
And kept unconquered— and uncivilized; 340 Bright clouds descend, and angels watch thee round,
Fierce for the liberties of wit, and bold, From opening skies may streaming glories shine,
We still defied the Romans, as of old. And saints embrace thee with a love like mine.
Yet some there were, among the sounder few May one kind grave unite each hapless name,5
720 Of those who less presumed, and better knew, And graft my love immortal on thy fame!
Who durst assert the juster ancient cause, 345 Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o’er,
And here restored wit’s fundamental laws. When this rebellious heart shall beat no more;
Such was the Muse, whose rules and practice tell, If ever chance two wandering lovers brings
“Nature’s chief masterpiece is writing well.”9 To Paraclete’s white walls, and silver springs,
725 Such was Roscommon,1 not more learned than good, O’er the pale marble shall they join their heads,
With manners gen’rous as his noble blood; 350 And drink the falling tears each other sheds,
To him the wit of Greece and Rome was known, Then sadly say, with mutual pity moved,
And every author’s merit, but his own. “Oh may we never love as these have loved!”
Such late was Walsh—the Muse’s2 judge and friend, From the full choir when loud Hosannas rise,
730 Who justly knew to blame or to commend; And swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice,6
To failings mild, but zealous for desert; 355 Amid that scene if some relenting eye
The clearest head, and the sincerest heart. Glance on the stone where our cold relics lie,
This humble praise, lamented shade! receive, Devotion’s self shall steal a thought from heaven,
This praise at least a grateful Muse may give: One human tear shall drop, and be forgiven.
735 The Muse, whose early voice you taught to sing, And sure if fate some future bard shall join
Prescribed her heights, and pruned her tender wing, 360 In sad similitude of griefs to mine,
(Her guide now lost) no more attempts to rise, Condemned whole years in absence to deplore,7
But in low numbers° short excursions tries: humble verses And image° charms he must behold no more, imagine, depict
Content, if hence the unlearned their wants may view, Such if there be, who loves so long, so well,
740 The learned reflect on what before they knew: Let him our sad, our tender story tell;
Careless of° censure, nor too fond of fame; unconcerned at 365 The well-sung woes will sooth my pensive ghost;
Still pleased to praise, yet not afraid to blame; He best can paint ’em, who shall feel ’em most.
Averse alike to flatter, or offend;
Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend. 1717
1709 1711
An Essay on Man Pope’s philosophical poem An Essay on Man represents

the beginnings of an ambitious but never completed plan for what he called his
The Rape of the Lock The Rape of the Lock is based on an actual episode “ethic work,” intended to be a large survey of human nature, society, and morals.
that provoked a quarrel between two prominent Catholic families. Pope’s friend He dedicated the Essay to Henry St. John (pronounced Sín-jun), Viscount Boling-
John Caryll, to whom the poem is addressed (line 3), suggested that Pope write it, broke (1678–1751), the brilliant, erratic secretary of state in the Tory ministry of
in the hope that a little laughter might serve to soothe ruffled tempers. Lord Petre 1710–14. After the accession of George I, Bolingbroke fled to France, but he was
had cut off a lock of hair from the head of the lovely Arabella Fermor (often spelled allowed to return in 1723, settling near Pope at Dawley Farm. The two formed a
“Farmer” and doubtless so pronounced), much to the indignation of the lady and close friendship and talked through the ideas expressed in the Essay and in Boling-
her relatives. In its original version of two cantos and 334 lines, published in 1712, broke’s own philosophical writings (some of which are addressed to Pope). But
The Rape of the Lock was a great success. In 1713 a new version was undertaken
8. Boileau’s L’Art Poétique (1674) regularized and the important Essay on Translated Verse (1684). 5. Abelard and Eloisa were interred in the same one; perhaps Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, who
modernized the lessons of Horace’s Art of Poetry. 2. Here, Pope himself. William Walsh (1663– grave, or in monuments adjoining, in the monas- was in Turkey. Pope and Montagu later quarreled,
9. Quoted from an Essay on Poetry by John Shef- 1708), whom Dryden once called “the best critic tery of the Paraclete [Pope’s note]. and she appears as Sappho in Epistle 2, To a Lady,
field, duke of Buckingham (1648–1721), who of our nation,” had advised Pope to work at 6. The celebration of the Eucharist (mass). in the Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, and in other places
had befriended the young Pope. becoming the first great “correct” poet in English. 7. Lament. Pope, imagining himself imagined by in his work.
1. Wentworth Dillon, earl of Roscommon, wrote Eloisa, hints that he too is separated from a loved
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Pope’s poem has many sources in the thought of his times and the philosophical Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar;
tradition at large, and he says himself in the poem’s little preface that his intention Eye Nature’s walks, shoot folly as it flies,
is to formulate a widely acceptable system of obvious, familiar truths. Pope’s And catch the manners living as they rise;
“optimism”—his insistence that everything must be “right” in a universe created 15 Laugh where we must, be candid° where we can; favorably disposed
and superintended by God— skips over the tragic elements of experience that much But vindicate the ways of God to man.
great literary, philosophical, and religious expression confronts. But the strains and
contradictions of the poem are themselves deeply revealing about the thinking of 1. Say first, of God above, or man below,
Pope and his age, as he both presents and withholds a comprehensive view of the What can we reason, but from what we know?
universe and reasons out reason’s drastic limitations. Of man, what see we but his station here,
Pope’s purpose is to “vindicate the ways of God to man,” a phrase that consciously
20 From which to reason, or to which refer?
echoes Paradise Lost 1.26. Like John Milton, Pope faces the problem of the existence
Through worlds unnumbered though the God be known,
of evil in a world presumed to be the creation of a good god. Paradise Lost is biblical
in content, Christian in doctrine; An Essay on Man avoids all specifically Christian
’Tis ours to trace him only in our own.
doctrines, not because Pope disbelieved them but because “man,” the subject of the He, who through vast immensity can pierce,
poem, includes millions who never heard of Christianity and Pope is concerned with See worlds on worlds compose one universe,
the universal. Milton tells a Judeo-Christian story. Pope writes in abstract terms. 25 Observe how system into system runs,
The Essay is divided into four epistles. In the first Pope asserts the essential order What other planets circle other suns,
and goodness of the universe and the rightness of our place in it. The other epistles What varied being peoples every star,
deal with how we may emulate in our nature and in society the cosmic harmony May tell why Heaven has made us as we are.
revealed in the first epistle. The second seeks to show how we may attain a psycho- But of this frame° the bearings, and the ties, the universe
logical harmony that can become the basis of a virtuous life through the cooperation 30 The strong connections, nice dependencies,
of self-love and the passions (both necessary to our complete humanity) with reason, Gradations just, has thy pervading soul
the controller and director. The third is concerned with the individual in society, Looked through? or can a part contain the whole?
which, it teaches, was created through the cooperation of self-love (the egoistic Is the great chain, that draws all to agree,
drives that motivate us) and social love (our dependence on others, our inborn And drawn supports, upheld by God, or thee?2
benevolence). The fourth is concerned with happiness, which lies within the reach
of all for it is dependent on virtue, which becomes possible when— though only 35 2. Presumptuous man! the reason wouldst thou find,
when—self-love is transmuted into love of others and love of God. Such, in brief Why formed so weak, so little, and so blind?
summary, are Pope’s main ideas, expressed in many phrases so memorable that they First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess,
have detached themselves from the poem and become part of daily speech. Why formed no weaker, blinder, and no less!
Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are made
40 Taller or stronger than the weeds they shade?
Or ask of yonder argent fields above,
From An Essay on Man Why Jove’s satellites3 are less than Jove?
Of systems possible, if ’tis confessed
to henry st. john, lord bolingbroke That Wisdom Infinite must form the best,
45 Where all must full or not coherent be,
Epistle 1. Of the Nature and State of Man, And all that rises, rise in due degree;
with Respect to the Universe Then, in the scale of reasoning life, ’tis plain,
Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner things There must be, somewhere, such a rank as man:
To low ambition, and the pride of kings. And all the question (wrangle e’er so long)
Let us (since life can little more supply 50 Is only this, if God has placed him wrong?
Than just to look about us and to die) Respecting man, whatever wrong we call,
5 Expatiate free° o’er all this scene of man; range freely May, must be right, as relative to all.
A mighty maze! but not without a plan; In human works, though labored on with pain,
A wild, where weeds and flowers promiscuous shoot, A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain;
Or garden, tempting with forbidden fruit. 55 In God’s, one single can its end produce;
Together let us beat this ample field,1 Yet serves to second too some other use.
10 Try what the open, what the covert yield; So man, who here seems principal alone,
The latent tracts, the giddy heights, explore Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown,
2. For the chain of being, see Addison’s The 3. In his Dictionary, Johnson notes and condemns
1. Pope and Bolingbroke will try to drive truth into the open, like hunters beating the bushes for game. Spectator 519 (p. 2662) and lines 207–58. Pope’s giving this word four syllables, as in Latin.
Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal; No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold!
60 ’Tis but a part we see, and not a whole. To be, contents his natural desire,
When the proud steed shall know why man restrains 110 He asks no angel’s wing, no seraph’s fire;
His fiery course, or drives him o’er the plains; But thinks, admitted to that equal° sky, impartial
When the dull ox, why now he breaks the clod, His faithful dog shall bear him company.
Is now a victim, and now Egypt’s god:4
65 Then shall man’s pride and dullness comprehend 4. Go, wiser thou! and, in thy scale of sense,
His actions’, passions’, being’s use and end; Weigh thy opinion against Providence;
Why doing, suffering, checked, impelled; and why 115 Call imperfection what thou fancy’st such,
This hour a slave, the next a deity. Say, here he gives too little, there too much;
Then say not man’s imperfect, Heaven in fault; Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust,6
70 Say rather, man’s as perfect as he ought; Yet cry, if man’s unhappy, God’s unjust;
His knowledge measured to his state and place, If man alone engross not Heaven’s high care,
His time a moment, and a point his space. 120 Alone made perfect here, immortal there:
If to be perfect in a certain sphere,5 Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod,7
What matter, soon or late, or here or there? Rejudge his justice, be the God of God!
75 The blest today is as completely so, In pride, in reasoning pride, our error lies;
As who began a thousand years ago. All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies.
125 Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes,
3. Heaven from all creatures hides the book of Fate, Men would be angels, angels would be gods.
All but the page prescribed, their present state: Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell,
From brutes what men, from men what spirits know: Aspiring to be angels, men rebel:
80 Or who could suffer being here below? And who but wishes to invert the laws
The lamb thy riot° dooms to bleed today, feast 130 Of order, sins against the Eternal Cause.
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play?
Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food, 5. Ask for what end the heavenly bodies shine,
And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood. Earth for whose use? Pride answers, “ ’Tis for mine:
85 O blindness to the future! kindly given, For me kind Nature wakes her genial power,
That each may fill the circle marked by Heaven: Suckles each herb, and spreads out every flower;
Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, 135 Annual for me, the grape, the rose renew
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall, The juice nectareous, and the balmy dew;
Atoms or systems° into ruin hurled, solar systems For me, the mine a thousand treasures brings;
90 And now a bubble burst, and now a world. For me, health gushes from a thousand springs;
Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar; Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise;
Wait the great teacher Death, and God adore! 140 My footstool earth, my canopy the skies.”
What future bliss, he gives not thee to know, But errs not Nature from this gracious end,
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. From burning suns when livid deaths descend,
95 Hope springs eternal in the human breast: When earthquakes swallow, or when tempests sweep
Man never is, but always to be blest: Towns to one grave, whole nations to the deep?
The soul, uneasy and confined from home, 145 “No,” ’tis replied, “the first Almighty Cause
Rests and expatiates in a life to come. Acts not by partial, but by general laws;
Lo! the poor Indian, whose untutored mind The exceptions few; some change since all began,
100 Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind; And what created perfect?”—Why then man?
His soul proud Science never taught to stray If the great end be human happiness,
Far as the solar walk, or milky way; 150 Then Nature deviates; and can man do less?
Yet simple Nature to his hope has given, As much that end a constant course requires
Behind the cloud-topped hill, an humbler heaven; Of showers and sunshine, as of man’s desires;
105 Some safer world in depth of woods embraced, As much eternal springs and cloudless skies,
Some happier island in the watery waste, As men forever temperate, calm, and wise.
Where slaves once more their native land behold, 155 If plagues or earthquakes break not Heaven’s design,
4. The Egyptians worshiped a bull called Apis. 5. I.e., in one’s “state and place.” 6. “Sense of tasting” (Johnson’s Dictionary). 7. Symbols of judgment and punishment.
Why then a Borgia, or a Catiline?8 200 Die of a rose in aromatic pain?

Who knows but he whose hand the lightning forms, If nature thundered in his opening ears,
Who heaves old ocean, and who wings the storms, And stunned him with the music of the spheres,
Pours fierce ambition in a Caesar’s mind, How would he wish that Heaven had left him still
160 Or turns young Ammon° loose to scourge mankind? Alexander the The whispering zephyr, and the purling rill?
From pride, from pride, our very reasoning springs; Great 205 Who finds not Providence all good and wise,
Account for moral, as for natural things: Alike in what it gives, and what denies?
Why charge we Heaven in those, in these acquit?
In both, to reason right is to submit. 7. Far as creation’s ample range extends,
165 Better for us, perhaps, it might appear, The scale of sensual,° mental powers ascends: sensory
Were there all harmony, all virtue here; Mark how it mounts, to man’s imperial race,
That never air or ocean felt the wind; 210 From the green myriads in the peopled grass:
That never passion discomposed the mind: What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme,
But all subsists by elemental strife; The mole’s dim curtain, and the lynx’s beam:1
170 And passions are the elements of life. Of smell, the headlong lioness between,
The general order, since the whole began, And hound sagacious° on the tainted green: quick of scent
Is kept in Nature, and is kept in man. 215 Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood,
To that which warbles through the vernal wood:
6. What would this man? Now upward will he soar, The spider’s touch, how exquisitely fine!
And little less than angel, would be more; Feels at each thread, and lives along the line:
175 Now looking downwards, just as grieved appears In the nice° bee, what sense so subtly true exact, accurate
To want the strength of bulls, the fur of bears. 220 From poisonous herbs extracts the healing dew:
Made for his use all creatures if he call, How instinct varies in the groveling swine,
Say what their use, had he the powers of all? Compared, half-reasoning elephant, with thine!
Nature to these, without profusion, kind, ’Twixt that, and reason, what a nice barrier,2
180 The proper organs, proper powers assigned; Forever separate, yet forever near!
Each seeming want compènsated of course,° as a matter of course 225 Remembrance and reflection how allied;
Here with degrees of swiftness, there of force; What thin partitions sense from thought divide:
All in exact proportion to the state; And middle natures, how they long to join,
Nothing to add, and nothing to abate. Yet never pass the insuperable line!
185 Each beast, each insect, happy in its own; Without this just gradation, could they be
Is Heaven unkind to man, and man alone? 230 Subjected, these to those, or all to thee?
Shall he alone, whom rational we call, The powers of all subdued by thee alone,
Be pleased with nothing, if not blessed with all? Is not thy reason all these powers in one?
The bliss of man (could pride that blessing find)
190 Is not to act or think beyond mankind; 8. See, through this air, this ocean, and this earth,
No powers of body or of soul to share, All matter quick, and bursting into birth.
But what his nature and his state can bear. 235 Above, how high progressive life may go!
Why has not man a microscopic eye? Around, how wide! how deep extend below!
For this plain reason, man is not a fly. Vast Chain of Being! which from God began,
195 Say what the use, were finer optics given, Natures ethereal, human, angel, man,
To inspect a mite, not comprehend the heaven? Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see,
Or touch, if tremblingly alive all o’er, 240 No glass can reach! from Infinite to thee,
To smart and agonize at every pore? From thee to nothing.— On superior powers
Or quick effluvia9 darting through the brain, Were we to press, inferior might on ours:
Or in the full creation leave a void,
Where, one step broken, the great scale’s destroyed:
8. The Italian Renaissance family the Borgias was state, was denounced in Cicero’s famous orations 245 From Nature’s chain whatever link you strike,
notorious for its ruthless lust for power, cruelty, before the senate and in the Forum. Tenth or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike.
rapaciousness, treachery, and murder (especially 9. According to the philosophy of Epicurus
by poisoning). Cesare Borgia (1476–1507), son of (adopted by Robert Boyle, the chemist, and other
Pope Alexander VI, is here referred to. Lucius Ser- 17th-century scientists), the senses are stirred to and tiny— but material—images of the objects that the eye casts a beam of light that makes
gius Catiline (ca. 108– 62 b.c.e.), an ambitious, perception by being bombarded through the pores that surround us. objects visible.
greedy, and cruel conspirator against the Roman by steady streams of “effluvia,” incredibly thin 1. One of several early theories of vision held 2. Pronounced ba-réer.
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And, if each system in gradation roll

Alike essential to the amazing whole,
250
The least confusion but in one, not all
That system only, but the whole must fall.
Debating Women:
Let earth unbalanced from her orbit fly, Arguments in Verse
Planets and suns run lawless through the sky,
Let ruling angels from their spheres be hurled,
Being on being wrecked, and world on world,
255 Heaven’s whole foundations to their center nod,
And Nature tremble to the throne of God:
All this dread order break—for whom? for thee?
S atires on women are an ancient tradition. In many cultures, male writers have
defined the nature of women, distinguished them sharply from men, laughed at
their faults, looked into their hearts, and told them how to behave; and female writ-
Vile worm!— oh, madness, pride, impiety! ers such as Christine de Pisan (1363?–1431) have countered by pointing out the
virtues of women and the unfairness of men. But the argument intensified in seven-
9. What if the foot, ordained the dust to tread, teenth- and eighteenth-century Britain. As literacy increased to unprecedented
260 Or hand, to toil, aspired to be the head? numbers, much of the reading public began to consist of women, whose concerns
were addressed directly by Mary Astell and other women as well as by men. New
What if the head, the eye, or ear repined
forms of writing— the periodical essay, the conduct book, and above all the novel—
To serve mere engines to the ruling Mind?3
developed to give women rules and models for living. But the early eighteenth cen-
Just as absurd, for any part to claim tury was also a great age of satire. Male satirists could not resist the urge to reflect
To be another, in this general frame. on, or try to reform, women’s follies; nor could female satirists resist the urge to
265 Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or pains, reply that men were just as bad or worse and did not know what they were talking
The great directing mind of all ordains. about. This led to a lively exchange in which women were not only the subject of the
All are but parts of one stupendous whole, debate but also agents who spoke for themselves.
Whose body Nature is, and God the soul; Jonathan Swift and Alexander Pope, who were lifelong bachelors and friends as
That, changed through all, and yet in all the same, well as brilliant satirists, represent two different positions. Swift’s misogyny is part
270 Great in the earth, as in the ethereal frame, of his misanthropy. As a Christian he hates human pride, or the illusion that we can
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, rise above the sinfulness and frailty that are our nature as impure, fallen creatures;
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees, and he never misses a chance to shatter that illusion. Hence women, associated
Lives through all life, extends through all extent, romantically with beauty and love, must be dragged down to earth and have their
Spreads undivided, operates unspent, cosmetics rubbed off. To Swift’s admirers, this is realism; to his detractors, woman-
275 Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, hating. His focus on bodily functions in works like “The Lady’s Dressing Room” has
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart; often been ascribed to a personal fixation or frustrated desire, as in Lady Mary
As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, Wortley Montagu’s counterattack. It might also be regarded as the fury of an idealist
As the rapt seraph that adores and burns; when he looks at the world as it is.
To him no high, no low, no great, no small; Pope was far more comfortable with illusions; when he writes about a lady’s dress-
280 He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. ing room, in The Rape of the Lock, it sparkles with glamour. Many readers have
thought he had a feminine sensibility. Despite his patronizing attitude toward
women, he certainly took a strong interest in female psychology; and his pleasure in
10. Cease then, nor order imperfection name:
delicate things and domestic arrangements appealed to many women. Anne Irwin
Our proper bliss depends on what we blame.
and Mary Leapor argue with Pope’s Characters of Women, but they are clearly influ-
Know thy own point: this kind, this due degree enced by the way he sees their world as well as by his poetic style. In this respect his
Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on thee. satire might be thought more insidious than Swift’s. The sympathy he expresses for
285 Submit—In this, or any other sphere, women lends plausibility to his analysis of their flaws, and his distinctions between
Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear: the sexes seem rooted in nature, not merely in custom. Thus Pope’s shrewd portraits
Safe in the hand of one disposing Power, of the ways that women waste their lives can be very chilling.
Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. Yet women could also write satire. The poets who respond to Swift and Pope
All Nature is but art, unknown to thee; poke fun at the smug assumption that men can tell women what women are think-
290 All chance, direction, which thou canst not see; ing and feeling. Montagu’s parody, one of many answers to Swift’s poem, turns the
All discord, harmony not understood; tables on his disgust at the body; here the man’s body falls short. (Some women
All partial evil, universal good: agreed that men were Yahoos, though women were not.) Irwin suggests that Pope is
And, spite of pride, in erring reason’s spite, the problem, not the solution: because lack of education makes all the difference
One truth is clear: Whatever is, is right. between women and men, a truly good poet would devote himself to educating
women, not to ridiculing faults they cannot help. Similarly, Leapor regards satire of
women as blaming the victim; her characters resemble Pope’s, but what dooms
3. Cf. 1 Corinthians 12.14–26.
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them is not the bad choices they make but the lack of any good choice in a man’s 30 Bequeathed by Tripsy when she died,
world that turns all their dreams against them. The female satirists in this debate With puppy water,1 beauty’s help,
do not belong to any set, nor do they agree with each other’s diagnoses. They do Distilled from Tripsy’s darling whelp;
agree, however, on one main point: when the ways of women come into question, Here gallipots° and vials placed, small pots
women must speak for themselves. Some filled with washes, some with paste,
35 Some with pomatum,° paints, and slops, pomade
And ointments good for scabby chops.
Hard by a filthy basin stands,
Fouled with the scouring of her hands;
The basin takes whatever comes,
The scraping of her teeth and gums,
JONATHAN SWIFT 40
A nasty compound of all hues,
For here she spits, and here she spews.
But oh! it turned poor Strephon’s bowels,
“The Lady’s Dressing Room” is the first in a series of “excremental” poems in which When he beheld and smelt the towels,
Swift looks below the surface of women’s allure. If one object of satire is the grossness 45 Begummed, bemattered, and beslimed,
of Celia, “the goddess,” the romantic illusions of Strephon, her disabused lover, are With dirt, and sweat, and earwax grimed.
far more absurd. No object Strephon’s eye escapes;
Here petticoats in frowzy heaps,
Nor be the handkerchiefs forgot,
50 All varnished o’er with snuff and snot.
The Lady’s Dressing Room The stockings why should I expose,
Stained with the marks of stinking toes,
Five hours (and who can do it less in?) Or greasy coifs and pinners° reeking, nightcaps
By haughty Celia spent in dressing, Which Celia slept at least a week in?
The goddess from her chamber issues, 55 A pair of tweezers next he found
Arrayed in lace, brocade, and tissues. To pluck her brows in arches round,
5 Strephon, who found the room was void, Or hairs that sink the forehead low,
And Betty otherwise employed, Or on her chin like bristles grow.
Stole in, and took a strict survey The virtues we must not let pass
Of all the litter as it lay; 60 Of Celia’s magnifying glass.
Whereof, to make the matter clear, When frighted Strephon cast his eye on’t,
10 An inventory follows here. It showed the visage of a giant—
And first a dirty smock appeared, A glass that can to sight disclose
Beneath the armpits well besmeared. The smallest worm in Celia’s nose,
Strephon, the rogue, displayed it wide, 65 And faithfully direct her nail
And turned it round on every side. To squeeze it out from head to tail;
15 In such a case few words are best, For catch it nicely by the head,
And Strephon bids us guess the rest; It must come out alive or dead.
But swears how damnably the men lie, Why Strephon will you tell the rest?
In calling Celia sweet and cleanly. 70 And must you needs describe the chest?
Now listen while he next produces That careless wench! no creature warn her
20 The various combs for various uses, To move it out from yonder corner,
Filled up with dirt so closely fixed, But leave it standing full in sight,
No brush could force a way betwixt; For you to exercise your spite.
A paste of composition rare, 75 In vain the workman showed his wit
Sweat, dandruff, powder, lead, and hair; With rings and hinges counterfeit
25 A forehead cloth with oil upon’t To make it seem in this disguise
To smooth the wrinkles on her front; A cabinet to vulgar eyes;
Here alum flower° to stop the steams styptic powder For Strephon ventured to look in,
Exhaled from sour unsavory streams;
There night-gloves made of Tripsy’s hide, 1. A cosmetic made from the internal organs of a puppy (here from the whelp of Celia’s former lapdog).
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80 Resolved to go through thick and thin; By vicious fancy coupled fast,

He lifts the lid, there needs no more, And still appearing in contrast.
He smelt it all the time before. I pity wretched Strephon, blind
As from within Pandora’s box, 130 To all the charms of womankind.
When Epimetheus oped the locks, Should I the queen of love refuse
85 A sudden universal crew Because she rose from stinking ooze?5
Of human evils upward flew, To him that looks behind the scene,
He still was comforted to find Statira’s but some pocky quean.6
That Hope at last remained behind;2 135 When Celia in her glory shows,
So Strephon, lifting up the lid If Strephon would but stop his nose,
90 To view what in the chest was hid, Who now so impiously blasphemes
The vapors flew from out the vent, Her ointments, daubs, and paints, and creams,
But Strephon cautious never meant Her washes, slops, and every clout° rag
The bottom of the pan to grope, 140 With which she makes so foul a rout,
And foul his hands in search of Hope. He soon would learn to think like me,
95 Oh never may such vile machine And bless his ravished eyes to see
Be once in Celia’s chamber seen! Such order from confusion sprung,
Oh may she better learn to keep Such gaudy tulips raised from dung.
“Those secrets of the hoary deep”!3
As mutton cutlets, prime of meat, 1732
100 Which though with art you salt and beat,
As laws of cookery require, 5. The goddess Venus rose out of the sea. Queens (1677), a play in which Statira was a
6. Strumpet, with a pun on Nathaniel Lee’s Rival heroine.
And roast them at the clearest fire,
If from adown the hopeful chops
The fat upon a cinder drops,
105 To stinking smoke it turns the flame,
Poisoning the flesh from whence it came,
And thence exhales a greasy stench, LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU
For which you curse the careless wench;
So things which must not be expressed,
110 When plumped into the reeking chest, Montagu did not like Swift. She objected to his politics (he worked for Tories, she was
Send up an excremental smell a Whig), his friendship with Pope (with whom she had bitterly quarreled), his vanity
To taint the parts from which they fell, (especially at knowing important people), and his defiant indecency (which she con-
The petticoats and gown perfume, sidered not only inappropriate for a clergyman but also a sign of low breeding). Her
And waft a stink round every room. reply to “The Lady’s Dressing Room” mimics its style, but substitutes vulgar names
115 Thus finishing his grand survey, for its mock-pastoral (Betty instead of Celia) and personal pique for its moralistic
The swain disgusted slunk away, conclusions. The poem was originally published anonymously in 1734 under the title
Repeating in his amorous fits, “The Dean’s Provocation for Writing the Lady’s Dressing Room”; the version printed
“Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia shits!” here is from a fair copy in Montagu’s hand.
But Vengeance, goddess never sleeping,
120 Soon punished Strephon for his peeping.
His foul imagination links
Each dame he sees with all her stinks, The Reasons That Induced Dr. Swift
And, if unsavory odors fly, to Write a Poem Called the Lady’s Dressing Room
Conceives a lady standing by.
125 All women his description fits, The Doctor in a clean starched band,° clerical collar
And both ideas jump like wits,4 His golden snuff box in his hand,
With care his diamond ring displays
2. Despite the warnings of his brother Pro- remained. And artful shows its various rays,
metheus, Epimetheus married Pandora, the first 3. Paradise Lost 2.891. 5 While grave he stalks down ——— Street,
woman (according to Greek mythology). When 4. Coincide; after the proverb “Good wits jump”
the box that Zeus had given her was opened, all (i.e., great minds think alike). His dearest Betty ——— to meet.
evils flew out into the world, and only hope Long had he waited for this hour,
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Nor gained admittance to the bower, Who never undertook to preach;

Had joked and punned, and swore and writ, The frighted hare from dogs does run
10 Tried all his gallantry and wit, But not attempts to bear a gun.
Had told her oft what part he bore Here many noble thoughts occur
In Oxford’s1 schemes in days of yore, 60 But I prolixity abhor,
But bawdy, politics, nor satyr2 And will pursue the instructive tale
Could move this dull hard-hearted creature. To show the wise in some things fail.
15 Jenny her maid could taste a rhyme The reverend lover with surprise
And grieved to see him lose his time, Peeps in her bubbies, and her eyes,
Had kindly whispered in his ear, 65 And kisses both, and tries— and tries.
“For twice two pound you enter here; The evening in this hellish play,
My lady vows without that sum Beside his guineas thrown away,
20 It is in vain you write or come.” Provoked the priest to that degree
The destined offering now he brought He swore, “The fault is not in me.
And in a paradise of thought 70 Your damned close stool so near my nose,
With a low bow approached the dame Your dirty smock, and stinking toes,
Who smiling heard him preach his flame. Would make a Hercules as tame
25 His gold she takes (such proofs as these As any beau that you can name.”
Convince most unbelieving shes) The nymph grown furious roared, “By God!
And in her trunk rose up to lock it 75 The blame lies all in sixty odd,”
(Too wise to trust it in her pocket) And scornful pointing to the door
And then, returned with blushing grace, Cried, “Fumbler, see my face no more.”
30 Expects the Doctor’s warm embrace. “With all my heart I’ll go away,
But now this is the proper place But nothing done, I’ll nothing pay.
Where morals stare me in the face 80 Give back the money.”—“How,” cried she,
And for the sake of fine expression “Would you palm such a cheat on me!
I’m forced to make a small digression. For poor four pound to roar and bellow,
35 Alas for wretched humankind, Why sure you want some new Prunella?” 6
With learning mad, with wisdom blind! “I’ll be revenged, you saucy quean”° strumpet
The ox thinks he’s for saddle fit 85 (Replies the disappointed Dean),
(As long ago friend Horace writ)3 “I’ll so describe your dressing room
And men their talents still mistaking, The very Irish shall not come.”7
40 The stutterer fancies his is speaking. She answered short, “I’m glad you’ll write,
With admiration oft we see You’ll furnish paper when I shite.”
Hard features heightened by toupée,
The beau affects° the politician, poses as
1734
Wit is the citizen’s4 ambition,
45 Poor Pope philosophy displays on 6. A name for a prostitute and a worsted cloth 7. A gibe at the supposed crassness of Irishmen
worn by clergymen. (like Swift himself).
With so much rhyme and little reason,
And though he argues ne’er so long
That all is right, his head is wrong.5
None strive to know their proper merit
50 But strain for wisdom, beauty, spirit,
And lose the praise that is their due ALEXANDER POPE
While they’ve the impossible in view.
So have I seen the injudicious heir
To add one window the whole house impair.
“Epistle 2. To a Lady” is one of four poems that Pope grouped together under the
55 Instinct the hound does better teach title Epistles to Several Persons but that have usually been known by the less appro-
priate title Moral Essays. They were conceived as parts of Pope’s ambitious “ethic
1. Robert Harley, Earl of Oxford, headed the 4. “A townsman; a man of trade; not a gentle- work,” of which only the first part, An Essay on Man, was completed. “Epistle 1”
government from 1710 to 1714. man” (Johnson’s Dictionary).
2. Satire (pronounced say’tir). 5. A parody of Pope’s Essay on Man 1.292, which treats the characters of men and “Epistle 2,” the characters of women. The other two
3. Epistles 1.14.43. had just been published. epistles are concerned with the use of riches, a subject that engaged Pope’s attention
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during the 1730s, because he distrusted the influence on private morals and public Rufa, whose eye quick-glancing o’er the park,
life of the rapidly growing wealth of England under the first Hanoverians. Attracts each light gay meteor of a spark,° beau
“Epistle 2” combines two literary forms: the satire on women and the verse letter Agrees as ill with Rufa studying Locke,
to a par ticular person—here Martha Blount (1690–1763), Pope’s closest female As Sappho’s diamonds with her dirty smock,
friend, whose remark in line 2 sets the theme of the poem. The first section (to line 25 Or Sappho at her toilet’s greasy task,6
198) sketches a portrait gallery of ladies that illustrates their inconsistency and vola- With Sappho fragrant at an evening masque:
tility. As an amateur painter, Pope is fascinated by the problem of catching such So morning insects that in muck begun,
contrary types: the affected, the soft-natured, the cunning, the whimsical, the witty, Shine, buzz, and flyblow7 in the setting sun.
and the silly. The next part of the poem (lines 199–248) develops Pope’s favorite the- How soft is Silia! fearful to offend,
ory of the ruling passion—the idea that each person is driven by a single irresistible 30 The frail one’s advocate, the weak one’s friend:
desire— and argues that women are limited to two passions: love of pleasure and love
To her, Calista proved her conduct nice,° refined
of power. The final part (line 249 to the end) describes an ideal woman, good-
natured, sensible, and well balanced, who is identified with Blount herself.
And good Simplicius asks of her advice.
Like every satire on women, “Epistle 2” is shaped by stereotypes: women are Sudden, she storms! she raves! You tip the wink,° look knowing
fickle, frail, and subordinate to men. Yet much of the poem undermines those preju- But spare your censure; Silia does not drink.
dices by showing the real difficulties of women’s lives. “By man’s oppression cursed,” 35 All eyes may see from what the change arose,
they waste their talents on trivial pursuits and “die of nothing but a rage to live.” The All eyes may see— a pimple on her nose.
poem shares that restlessness. If women are full of contradictions, so are Pope’s Papillia,8 wedded to her amorous spark,
couplets, torn between sympathy and satiric bite. The poet finds himself strangely Sighs for the shades—“How charming is a park!”
attracted to what he disapproves, and many female readers, then and now, have felt A park is purchased, but the fair he sees
the same way about the poem. 40 All bathed in tears—“Oh, odious, odious trees!”
Ladies, like variegated tulips, show;
’Tis to their changes half their charms we owe;
Their happy spots the nice admirer take,° captivate
Epistle 2. To a Lady Fine by defect, and delicately weak.
45 ’Twas thus Calypso9 once each heart alarmed,
Of the Characters of Women Awed without virtue, without beauty charmed;
Nothing so true as what you once let fall, Her tongue bewitched as oddly as her eyes,
“Most women have no characters at all.” Less wit than mimic, more a wit than wise;
Matter too soft a lasting mark to bear, Strange graces still, and stranger flights she had,
And best distinguished by black, brown, or fair. 50 Was just not ugly, and was just not mad;
5 How many pictures1 of one nymph we view, Yet ne’er so sure our passion to create,
All how unlike each other, all how true! As when she touched the brink of all we hate.
Arcadia’s countess, here, in ermined pride, Narcissa’s1 nature, tolerably mild,
Is, there, Pastora by a fountain side. To make a wash,° would hardly stew a child; cosmetic lotion
Here Fannia, leering on her own good man, 55 Has even been proved to grant a lover’s prayer,
10 And there, a naked Leda with a swan.2 And paid a tradesman once to make him stare,
Let then the fair one beautifully cry, Gave alms at Easter, in a Christian trim,
In Magdalen’s loose hair and lifted eye, And made a widow happy, for a whim.
Or dressed in smiles of sweet Cecilia shine,3 Why then declare good nature is her scorn,
With simpering angels, palms, and harps divine; 60 When ’tis by that alone she can be borne?
15 Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it, Why pique all mortals, yet affect a name?
If folly grow romantic,° I must paint it. extravagant
A fool to pleasure, yet a slave to fame:
Come then, the colors and the ground4 prepare! Now deep in Taylor and the Book of Martyrs,2
Dip in the rainbow, trick° her off in air; sketch 6. Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, although beau- he saw it reflected in a fountain.
Choose a firm cloud, before it fall, and in it tiful as a young woman, became notorious for her 2. John Foxe’s Acts and Monuments, usually
slatternly appearance and personal uncleanli- referred to as Foxe’s Book of Martyrs, was a
20 Catch, ere she change, the Cynthia5 of this minute. ness. Both Sappho and Montagu were poets. household book in most Protestant families in
7. Deposit their eggs. the 17th and 18th centuries. A record of the Prot-
8. The name comes from Latin for “butterfly.” estants who perished for their faith under the
1. Ladies of the 17th and 18th centuries were painted in the manner described. 9. The name is borrowed from the fascinating persecution of Mary Tudor (1553–58), it was
often painted in the costumes and attitudes of 4. The first coatings of paint on the canvas goddess who detained Odysseus on her island for instrumental in keeping anti- Catholic senti-
fanciful, mythological, or historical characters. before the figures in the picture are sketched in. seven years after the fall of Troy, thus preventing ments alive. Jeremy Taylor, 17th- century Angli-
2. Leda was seduced by Zeus, who approached 5. One of the names of Diana, goddess of the his return to his kingdom, Ithaca. can divine, whose Holy Living and Holy Dying was
her in the form of a swan. moon, a notoriously changeable heavenly body. 1. Type of extreme self-love. Narcissus, a beauti- often reprinted in the 18th century.
3. St. Mary Magdalen and St. Cecilia were often ful youth, fell in love with his own image when
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Now drinking citron with his Grace and Chartres.3 Cries, “Ah! how charming, if there’s no such place!”
65 Now conscience chills her, and now passion burns; Or who in sweet vicissitude appears
And atheism and religion take their turns; 110 Of mirth and opium, ratafie9 and tears,
A very heathen in the carnal part, The daily anodyne, and nightly draught,
Yet still a sad, good Christian at her heart. To kill those foes to fair ones, time and thought.
See Sin in state, majestically drunk; Woman and fool are two hard things to hit,
70 Proud as a peeress, prouder as a punk;° harlot For true no-meaning puzzles more than wit.
Chaste to her husband, frank° to all beside, licentious 115 But what are these to great Atossa’s1 mind?
A teeming mistress, but a barren bride. Scarce once herself, by turns all womankind!
What then? let blood and body bear the fault, Who, with herself, or others, from her birth
Her head’s untouched, that noble seat of thought: Finds all her life one warfare upon earth:
75 Such this day’s doctrine—in another fit Shines in exposing knaves, and painting fools,
She sins with poets through pure love of wit. 120 Yet is whate’er she hates and ridicules.
What has not fired her bosom or her brain? No thought advances, but her eddy brain
Caesar and Tallboy, Charles4 and Charlemagne. Whisks it about, and down it goes again.
As Helluo,5 late dictator of the feast, Full sixty years the world has been her trade,
80 The nose of hautgout,6 and the tip of taste, The wisest fool much time has ever made.
Criticked your wine, and analyzed your meat, 125 From loveless youth to unrespected age,
Yet on plain pudding deigned at home to eat; No passion gratified except her rage.
So Philomedé,7 lecturing all mankind So much the fury still outran the wit,
On the soft passion, and the taste refined, The pleasure missed her, and the scandal hit.
85 The address, the delicacy— stoops at once, Who breaks with her, provokes revenge from hell,
And makes her hearty meal upon a dunce. 130 But he’s a bolder man who dares be well:° in her favor
Flavia’s a wit, has too much sense to pray; Her every turn with violence pursued,
To toast our wants and wishes, is her way; Nor more a storm her hate than gratitude:
Nor asks of God, but of her stars, to give To that each passion turns, or soon or late;
90 The mighty blessing, “while we live, to live.” Love, if it makes her yield, must make her hate:
Then all for death, that opiate of the soul! 135 Superiors? death! and equals? what a curse!
Lucretia’s dagger, Rosamonda’s bowl.8 But an inferior not dependent? worse.
Say, what can cause such impotence of mind? Offend her, and she knows not to forgive;
A spark too fickle, or a spouse too kind. Oblige her, and she’ll hate you while you live:
95 Wise wretch! with pleasures too refined to please, But die, and she’ll adore you—Then the bust
With too much spirit to be e’er at ease, 140 And temple rise—then fall again to dust.
With too much quickness ever to be taught, Last night, her lord was all that’s good and great;
With too much thinking to have common thought: A knave this morning, and his will a cheat.
You purchase pain with all that joy can give, Strange! by the means defeated of the ends,
100 And die of nothing but a rage to live. By spirit robbed of power, by warmth of friends,
Turn then from wits; and look on Simo’s mate, 145 By wealth of followers! without one distress
No ass so meek, no ass so obstinate: Sick of herself through very selfishness!
Or her, that owns her faults, but never mends, Atossa, cursed with every granted prayer,
Because she’s honest, and the best of friends: Childless with all her children,2 wants an heir.
105 Or her, whose life the Church and scandal share, To heirs unknown descends the unguarded store,
Forever in a passion, or a prayer: 150 Or wanders, Heaven-directed, to the poor.
Or her, who laughs at hell, but (like her Grace) Pictures like these, dear Madam, to design,
Asks no firm hand, and no unerring line;
3. Francis Charters was a debauchee often men- 6. “Anything with a strong relish or strong scent, Some wandering touches, some reflected light,
tioned by Pope. “Citron”: i.e., citron water; brandy as overkept venison” (Johnson’s Dictionary). Some flying stroke alone can hit ’em right:
flavored with lemon or orange peel. “His Grace” is 7. The name is Pope’s adaptation of a Greek epi-
usually said to be the Duke of Wharton, an old thet meaning “laughter-loving,” frequently applied 155 For how should equal colors do the knack?° do the trick
enemy of Swift’s and a notorious libertine. to Aphrodite; the goddess of love.
4. A generic name for a footman in the period. 8. According to tradition, the “fair Rosamonda,”
“Tallboy”: a crude young man in Richard Brome’s mistress of Henry II, was forced by Queen Elea- 9. “A fine liquor, prepared from the kernels of shire is alluded to, the name is appropriate, for
comedy The Jovial Crew (1641) or the opera nor to drink poison. Lucretia, violated by a son of apricots and spirits” (Johnson’s Dictionary). she was the natural daughter of James II.
adapted from the play (1731). Tarquin, committed suicide. 1. Atossa, daughter of Cyrus, emperor of Persia 2. The duchess’s five children died before she
5. Glutton (Latin). (d. 529 b.c.e.). If the Duchess of Buckingham- did.
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Chameleons who can paint in white and black? There, none distinguish ’twixt your shame or pride,
“Yet Chloe sure was formed without a spot—” 205 Weakness or delicacy; all so nice,
Nature in her then erred not, but forgot. That each may seem a virtue, or a vice.
“With every pleasing, every prudent part, In men, we various ruling passions find;
160 Say, what can Chloe want?”— She wants a heart. In women, two almost divide the kind;
She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought; Those, only fixed, they first or last obey,
But never, never, reached one generous thought. 210 The love of pleasure, and the love of sway.
Virtue she finds too painful an endeavor, That, Nature gives;6 and where the lesson taught
Content to dwell in decencies forever. Is but to please, can pleasure seem a fault?
165 So very reasonable, so unmoved, Experience, this; by man’s oppression cursed,
As never yet to love, or to be loved. They seek the second not to lose the first.
She, while her lover pants upon her breast, 215 Men, some to business, some to pleasure take;
Can mark° the figures on an Indian chest; pay attention to But every woman is at heart a rake;
And when she sees her friend in deep despair, Men, some to quiet, some to public strife;
170 Observes how much a chintz exceeds mohair. But every lady would be queen for life.
Forbid it Heaven, a favor or a debt Yet mark the fate of a whole sex of queens!
She e’er should cancel—but she may forget. 220 Power all their end, but beauty all the means:
Safe is your secret still in Chloe’s ear; In youth they conquer, with so wild a rage,
But none of Chloe’s shall you ever hear. As leaves them scarce a subject in their age:
175 Of all her dears she never slandered one, For foreign glory, foreign joy, they roam;
But cares not if a thousand are undone. No thought of peace or happiness at home.
Would Chloe know if you’re alive or dead? 225 But wisdom’s triumph is well-timed retreat,
She bids her footman put it in her head. As hard a science to the fair as great!7
Chloe is prudent—Would you too be wise? Beauties, like tyrants, old and friendless grown,
180 Then never break your heart when Chloe dies. Yet hate repose, and dread to be alone,
One certain portrait may (I grant) be seen, Worn out in public, weary every eye,
Which Heaven has varnished out, and made a Queen: 230 Nor leave one sigh behind them when they die.
The same forever! and described by all Pleasures the sex, as children birds, pursue,
With truth and goodness, as with crown and ball. Still out of reach, yet never out of view,
185 Poets heap virtues, painters gems at will, Sure, if they catch, to spoil the toy at most,
And show their zeal, and hide their want of skill.3 To covet flying, and regret when lost:
’Tis well—but, artists! who can paint or write, 235 At last, to follies youth could scarce defend,
To draw the naked is your true delight. It grows their age’s prudence to pretend;
That robe of quality so struts and swells, Ashamed to own they gave delight before,
190 None see what parts of Nature it conceals: Reduced to feign it, when they give no more:
The exactest traits of body or of mind, As hags hold sabbaths, less for joy than spite,
We owe to models of an humble kind. 240 So these their merry, miserable night;8
If Queensberry4 to strip there’s no compelling, Still round and round the ghosts of beauty glide,
’Tis from a handmaid we must take a Helen. And haunt the places where their honor died.
195 From peer or bishop ’tis no easy thing See how the world its veterans rewards!
To draw the man who loves his God, or king: A youth of frolics, an old age of cards;
Alas! I copy (or my draft would fail) 245 Fair to no purpose, artful to no end,
From honest Mah’met or plain Parson Hale.5 Young without lovers, old without a friend;
But grant, in public men sometimes are shown, A fop their passion, but their prize a sot;
200 A woman’s seen in private life alone: Alive, ridiculous, and dead, forgot!
Our bolder talents in full light displayed; Ah friend! to dazzle let the vain design;
Your virtues open fairest in the shade. 250 To raise the thought, and touch the heart be thine!
Bred to disguise, in public ’tis you hide;
6. Women naturally love pleasure. Lines 213–14 for great soldiers or statesmen.
say that experience teaches them a love of power 8. I.e., evenings on which ladies entertained
3. Pope did not admire Queen Caroline. 5. Dr. Stephen Hales, an Anglican clergyman
(“sway”). guests. “Sabbaths”: obscene rites popularly sup-
4. The Duchess of Queensberry, whom Pope val- and friend of Pope. Mahomet was a Turkish ser-
7. Retreating is as hard for women to learn as it posed to be held by witches (“hags”).
ued because of her kindness to his friend John vant of George I.
Gay, had been a famous beauty.
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That charm shall grow, while what fatigues the Ring9

Flaunts and goes down, an unregarded thing:
So when the sun’s broad beam has tired the sight, ANNE INGRAM, VISCOUNTESS IRWIN
All mild ascends the moon’s more sober light,
255 Serene in virgin modesty she shines,
And unobserved the glaring orb declines.
Oh! blest with temper, whose unclouded ray
Can make tomorrow cheerful as today;
L ady Anne Howard (ca. 1696–1764) was raised on the Yorkshire estate of her
father, third Earl of Carlisle; many years later she paid tribute to it and him in a
poem, Castle Howard (1732). In 1717 she married Richard Ingram, fifth Viscount
She, who can love a sister’s charms, or hear Irwin; and after he died of smallpox in 1721, she mourned him so long that she was
260 Sighs for a daughter with unwounded ear; reproached for it in verse by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. Although the two women
She, who ne’er answers till a husband cools, were friends, Irwin said that Montagu’s “principles are as corrupt as her wit is enter-
Or, if she rules him, never shows she rules; taining”; and Montagu, who liked Irwin’s good nature, was also amused by her “van-
Charms by accepting, by submitting sways, ity and false pretensions.” Irwin showed her independence by traveling alone in
Yet has her humor most, when she obeys; Holland and France in 1730. Later she served the Princess of Wales as a lady-in-
265 Lets fops or fortune fly which way they will; waiting, but court life did not satisfy her; Pope’s and Addison’s works were “antidotes
Disdains all loss of tickets° or Codille;1 lottery tickets to preserve me from the contagion.” In 1737, against the strong opposition of her
Spleen, vapors, or smallpox, above them all, family, she married Colonel William Douglas; he died in 1748. A young woman who
And mistress of herself, though China2 fall. knew her afterward was impressed by her learning and wit: “she wrote poetry, and
And yet, believe me, good as well as ill, every body was afraid of her.” She died, in 1764, after a party at cards.
“An Epistle to Mr. Pope” reveals Irwin’s keen attention to Pope’s work as a whole,
270 Woman’s at best a contradiction still.
not only to his “Epistle 2. To a Lady”; it turns his verse technique as well as many of
Heaven, when it strives to polish all it can
his principles against him. While many of Pope’s couplets sharply contrast women’s
Its last best work, but forms a softer man; characters with men’s, Irwin adapts the couplet form to emphasize what they have in
Picks from each sex, to make the favorite blest, common. In fact both sexes, she argues, want the same thing: love of power moti-
Your love of pleasure, our desire of rest: vates them both. If women often trifle away their lives, the reason is poor education;
275 Blends, in exception to all general rules, not even Pope has taught them how to live. Irwin provides some positive models.
Your taste of follies, with our scorn of fools: Addressing Pope as an equal, in verse much like his own, she proves that men and
Reserve with frankness, art with truth allied, women can think alike.
Courage with softness, modesty with pride;
Fixed principles, with fancy ever new;
280 Shakes all together, and produces—you.
Be this a woman’s fame: with this unblest, An Epistle to Mr. Pope,
Toasts live a scorn, and queens may die a jest.
This Phoebus promised (I forget the year) Occasioned by his Characters of Women
When those blue eyes first opened on the sphere; Nec rude quid prosit video ingenium.1
285 Ascendant Phoebus watched that hour with care,
Averted half your parents’ simple prayer; By custom doomed to folly, sloth and ease,
And gave you beauty, but denied the pelf No wonder Pope such female triflers sees.
That buys your sex a tyrant o’er itself. But would the satirist confess the truth,
The generous god, who wit and gold refines, Nothing so like as male and female youth,
290 And ripens spirits as he ripens mines,3 5 Nothing so like as man and woman old,
Kept dross for duchesses, the world shall know it, Their joys, their loves, their hates, if truly told.
To you gave sense, good humor, and a poet. Though different acts seem different sex’s growth,
1735, 1744 ’Tis the same principle impels them both.
View daring men stung with ambition’s fire,
10 The conquering hero, or the youthful ’squire,
By different deeds aspire to deathless fame,
One murthers° man, the other murthers game. murders
9. The fashionable drive in Hyde Park. 3. Phoebus Apollo, as god of poetry, “ripens wit”; View a fair nymph blest with superior charms,
1. The loss of a hand at the card games of ombre as god of the sun, he “ripens mines,” for respect- Whose tempting form the coldest bosom warms;
or quadrille. able scientific theory held that the sun’s rays
2. Pope refers punningly to the chinaware that mature precious metals in the earth. 15 No eastern monarch more despotic reigns
fashionable women collected enthusiastically.
1. Nor can I see what good can come from untrained talent (Latin; Horace’s Art of Poetry 410).
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Than this fair tyrant of the Cyprian plains.2 Reason’s not reason, if not exercised;
Whether a crown or bauble we desire, 65 Use, not possession, real good affords;
Whether to learning or to dress aspire, No miser’s rich that dares not touch his hoards.
Whether we wait with joy the trumpet’s call, Can female youth, left to weak woman’s care,
20 Or wish to shine the fairest at a ball, Misled by custom (folly’s fruitful heir),
In either sex the appetite’s the same, Told that their charms a monarch may enslave,
For love of power is still° the love of fame.3 always 70 That beauty like the gods can kill or save;
Women must in a narrow orbit move, Taught the arcanas,5 the mysterious art
But power alike both males and females love. By ambush dress to catch unwary hearts;
25 What makes the difference then, you may inquire, If wealthy born, taught to lisp French and dance,
Between the hero and the rural ’squire, Their morals left (Lucretius-like) to chance;6
Between the maid bred up with courtly care, 75 Strangers to reason and reflection made,
Or she who earns by toil her daily fare? Left to their passions, and by them betrayed;
Their power is stinted, but not so their will; Untaught the noble end of glorious truth,
30 Ambitious thoughts the humblest cottage fill; Bred to deceive even from their earliest youth;
Far as they can they push their little fame, Unused to books, nor virtue taught to prize;
And try to leave behind a deathless name. 80 Whose mind a savage waste unpeopled lies,
In education all the difference lies; Which to supply, trifles fill up the void,
Women, if taught, would be as bold and wise And idly busy, to no end employed—
35 As haughty man, improved by art and rules; Can these, from such a school, more virtue show,
Where God makes one, neglect makes twenty fools. Or tempting vice treat like a common foe?
And though Nugatrixes° are daily found, female triflers 85 Can they resist, when soothing pleasure woos;
Flutt’ring Nugators° equally abound; male triflers Preserve their virtue, when their fame° they lose? reputation
Such heads are toyshops,4 filled with trifling ware, Can they on other themes converse or write,
40 And can each folly with each female share. Than what they hear all day, and dream all night?
A female mind like a rude fallow lies; Not so the Roman female fame was spread;
No seed is sown, but weeds spontaneous rise. 90 Not so was Clelia, or Lucretia bred;
As well might we expect, in winter, spring, Not so such heroines true glory sought;
As land untilled a fruitful crop should bring; Not so was Portia, or Cornelia7 taught.
45 As well might we expect Peruvian ore Portia! the glory of the female race;
We should possess, yet dig not for the store. Portia! more lovely by her mind than face.
Culture° improves all fruits, all sorts we find, cultivation, tillage 95 Early informed by truth’s unerring beam,
Wit, judgment, sense—fruits of the human mind. What to reject, what justly to esteem.
Ask the rich merchant, conversant in trade, Taught by philosophy all moral good,
50 How nature operates in the growing blade; How to repel in youth the impetuous blood,
Ask the philosopher the price of stocks, How her most favorite passions to subdue,
Ask the gay courtier how to manage flocks; 100 And fame through virtue’s avenues pursue,
Inquire the dogmas of the learned schools She tries herself, and finds even dolorous pain
(From Aristotle down to Newton’s rules), Can’t the close secret from her breast obtain.
55 Of the rough soldier, bred to boisterous war, To Cato born, to noble Brutus joined,
Or one still rougher, a true British tar: She shines invincible in form and mind.
They’ll all reply, unpracticed in such laws, 105 No more such generous sentiments we trace
The effect they know, though ignorant of the cause. In the gay moderns of the female race,
The sailor may perhaps have equal parts° abilities No more, alas! heroic virtue’s shown;
60 With him bred up to sciences and arts;
And he who at the helm or stern is seen,
Philosopher or hero might have been. 5. Profound secrets, as in alchemy. Arcana is the Porsenna, escaped to Rome by swimming the
plural of the Latin arcanum, but some English Tiber and was later set free by Porsenna for her
The whole in application is comprised, writers added an s. bravery. Lucretia was raped by a son of King Tar-
6. The Roman poet Lucretius was known as a quin and committed suicide, kindling a revolt that
materialist and atheist who taught that every- overthrew the Tarquins. Portia, the daughter of
thing in the world results from the chance con- Cato and wife of Brutus, stabbed herself in the
2. Love. Aphrodite was worshiped on Cyprus. Pope’s Rape of the Lock, Canto 1, line 100, p. vergence of atoms. thigh to prove she was strong enough to keep her
3. Cf. Pope’s “Epistle 2,” lines 207–10. 4850). 7. Famous Roman paragons of virtue. Clelia (or husband’s secrets. Cornelia, mother of the Grac-
4. A shop stocked with baubles and trifles (see Cloelia), given as a hostage to an enemy, Lars chi, was a model of maternal self-sacrifice.
MARY LEAPOR | 2783
Since knowledge ceased, philosophy’s unknown.

No more can we expect our modern wives
110 Heroes should breed, who lead such useless lives.
Would you, who know the arcana of the soul,
The secret springs which move and guide the whole,
Would you, who can instruct as well as please,
Bestow some moments of your darling ease,
115 To rescue woman from this Gothic8 state,
New passions raise, their minds anew create,
Then for the Spartan virtue9 we might hope;
For who stands unconvinced by generous Pope?
Then would the British fair perpetual bloom,
120 And vie in fame with ancient Greece and Rome.
1736
8. Barbaric, as opposed to Greek or Roman. Cf. 9. Spartan women were known for their courage
Pope’s Essay on Criticism 3.692 (p. 2684). and contempt of pleasure.
MARY LEAPOR
A gardener’s daughter, Mary Leapor (1722–1746) spent her short life in or near the
small town of Brackley in Northamptonshire. When she was ten or eleven “she
would often be scribbling,” and poetry turned into a consuming interest. One of her
poems describes her sitting “whole evenings, reading wicked plays” by candlelight;
according to another, she lost employment as a cook-maid because she would not
stop writing, even in the kitchen. Passed around the neighborhood, her verse
impressed Bridget Freemantle, the daughter of a former Oxford don; she became
Leapor’s best friend and mentor. Together they planned to publish Leapor’s work. A
play was sent to Colley Cibber, the impresario and poet laureate, but it was returned
stained by wine. Leapor’s health was rarely good, and she died of measles at age
twenty-four; she had never seen any of her poems in print. But Freemantle arranged
an edition of Leapor’s Poems upon Several Occasions (1748), with six hundred sub-
scribers, and it was warmly received. Samuel Richardson admired the “sweetly easy
poems” so much that he published a second volume; later, William Cowper thought
they showed “more marks of a true poetical talent than I remember to have observed
in the verses of any, whether male or female, so disadvantageously circumstanced.”
Recently Leapor’s work has attracted renewed attention for its wit and skill as well as
its sharp observations about the life of a working-class woman.
The preface to Leapor’s Poems reports that “the author she most admired was Mr.
Pope, whom she chiefly endeavored to imitate.” “An Essay on Woman,” like Irwin’s
epistle, reflects careful study of Pope’s epistle on the “Characters of Women.” But its
view of female predicaments is very much darker. If women are living contradictions,
as Pope had asserted, the reason is that whatever they are and whatever they do can
be turned against them. Beauty will be betrayed, wit and learning will be shunned,
and the pursuit of wealth will shrink the soul. Leapor’s own situation gives her satire
bite. As a gardener’s daughter, she knows that the flower of womanhood costs money
to cultivate and does not last; as someone witty, poor, infirm, and unattractive, she
sees through romantic myths. In “An Epistle to a Lady” (another Popean title), she
And all without raising a single idea throughout the whole, that
PREFACE shall shock the exactest purity, even in the warmest of those
instances where Purity would be most apprehensive:
BY THE EDITORS3 If these be laudable or worthy recommendations, the Editor of the
IF to divert and entertain, and at the same time to instruct and improve following Letters, which have their foundation both in Truth and
the minds of the YOUTH of both sexes: Nature, ventures to assert, that all these ends are obtained here,
together.
If to inculcate religion and morality in so easy and agreeable a
manner, as shall render them equally delightful and pro table: Con dent therefore of the favourable reception which he
ventures to bespeak for this little Work, he thinks any apology for it
If to set forth in the most exemplary lights, the parental, the lial,
unnecessary: and the rather for two reasons: 1st, Because he can
and the social duties:
appeal from his own passions, (which have been uncommonly moved
If to paint VICE in its proper colours, to make it deservedly odious;
in perusing it) to the passions of every one who shall read with
and to set VIRTUE in its own amiable light, to make it look lovely:
attention: and, in the next place, because an Editor can judge with
If to draw characters with justness, and to support them
an impartiality which is rarely to be found in an Author.
distinctly:
If to raise a distress from natural causes, and excite a compassion
from just ones:
If to teach the man of fortune how to use it; the man of passion
how to subdue it; and the man of intrigue, how, gracefully, and with
honour to himself, to reclaim:
If to give practical examples, worthy to be followed in the most
critical and a ecting cases, by the virgin, the bride, and the wife:
If to e ect all these good ends, in so probable, so natural, so lively
a manner, as shall engage the passions of every sensible reader, and
attach their regard to the story:
1 2
parents! For my master said, ‘I will take care of you all, my good
VOLUME I maidens; and for you, Pamela,’ (and took me by the hand; yes, he
LETTER I took my hand before them all), ‘for my dear mother’s sake, I will be
a friend to you, and you shall take care of my linen.’ God bless him!
My dear Father and Mother,
and pray with me, my dear father and mother, for a blessing upon
I have great trouble, and some comfort, to acquaint you with. The
him: For he has given mourning6 and a year’s wages to all my lady’s
trouble is, that my good lady died of the illness I mentioned to you, servants; and I having no wages as yet, my lady having said she
and left us all much grieved for the loss of her; for she was a dear
would do for me as I deserved, ordered the housekeeper to give me
good lady, and kind to all us her servants. Much I feared, that as I
mourning with the rest, and gave me with his own hand four
was taken by her ladyship to wait upon her person, I should be quite guineas, and some silver, which were in my lady’s pocket when she
destitute again, and forced to return to you and my poor mother,
died; and said, if I was a good girl, and faithful and diligent, he
who have enough to do to maintain yourselves; and, as my lady’s would be a friend to me, for his mother’s sake. And so I send you
goodness had put me to write and cast accompts,5 and made me a these four guineas for your comfort. I formerly sent you such little
little expert at my needle, and otherwise quali ed above my degree, matters as arose from my lady’s bounty, loth as you was always to
it was not every family that could have found a place that your poor take any thing from me: But Providence will not let me want; and I
Pamela was t for: But God, whose graciousness to us we have so have made, in case of sudden occasions, a little reserve (besides the
often experienced, put it into my good lady’s heart, on her death- silver now given me) that I may not be obliged to borrow, and look
bed, just an hour before she expired, to recommend to my young little in the eyes of my fellow-servants: And so you may pay some
master all her servants, one by one; and when it came to my turn to old debt with part; and keep the other part to comfort you both. If I
be recommended (for I was sobbing and crying at her pillow) she get more, I am sure it is my duty, and it shall be my care, to love
could only say, ‘My dear son!’ and so broke o a little; and then and cherish you both; for you have loved and cherished me, when I
recovering, ‘Remember my poor Pamela!’ And those were some of could do nothing for myself. I send them by John our footman, who
her last words! O how my eyes over ow! Don’t wonder to see the goes your way; but he does not know what he carries; because I seal
paper so blotted!
them up in one of the little pill-boxes,7 which my lady had, wrapped
Well, but God’s will must be done! and so comes the comfort, close in paper, that they may not chink; and be sure don’t open it
that I shall not be obliged to return back to be a burden to my dear before him.
3 4
I know, my dear father and mother, I must give you both grief But I am making another long letter: So will only add to it, that I
and pleasure; and so I will only say, pray for your Pamela; who will shall ever be
ever be Your dutiful Daughter,
Your dutiful Daughter. PAMELA ANDREWS.
I have been scared out of my senses; for just now, as I was folding
up this letter, in my late lady’s dressing-room, in comes my young
master! Good sirs! how I was frightened! I went to hide the letter in
my bosom, and he, seeing me tremble, said smiling, ‘To whom have
you been writing, Pamela?’ I said, in my confusion, ‘Pray your
honour, forgive me! Only to my father and mother.’ ‘Well, then, let
me see what a hand you write.’ He took it, without saying more, and
read it quite through, and then gave it me again; and I said, ‘Pray
your honour, forgive me! ‘Yet I know not for what: For he was not
undutiful to his parents; and why should he be angry that I was
dutiful to mine! And indeed he was not angry; for he took me by the
hand, and said, ‘You are a good girl, to be kind to your aged father
and mother. I am not angry with you for writing such innocent
matters as these; though you ought to be wary what tales you send out
of a family. Be faithful and diligent; and do as you should do, and I
like you the better for this.’ And then he said, ‘Why, Pamela, you
write a pretty hand, and spell very well too. You may look into any
of my mother’s books to improve yourself, so you take care of them.’
To be sure I did nothing but curt’sy and cry, and was all in
confusion, at his goodness. Indeed, he was once thought to be
wildish; but he is now the best of gentlemen, I think!
5 6
frightful word, that he would be kind to you, if you would do as you
LETTER II
should do; these things make us very fearful for your virtue.
HER FATHER IN ANSWER
I have spoken to good old widow Mumford about it, who, you
My dear Child, know, has formerly lived in good families; and she gives us some
comfort; for she says, it is not unusual, when a lady dies, to give
Your letter was indeed a great trouble, and some comfort, to me,
what she has about her person to her waiting-maid, and to such as
and to your poor mother. We are troubled, to be sure, for your good
sit up with her in her illness. But then, why should he smile so kindly
lady’s death, who took such care of you, and gave you learning, and
upon you? Why should he take such a poor girl as you by the hand,
for three or four years past has always been giving you clothes and
as your letter says he has done twice? Why should he deign to read
linen, and every thing that a gentlewoman need not be ashamed to
your letter written to us, and commend your writing and spelling?
appear in. But our chief trouble is, and indeed a very great one, for
Indeed, indeed, my dearest child, our hearts ake for you; and then
fear you should be brought to any thing dishonest or wicked, by
you seem so full of joy at his goodness, so taken with his kind
being set so above yourself. Every body talks how you are come on,
expressions (which, truly, are very great favours, if he means well)
and what a genteel girl you are; and some say, you are very pretty;
that we fear – Yes, my dear child, we fear – you should be too
and, indeed, when I saw you last, which is about six months ago, I
grateful, and reward him with that jewel, your virtue, which no
should have thought so myself, if you was not our child. But what
riches, nor favour, nor any thing in this life, can make up to you.
avails all this, if you are to be ruined and undone! Indeed, my dear
Pamela, we begin to be in great fear for you; for what signify all the I, too, have written a long letter; but will say one thing more; and
that is, that in the midst of our poverty and misfortunes, we have
riches in the world, with a bad conscience, and to be dishonest? We
trusted in God’s goodness, and been honest, and doubt not to be
are, it is true, very poor, and nd it hard enough to live; though
once, as you know, it was better with us. But we would sooner live happy hereafter, if we continue to be good, though our lot is hard
here: But the loss of our dear child’s virtue would be a grief that we
upon the water, and, if possible, the clay of the ditches I contentedly
dig, than live better at the price of our dear child’s ruin. could not bear, and would very soon bring our grey hairs to the
grave.
I hope the good ’squire has no design; but, as he was once, as you
If, then, you love us, if you wish for God’s blessing, and your own
own, a little wildish, and as he has given you so much money, and
speaks so kindly to you, and praises your coming on; and, Oh! that future happiness, we charge you to stand upon your guard; and, if
you nd the least thing that looks like a design upon your virtue, be
7 8
sure you leave every thing behind you, and come away to us; for we
LETTER III
had rather see you all covered with rags, and even follow you to the
church-yard, than have it said, a child of our’s preferred any worldly I must needs say, my dear father, that your letter has lled me with
conveniencies to her virtue. trouble: for it has made my heart, which was over owing with
We accept kindly of your dutiful present; but till we are out of gratitude for my master’s goodness, suspicious and fearful; and yet, I
our pain, cannot make use of it, for fear we should partake of the hope I shall never nd him to act unworthy of his character; for
price of our poor daughter’s shame: So have laid it up in a rag what could he get by ruining such a poor young creature as me? But
among the thatch, over the window, for a while, lest we should be that which gives me most trouble is, that you seem to mistrust the
robbed. honesty of your child. No, my dear father and mother, be assured,
With our blessings, and our hearty prayers for you, we remain, that, by God’s grace, I never will do any thing that shall bring your
Your careful, but loving Father and Mother, grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. I will die a thousand deaths,
JOHN AND ELIZ. ANDREWS. rather than be dishonest any way. Of that be assured, and set your
hearts at rest; for although I have lived above myself for some time
past, yet I can be content with rags and poverty, and bread and
water, and will embrace them, rather than forfeit my good name, let
who will be the tempter. And of this, pray rest satis ed, and think
better of
Your dutiful Daughter.
My master continues to be very a able to me. As yet I see no cause

to fear any thing. Mrs Jervis the house-keeper too is very civil to
me, and I have the love of every body. Sure they can’t all have
designs against me because they are civil! I hope I shall always
behave so as to be respected by every one; and that nobody would
do me more hurt, than I am sure I would do them.
9 10
Our John so often goes your way, that I will always get him to
LETTER XXII
call, that you may hear from me, either by writing (for it keeps my
hand in) or by word of mouth. All my fellow-servants have now some notion, that I am to go away;
but can’t imagine for what. Mrs Jervis tells them, that my father and
mother, growing in years, cannot live without me; and so I go home
to them, to help to comfort their old age; but they seem not to
believe that to be the reason: because the butler heard my master
ask me very roughly, as I passed by him in the entry leading to the
hall, how long I was to stay here; and tell me, calling me idle girl,
that I minded my pen more than my needle. Little things for such a
gentleman as he is to say, and to ask, had there not been a reason.
He seemed startled, when he saw the butler, as he entered the
hall, where Mr Jonathan stood. ‘What do you here?’ said he. The
butler was confounded; and so was I; for, never having been taxed
so roughly, I could not help crying; and got out of both their ways
to Mrs Jervis, and made my complaint. ‘This love,’ said she, ‘is the
deuce! in how many strange shapes does it make people shew
themselves! And in some the farthest from their hearts.’
So one, and then another, has been since whispering, ‘Pray, Mrs
Jervis, are we to lose Mrs Pamela?’ as they always call me. ‘What
has she done?’ And then she tells them as above, about going home
to you.
My master came in, just now, to speak to Mrs Jervis about
household matters, having some company to dine with him
11 12
tomorrow; and I stood up, and having been crying, at his roughness hand, but in a gentler manner than my master did, with both his;
in the entry, I turned away my face. and he said, ‘Ah, sweet, sweet Mrs Pamela! what is it I heard but
‘You may well,’ said he, ‘turn away your cursed face. Mrs Jervis, just now! I am sorry at my heart; but I am sure I will sooner believe
how long is she to be about this waistcoat?’ Cursed face! What words any body in fault than you.’ ‘Thank you, Mr Jonathan,’ said I; ‘but as
were these! you value your place, don’t be seen speaking to such an one as me.’
‘Sir,’ said I, ‘if your honour had pleased, I would have taken the I cried too; and slipt away as fast as I could from him, for his own
waistcoat with me; and though it may be now nished in a few sake, lest he should be seen to pity me.
hours, I will do so still, and remove out of your house and sight for And now I will give you an instance how much I am also in the
ever so hated a creature.’ favour of Mr Longman, our steward.
‘Mrs Jervis,’ said he, (not speaking to me) ‘I believe this little I had lost my pen some-how; and my paper being written out, I
villain of a girl has the power of witchcraft; for she bewitches all stepped to Mr Longman’s o ce, and begged him to give me a pen or
that come near her. She makes even you, who should know better two, and two or three sheets of paper. ‘Ay, that I will, my sweet
what the world is, think her an angel of light.’ maiden!’ said he; and gave me three pens, some wafers,47 a stick of
I o ered to go away; for I believed he wanted me to ask to stay in wax, and twelve sheets of paper; and coming from his desk, where
my place, for all this his great wrath and hard words; and he said, he was writing, he said, ‘Let me have a word or two with you, my
‘Stay here! stay here when I bid you!’ and snatched my hand. I sweet little mistress’ (for so these two good old men often call me;
trembled, and said, ‘I will, I will!’ for he hurt my ngers. for I believe they love me dearly): ‘I hear bad news: that we are
He seemed to have a mind to say something to me; but broke o going to lose you: I hope it is not true?’
abruptly, and said, ‘Begone!’ And away I hurried; and he and Mrs ‘Yes, it is, sir,’ said I; ‘but I was in hopes it would not be known
Jervis had a deal of talk, as she told me; and in it he expressed till I went away.’
himself vexed to have spoken in Mr Jonathan’s hearing. ‘What a dickens,’48 said he, ‘ails our master of late! I never saw
Now you must know, that Mr Jonathan, our butler, is a very such an alteration in any man in my life. He is pleased with nobody,
grave good sort of old man, with his hair as white as silver; and an as I see; and by what Jonathan tells me just now, he was quite out
honest worthy man he is. Hurrying down stairs from my master and of the way49 with you. What could you have done to him, trow?50
Mrs Jervis, as I told you, into the parlour, there was he. He took my
13 14
Only Mrs Jervis is a very good woman, or I should have feared she
LETTER XXXI
had been your enemy.’
‘Mrs Jervis,’ said I, ‘is a just good woman, and, next to my father I told you my resolution, my happy resolution, as I have reason to
and mother, the best friend I have in the world.’ ‘Well then,’ said he, think it: and just as I had taken it he came in again, with great
‘it must be worse. Shall I guess? You are too pretty, my sweet kindness in his looks; and said, ‘I make no doubt, Pamela, you will
mistress, and it may be, too virtuous. Ah! have I not hit it?’ stay this fortnight to oblige me’ I knew not how to frame my words
‘No, good Mr Longman,’ said I, ‘don’t think any thing amiss of my so as to deny, and yet not make him storm: but thus I answered,
master; he is cross and angry with me, that’s true; but possibly I ‘Forgive, sir, your poor distressed maiden: I know I cannot possibly
may have given occasion for it; and because I chuse to go to my deserve any favour at your hands, that can con ict with innocence;
father and mother rather than stay here, he may perhaps think me and I beg you will let me go to my father.’ ‘Thou art the greatest
ungrateful. But you know, sir, that a father and mother’s comfort is fool,’ said he, ‘I ever knew. I tell you I will see your father; I’ll send
the dearest thing of all others to a good child.’ ‘Sweet excellence! for him hither to-morrow, in my travelling chariot, if you will; and
‘said he, ‘this becomes you; but I know the world and mankind too I’ll let him know what I intend to do for him and for you.’
well; though I must hear, and see, and say nothing! And so a ‘What, sir, may I ask you, can that be? Your honour’s noble estate
blessing attend my little sweeting, wherever you go!’ And away will easily enable you to make him happy, and not unuseful perhaps
went I, with a court’sy and thanks. to you in some respect or other. But what price am I to pay for all
Now it pleases one, my dear father and mother, you must think, this?’ ‘You shall be happy as you can wish,’ said he, ‘I do assure you:
to be so beloved. How much better, by good fame and integrity, it is and here I will now give you this purse, in which are fty guineas,
to get every one’s good word but one, than by pleasing that one, to which I will allow your father yearly, and nd an employment for
make every one else one’s enemy, and be a wicked creature besides! I him suitable to his liking, that shall make him deserve that and
am, &c. more. I would give you still more for him; but that perhaps you
would suspect I have a design upon you.’
‘O sir, take back your guineas; I will not touch one, nor will my
father, I am sure, till he knows what is to be done. for them; and
particularly what is to become of me.’
15 16
‘Why then, Pamela,’ said he, ‘suppose I nd a man of probity, and here; and Mr Williams, and all the world, shall know that I am not
genteel calling, for a husband for you, that shall make you a ashamed of my father’s poverty.’
gentlewoman as long as you live?’ He would kiss me again; and I said, ‘If I am to think of Mr
‘I want no husband, sir,’ said I; for now I began to see him in all Williams, or of any body, I beg, sir, that you will not be so free with
his black colours: yet being so much in his power, I thought I would me.’ ‘Well,’ said he, ‘but you stay this next fortnight, and in that
a little dissemble. time I will have both Williams and your father here; and when they
’But,’ said he, ‘you are so pretty, that, go where you will, you can two have agreed upon the matter, you and Williams shall settle it as
never be free from the designs of some or other of our sex; and I you will. Mean time, take and send only these fty pieces to your
shall think I don’t answer the care of my dying mother for you, who father, as an earnest of my favour; and I’ll make you all happy.’ ‘Sir,’
committed you to me, if I don’t provide you a husband to protect said I, ‘I beg at least two hours to consider of this.’ ‘I shall,’ said he,
your virtue and your innocence: and a worthy one I have thought of ‘be gone out in one hour; and I would have you write to your father
for you.’ what I propose, and John shall carry your letter, and take the purse
O black, per dious creature! thought I, what an implement art with him for the good old man.’ ‘Sir,’ said I, ‘I will let you know, in
thou in the hands of Lucifer, to ruin the innocent heart! Yet still I one hour, my resolution.’ ‘Do so,’ replied he, and gave me another
dissembled; for I feared much both him and the place I was in. ‘But kiss, and let me go.
whom, pray, sir, have you thought of?’ ‘Why,’ said he, ‘young How I rejoiced that I had got out of his clutches! So I write you
Williams, my chaplain, in Lincolnshire, who will make you happy.’ this, that you may see how matters stand; for I am resolved to come
‘Does he know, sir,’ said I, ‘anything of your honour’s intentions?’ away, if possible.
‘No, my girl,’ answered he, and kissed me (much against my will; for So here was a trap laid for your poor Pamela. I tremble to think
his very breath was now poison to me); ‘but his dependence upon of it! What a scene of wickedness was here contrived for all my
my favour, and your beauty and merit, will make him rejoice at my wretched life! Black-hearted wretch, how I hate him! For at rst, as
kindness to him.’ ‘Well, sir,’ said I, ‘then it is time enough to you will see by what I have written, he would have made me
consider of this matter; and it cannot hinder me from going to my believe other things; and this of Mr Williams, I suppose, came into
father’s: for what will staying here a fortnight longer signify to this? his head after he walked out from his closet, to give himself time to
Your honour’s care and goodness may extend to me there, as well as think how to delude me better: but the covering was now too thin,
and easy to be seen through.
17 18
I went to my chamber, and the rst thing I did was to write to anything else to carry. So I break o to send you this with the
him; for I thought it was best not to see him again, if I could help it; former.
and I put it under his parlour-door, after I had copied it, as follows: I am now preparing for my journey, and about taking leave of my
fellow-servants. And if I have not time to write, I must tell you the
‘Honoured Sir, rest, when I am so happy as to be with you.
‘Your last proposal convinces me, that I ought to go to my father, if One word more: I slip in a paper of verses, on my going; sad poor
it were but to ask his advice about Mr Williams. I am so set upon it, stu ! but as they come from me, you’ll not dislike them, perhaps. I
that I am not to be persuaded. So, honoured sir, with a thousand shewed them to Mrs Jervis, and she took a copy of them; and made
thanks for all favours, I will set out to-morrow early; and the honour me sing them to her; and in the green-room too; but I looked into
you designed me, as Mrs Jervis tells me, of your chariot, there will the closet rst. I will only add, That I am
be no occasion for; because I can hire, I believe, Farmer Brady’s Your dutiful Daughter.
chaise. So, begging you will not take it amiss, I shall ever be
Your dutiful Servant. Let me just say, That he has this moment sent me ve guineas by
Mrs Jervis, as a present for my pocket: so I shall be very rich; for as
As to the purse, sir, my poor father, to be sure, won’t forgive me, if I she brought them, I thought I might take them. He says he won’t see
take it, till he can know how to deserve it: which is impossible.’ me; and I may go when I will in the morning; and Lincolnshire Robin
shall drive me: but he is so angry, he orders that nobody shall go
So he has just now sent Mrs Jervis, to tell me, That since I am out at the door with me, not so much as into the court-yard. Well! I
resolved to go, go I may, and that the travelling chariot shall be can’t help it! but does this not expose him more than me?
ready; but that he will never trouble himself about me as long as he
But John waits, and I would have brought this and the other
lives. Well, so I get out of the house, I care not; only I should have
myself; but he says, he has put up the former among other things,
been glad I could with innocence have made you, my dear parents,
and so can take both as well as one.
happy.
John is very good, and very honest; I am under great obligations
I cannot imagine the reason of it, but John, who I thought, was
to him. I would give him a guinea, now I’m so rich, if I thought he’d
gone with my last, is but now going; and he sends to know if I have
take it. I hear nothing of the clothes my lady and my master gave
me; for I told Mrs Jervis I would not take them; but I fancy, by a
19 20
A N
A P O L O G Y LETTERS TO THE EDITOR
F O R T H E
L I F E
O F
The EDITOR to Himself.1
Dear SIR,
M r s. S H A M E L A
A N D R E W S. However you came by the excellent Shamela, out with it, without Fear or
Favour, Dedication and all; believe me, it will go through many Editions, be
In which, the many notorious
translated into all Languages, read in all Nations and Ages, and to say a bold
F A L S H O O D S and
MISREPRSENTATIONS Word, it will do more good than the C—y have done harm in the World.2
of a Book called I am, Sir,
P A M E L A, Sincerely your Well-wisher,
Are expofed and refuted; and all Yourself.
the matchlefs JOHN PUFF, Esq; to the
A R T S of that young EDITOR.
Politician, fet in a true and SIR,
juft Light.
I have read your Shamela through and through, and a most inimitable
Together with
Performance it is. Who is he, what is he that could write so excellent a Book?3
A full Account of all that paffed he must be doubtless most agreeable to the Age, and to his Honour himself; for
between her he is able to draw every thing to Perfection but Virtue.4 Whoever the Author be,
and Parfon Arthur Williams; he hath one of the worst and most fashionable Hearts in the World, and I would
whofe Character is
recommend to him, in his next Performance, to undertake the Life of his
reprefented in a manner
Honour.5 For he who drew the Character of Parson Williams, is equal to the
fomething different from
that which he bears in Task; nay he seems to have little more to do than to pull off the Parson’s Gown,
P A M E L A. The and that which makes him so agreeable to Shamela, and the Cap will fit.
whole being exact Copies of I am, Sir,
authentick Papers Your humble Servant,
delivered to the Editor. JOHN PUFF.
Note, Reader, several other COMMENDATORY LETTERS and COPIES OF VERSES
Neceffary to be had in all will be prepared against the NEXT EDITION.
F A M I L I E S.
By Mr. C O N N Y
K E Y B E R.
1
spoiled Sport. —— How troublesome is such Interruption! You shall hear now
LETTER I soon, for I shall not come away yet, so I rest,
Your affectionate Daughter,
SHAMELA.
SHAMELA ANDREWS to Mrs HENRIETTA MARIA HONORA ANDREWS at her
Lodgings at the Fan and Pepper-Box inDrury-Lane.1
LETTER III
Dear Mamma,
This comes to acquaint you, that I shall set out in the Waggon on Monday,
desiring you to commodate me with a Ludgin, as near you as possible, in HENRIETTA MARIA HONORA ANDREWS to SHAMELA ANDREWS.
Coulstin’s-Court, or Wild-Street, or somewhere thereabouts; pray let it be
handsome, and not above two Stories high: For Parson Williams hath promised Dear Sham,
to visit me when he comes to Town, and I have got a good many fine Cloaths of Your last Letter hath put me into a great hurry of Spirits, for you have a very
the Old Put2 my Mistress’s, who died a wil ago; and I beleve Mrs Jervis will difficult Part to act. I hope you will remember your Slip with Parson Williams,
come along with me, for she says she would like to keep a House somewhere and not be guilty of any more such Folly. Truly, a Girl who hath once known
about Short’s-Gardens, or towards Queen-Street; and if there was convenience what is what, is in the highest Degree inexcusable if she respects her
for a Bannio,3 she should like it the better; but that she will settle herself when Digressions; but a Hint of this is sufficient. When Mrs Jervis thinks of coming
she comes to Town. — O! How I long to be in the Balconey at the Old House4 to Town, I believe I can procure her a good House, and fit for the Business; so I
—— so no more at present from am,
Your affectionate Daughter, Your affectionate Mother,
SHAMELA. HENRIETTA MARIA HONORA ANDREWS.
LETTER II LETTER IV
SHAMELA ANDREWS to HENRIETTA MARIA HONORA ANDREWS. SHAMELA ANDREWS to HENRIETTA MARIA HONORA ANDREWS.
Dear Mamma, Marry come up, good Madam, the Mother had never looked into the Oven for
O what News, since I writ my last! the young Squire hath been here, and as sure her Daughter, if she had not been there herself. I shall never have done if you
as a Gun he hath taken a Fancy to me; Pamela, says he, (for so I am called here) upbraid me with having had a small One by Arthur Williams, when you yourself
you was a great Favourite of your late Mistress’s; yes, an’t please your Honour, — but I say no more. O! What fine Times when the Kettle calls the Pot. Let me
says I; and I believe you deserved it, says he; thank your Honour for your good do what I will, I say my Prayers as often as another, and I read in good Books, as
Opinion, says I; and then he took me by the Hand, and I pretended to be shy: often as I have Leisure; and Parson William says, that will make amends. – So
Laud, says I, Sir, I hope you don’t intend to be rude; no, says he, my Dear, and no more, but I rest
then he kissed me, ’till he took away my Breath —— and I pretended to be Your afflicted Daughter,
Angry, and to get away, and then he kissed me again, and breathed very short, S———.
and looked very silly; and by Ill-Luck Mrs Jervis came in, and had like to have
2 3
still, and my Master cryed out, Hussy, Slut, Saucebox, Boldface, come hither
LETTER V —— Yes to be sure, says I; why don’t you come, says he; what should I come
for, says I; if you don’t come to me, I’ll come to you, says he; I shan’t come to
you I assure you, says I. Upon which he run up, caught me in his Arms, and
HENRIETTA MARIA HONORA ANDREWS to SHAMELA ANDREWS. flung me upon a Chair, and began to offer to touch my Under-Petticoat. Sir, says
I, you had better not offer to be rude; well, says he, no more I won’t then; and
Dear Child, away he went out of the Room. I was so mad to be sure I could have cry’d.
Why will you give such way to your Passion? How could you imagine I should Oh what a prodigious Vexation it is to a Woman to be made a Fool of.
be such a Simpleton, as to upbraid thee with being thy Mother’s own Daughter! Mrs Jervis who had been without, harkening, now came to me. She burst into
When I advised you not to be guilty of Folly, I meant no more than that you a violent Laugh the Moment she came in. Well, says she, as soon as she could
should take care to be well paid before-hand, and not trust to Promises, which a speak, I have Reason to bless myself that I am an Old Woman. Ah Child! if you
Man seldom keeps, after he hath had his wicked Will. And seeing you have a had known the Jolly Blades of my Age, you would not have been left in the
rich Fool to deal with, your not making a good Market will be the more lurch in this manner. Dear Mrs Jervis, says I, don’t laugh at one; and to be sure I
inexcusable; indeed, with such Gentlemen as Parson Williams, there is more to was a little angry with her. —— Come, says she, my dear Honeysuckle, I have
be said; for they have nothing to give, and are commonly otherwise the best Sort one Game to play for you; he shall see you in Bed; he shall, my little Rosebud,
of Men. I am glad to hear you read good Books, pray continue so to do. I have he shall see those pretty, little, white, round, panting —— and offer’d to pull off
inclosed you one of Mr Whitefield’s Sermons, and also the Dealings with him,1 my Handkerchief. — Fie, Mrs Jervis, says I, you make me blush, and upon my
and am Fackins,3 I believe she did: She went on thus. I know the Squire likes you, and
Your affectionate Mother, notwithstanding the Aukwardness of his Proceeding, I am convinced hath some
HENRIETTA MARIA, &c. hot Blood in his Veins, which will not let him rest, ’till he hath communicated
some of his Warmth to thee my little Angel; I heard him last Night at our Door,
trying if it was open, now to-night I will take care it shall be so; I warrant that he
LETTER VI makes the second Trial; which if he doth, he shall find us ready to receive him. I
will at first counterfeit Sleep, and after a Swoon; so that he will have you naked
in his Possession: and then if you are disappointed, a Plague of all young
SHAMELA ANDREWS to HENRIETTA MARIA HONORA ANDREWS. Squires, say I. —— And so, Mrs Jervis, says I, you would have me yield myself
to him, would you; you would have me to be a second Time a Fool for nothing.
O Madam, I have strange Things to tell you! As I was reading in that charming Thank you for that, Mrs Jervis. For nothing! marry forbid, says she, you know
Book about the Dealings, in comes my Master — to be sure he is a precious he hath large Sums of Money, besides abundance of fine Things; and do you
One. Pamela, says he, what Book is that, I warrant you Rochester’s Poems.1 — think, when you have inflamed him, by giving his Hand a Liberty with that
No, forsooth, says I, as pertly as I could; why how now Saucy Chops, Boldface,2 charming Person; and that you know he may easily think he obtains against your
says he — Mighty pretty Words, says I, pert again. — Yes (says he) you are a d Will, he will not give any thing to come at all ——. This will not do, Mrs Jervis,
—d, impudent, stinking, cursed, confounded Jade, and I have a great Mind to answered I. I have heard my Mamma say, (and so you know, Madam, I have)
kick your A——. You, kiss — says I. A-gad, says he, and so I will; with that he that in her Youth, Fellows have often taken away in the Morning, what they gave
caught me in his Arms, and kissed me till he made my Face all over Fire. Now over Night.
this served purely you know, to put upon the Fool for Anger. O! What precious No, Mrs Jervis, nothing under a regular taking into Keeping, a settled
Fools Men are! And so I flung from him in a mighty Rage, and pretended as how Settlement, for me, and all my Heirs, all my whole Life-time, shall do the
I would go out at the Door; but when I came to the End of the Room, I stood Business —— or else cross-legged, is the Word, faith, with Sham; and then I
4 5
snapt my Fingers.4 Friday Morning.
My Master sent for Mrs Jervis, as soon as he was up, and bid her give an
Thursday Night, Twelve o’Clock. Account of the Plate and Linnen in her Care; and told her, he was resolved that
Mrs Jervis and I are just in Bed, and the Door unlocked; if my Master should both she and the little Gipsy (I’ll assure him) should set out together. Mrs Jervis
made him a saucy Answer; which any Servant of Spirit, you know, would, tho’ it
come — Odsbobs!5 I hear him just coming in at the Door. You see I write in the
should be one’s Ruin; and came immediately in Tears to me, crying, she had lost
present Tense, as Parson Williams says. Well, he is in Bed between us, we both
her Place on my Account, and that she should be forced to take to a House, as I
shamming a Sleep, he steals his Hand into my Bosom, which I, as if in my Sleep,
mentioned before; and that she hoped I would, at least, make her all the amends
press close to me with mine, and then pretend to awake. — I no sooner see him,
in my power, for her Loss on my Account, and come to her House whenever I
but I scream out to Mrs Jervis, she feigns likewise but just to come to herself; we
was sent for. Never fear, says I, I’ll warrant we are not so near being turned
both begin, she to becall, and I to bescratch very liberally. After having made a
pretty free Use of my Fingers, without any great Regard to the Parts I attack’d, I away, as you imagine; and, i’cod,8 now it comes into my Head, I have a Fetch
counterfeit a Swoon. Mrs Jervis then cries out, O, Sir, what have you done, you for him, and you shall assist me in it. But it being now late, and my Letter pretty
have murthered poor Pamela: she is gone, she is gone. — long, no more at present from
O what a Difficulty it is to keep one’s Countenance, when a violent Laugh Your Dutiful Daughter,
desires to burst forth. SHAMELA.
The poor Booby frightned out of his Wits, jumped out of Bed, and, in his
Shirt, sat down by my Bed-Side, pale and trembling, for the Moon shone, and I
LETTER VII
kept my Eyes wide open, and pretended to fix them in my Head. Mrs Jervis
apply’d Lavender Water, and Hartshorn,6 and this, for a full half Hour; when
thinking I had carried it on long enough, and being likewise unable to continue
Mrs LUCRETIA JERVIS to HENRIETTA MARIA HONORA ANDREWS.
the Sport any longer, I began by Degrees to come to my self.
The Squire who had sat all this while speechless, and was almost really in that Madam,
Condition, which I feigned, the Moment he saw me give Symptoms of Miss Sham being set out in a Hurry for my Master’s house in Lincolnshire,
recovering my Senses, fell down on his Knees; and O Pamela, cryed he, can you desired me to acquaint you with the Success of her Stratagem, which was to
forgive me, my injured Maid? by Heaven, I know not whether you are a Man or dress herself in the plain Neatness of a Farmer’s Daughter, for she before wore
a Woman, unless by your swelling Breasts.7 Will you promise to forgive me: I the Cloaths of my late Mistress, and to be introduced by me as a Stranger to her
forgive you! D—n you (says I) and d—n you, says he, if you come to that. I Master. To say the Truth, she became the Dress extremely, and if I was to keep a
wish I had never seen your bold Face, saucy Sow, and so went out of the Room. House a thousand Years, I would never desire a prettier Wench in it.
O what a silly Fellow is a bashful young Lover! As soon as my Master saw her, he immediately threw his Arms round her
He was no sooner out of hearing, as we thought, than we both burst into a Neck, and smothered her with Kisses (for indeed he hath but very little to say for
violent Laugh. Well, says Mrs Jervis, I never saw any thing better acted than himself to a Woman.) He swore that Pamela was an ugly Slut, (pardon, dear
your Part: But I wish you may not have discouraged him from any future Madam, the Coarseness of the Expression) compared to such divine Excellence.
Attempt; especially since his Passions are so cool, that you could prevent his He added, he would turn Pamela away immediately, and take this new Girl,
Hands going further than your Bosom. Hang him, answer’d I, he is not quite so whom he thought to be one of his Tenant’s Daughters, in her Room.
cold as that I assure you; our Hands, on neither side, were idle in the Scuffle, nor Miss Sham smiled at these Words, and so did your humble Servant, which he
have left us any Doubt of each other as to that matter. perceiving, looked very earnestly at your fair Daughter, and discovered the
6 7
Cheat. ’till she went crying out of the Room; so no more at present, from
How, Pamela, says he, is it you? I thought, Sir, said Miss, after what had
happened, you would have known me in any Dress. No, Hussy, says he, but after Your Dutiful Daughter,
what hath happened, I should know thee out of any Dress from all thy Sex. He SHAMELA.
then was what we Women call rude, when done in the Presence of others; but it
seems it is not the first time, and Miss defended herself with great Strength and
Spirit. LETTER X
The Squire, who thinks her a pure Virgin, and who knows nothing of my
Character, resolved to send her into Lincolnshire, on Pretence of conveying her
home; where our old Friend Nanny Jewkes is Housekeeper, and where Miss had SHAMELA ANDREWS to HENRIETTA MARIA HONORA ANDREWS.
her small one by Parson Williams about a Year ago. This is a Piece of News
communicated to us by Robin Coachman, who is intrusted by his Master to carry O Mamma! Rare News! As soon as I was up this Morning, a Letter was brought
on this Affair privately for him: But we hang together, I believe, as well as any me from the Squire, of which I send you a Copy.
Family of Servants in the Nation.
You will, I believe, Madam, wonder that the Squire, who doth not want Squire Booby to PAMELA.
Generosity, should never have mentioned a Settlement all this while, I believe it
slips his Memory: But it will not be long forgot, no doubt: For, as I am Dear Creature,
convinced the young Lady will do nothing unbecoming your Daughter, nor ever I hope you are not angry with me for the Deceit put upon you, in conveying you
admit him to taste her Charms, without something sure and handsome before- to Lincolnshire, when you imagined yourself going to London. Indeed, my dear
hand; so, I am certain, the Squire will never rest till they have danced Adam and Pamela, I cannot live without you; and will very shortly come down and
Eve’s kissing Dance together. Your Daughter set out Yesterday Morning, and convince you, that my Designs are better than you imagine, and such as you may
told me, as soon as she arrived, you might depend on hearing from her. with Honour comply with. I am,
Be pleased to make my Compliments acceptable to Mrs Davis and Mrs My Dear Creature,
Silvester, and Mrs Jolly, and all Friends, and permit me the Honour, Madam, to
Your doating Lover,
be with the utmost Sincerity,
BOOBY.
Now, Mamma, what think you? — For my own Part, I am convinced he will
Your most Obedient, marry me, and faith so he shall. O! Bless me! I shall be Mrs Booby, and be
Humble Servant, Mistress of a great Estate, and have a dozen Coaches and Six, and a fine House
LUCRETIA JERVIS. at London, and another at Bath, and Servants, and Jewels, and Plate, and go to
If the Squire should continue his Displeasure against me, so as to insist on the Plays, and Opera’s, and Court; and do what I will, and spend what I will. But,
Warning he hath given me, you will see me soon, and I will lodge in the same poor Parson Williams! Well; and can’t I see Parson Williams, as well after
House with you, if you have room, till I can provide for my self to my Liking. Marriage as before: For I shall never care a Farthing for my Husband. No, I hate
and despise him of all Things.
Well, as soon as I had read my Letter, in came Mrs Jewkes. You see, Madam,
LETTER VIII says she, I carry the Marks of your Passion about me; but I have received order
from my Master to be civil to you, and I must obey him: For he is the best Man
8 9
SAMUEL JOHNSON
1709–1784
HENRIETTA MARIA HONORA ANDREWS to SHAMELA ANDREWS.
Dear Sham,
I received your last Letter with infinite Pleasure, and am convinced it will be
your own Fault if you are not married to your Master, and I would advise you
now to take no less Terms. But, my dear Child, I am afraid of one Rock only,
S amuel Johnson was famous as a talker in his own time, and his conversation
(preserved by James Boswell and others) has been famous ever since. But his
wisdom survives above all in his writings: a few superb poems; the grave Rambler
That Parson Williams, I wish he was out of the Way. A Woman never commits essays, which established his reputation as a stylist and a moralist; the lessons about
Folly but with such Sort of Men, as by many Hints in the Letters I collect him to life in Rasselas and the Lives of the Poets; and literary criticism that ranks among the
be: but, consider, my dear Child, you will hereafter have Opportunities sufficient best in English. The virtues of the talk and the writings are the same. They come hot
to indulge yourself with Parson Williams, or any other you like. My Advice from a mind well stored with knowledge, searingly honest, humane, and quick to
seize the unexpected but appropriate image of truth. Johnson’s wit is timeless, for it
therefore to you is, that you would avoid seeing him any more till the Knot is deals with the great facts of human experience, with hope and happiness and loss
tied. Remember the first Lesson I taught you, that a married Woman injures only and duty and the fear of death. Whatever topic he addresses, whatever the form in
her Husband, but a single Woman herself. I am in hopes of seeing you a great which he writes, he holds to one commanding purpose: to see life as it is.
Lady, Two examples must suffice here. When Anna Williams wondered why a man
Your affectionate Mother, should make a beast of himself through drunkenness, Johnson answered that “he
who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.” In this reply Wil-
HENRIETTA MARIA, &c. liams’s tired metaphor is so charged with an awareness of the dark aspects of human
The following Letter seems to have been written before Shamela received the life that it comes almost unbearably alive. Such moments characterize Johnson’s writ-
last from her Mother. ings as well. For instance, in reviewing the book of a fatuous would-be philosopher
who blandly explained away the pains of poverty by declaring that a kindly providence
compensates the poor by making them more hopeful, more healthy, more easily
pleased, and less sensitive than the rich, Johnson retorted: “The poor indeed are
LETTER XII insensible of many little vexations which sometimes embitter the possessions and pol-
lute the enjoyments of the rich. They are not pained by casual incivility, or mortified
by the mutilation of a compliment; but this happiness is like that of a malefactor who
SHAMELA ANDREWS to HENRIETTA MARIA HONORA ANDREWS. ceases to feel the cords that bind him when the pincers are tearing his flesh.”
Johnson had himself known the pains of poverty. During his boyhood and youth in
Dear Mamma, Lichfield, his father’s bookshop and other businesses plunged into debt, so that he
was forced to leave Oxford before he had taken a degree. An early marriage to a well-
I little feared when I sent away my last that all my Hopes would be so soon to-do widow, Elizabeth (“Tetty”) Porter, more than twenty years older than he,
frustrated; but I am certain you will blame Fortune and not me. To proceed then. enabled him to open a school. But the school failed, and he moved to London to make
About two Hours after I had left the Squire, he sent for me into the Parlour. his way as a writer. The years between 1737, when he first arrived there with his pupil
Pamela, said he, and takes me gently by the hand, will you walk with me in the David Garrick (who later became the leading actor of his generation), and 1755, when
Garden; yes, Sir, says I, and pretended to tremble; but I hope your Honour will the publication of the Dictionary established his reputation, were often difficult. He
not be rude. Indeed, says he, you have nothing to fear from me, and I have supported himself at first as best he could by doing hack work for the Gentleman’s
something to tell you, which if it doth not please you, cannot offend. We walked Magazine, but gradually his own original writings began to attract attention.
In 1747 Johnson published the Plan of his Dictionary, and he spent the next
out together, and he began thus, Pamela, will you tell me Truth? Doth the seven years compiling it— although he had expected to finish it in three. When in
Resistance you make to my Attempts proceed from Vartue only, or have I not 1748 Dr. Adams, a friend from Oxford days, questioned his ability to carry out such
some Rival in thy dear Bosom who might be more successful? Sir, says I, I do a work alone so fast and reminded him that the Dictionary of the French Academy
assure you I never had a thought of any Man in the World. How, says he, not of had needed forty academicians working for forty years, Johnson replied with humor-
Parson Williams! Parson Williams, says I, is the last Man upon Earth; and if I ous jingoism: “Sir, thus it is. This is the proportion. Let me see; forty times forty is
sixteen hundred. As three to sixteen hundred, so is the proportion of an Englishman
to a Frenchman.”
Johnson’s achievement in compiling the Dictionary seems even greater when we
realize that he was writing some of his best essays and poems during the same
10
period. Although the booksellers who published the Dictionary paid him what was
then the large sum of £1575, it was not enough to enable him to support his
2841
2842 | SAMUEL JOHNSON T H E VA N I T Y O F H U M A N W I S H E S | 2843
household, buy materials, and pay the wages of the six assistants whom he employed In the Lives of the Poets and in the earlier Life of Richard Savage (1744), Johnson
year by year until the task was accomplished. He therefore had to earn more money did much to advance the art of biography in England. Biography had long been asso-
by writing. In 1749, his early tragedy Irene (pronounced I-re-nd) was produced at ciated with panegyrics or scandalous memoirs; and therefore, Johnson’s insistence
long last by his old friend Garrick, by then the manager of Drury Lane. The play was on truth, even about the subject’s defects, and on concrete, often minute, details was
not a success, although Johnson made some profit from it. In the same year appeared a new departure. “The biographical part of literature is what I love most,” Johnson
his finest poem, “The Vanity of Human Wishes.” With the Rambler (1750–52) and said, for he found every biography useful in revealing the human nature that all of us
the Idler (1758– 60), two series of periodical essays, Johnson found a devoted audi- share. His insistence on truth in biography (and knowing that Boswell intended to
ence, but his pleasure was tempered by the death of his wife in 1752. He never write his life, he insisted that he should write it truthfully) was owing to his convic-
remarried. tion that only a truthful work can be trusted to help us with the business of living.
Boswell said of the Rambler essays that “in no writings whatever can be found The ideal poet, according to Johnson, has a genius for making the things we see
more bark and steel [i.e., quinine and iron] for the mind.” Moral strength and health; every day seem new. The same might be said of Johnson himself as a critic. Johnson
the importance of applying reason to experience; the test of virtue by what we do, is our great champion, in criticism, of common sense and the common reader. With-
not what we say or “feel”; faith in God: these are the centers to which Johnson’s out denying the right of the poet to flights of imagination, he also insists that poems
moral writings always return. What Johnson uniquely offers us is the quality of his must make sense, please readers, and help us not only understand the world but
understanding of the human condition, based on wide reading but always ultimately cope with it. Johnson holds poems to the truth, as he sees it: the principles of nature,
referred to his own passionate and often anguished experience. Such understanding logic, religion, and morality. Not even Shakespeare can be excused when “he sacri-
had to be fought for again and again. fices virtue to convenience” and “seems to write without any moral purpose.” Yet
Johnson is thought of as the great generalizer, but what gives his generalizations Johnson is no worshiper of authority or mere “correctness.” As a critic he is always
strength is that they are rooted in the particulars of his self-knowledge. He had con- the empiricist, testing theory by practice. His determination to judge literature by its
stantly to fight against what he called “filling the mind” with illusions to avoid the truth to life, not by abstract rules, is perfectly illustrated by his treatment of the
call of duty, his own black melancholy, and the realities of life. The portrait (largely doctrine of the three unities in the Preface to Shakespeare. Johnson is never afraid
a self-portrait) of Sober in Idler 31 is revealing: he occupies his idle hours with crafts to state the obvious, whether the lack of human interest in Paradise Lost or Shake-
and hobbies and has now taken up chemistry—he “sits and counts the drops as they speare’s temptation by puns. But at its best, as in the praise of Milton or Shake-
come from his retort, and forgets that, whilst a drop is falling, a moment flies away.” speare, his criticism engages some of the deepest questions about literature: why it
His theme of themes is expressed in the title “The Vanity of Human Wishes”: the endures, and how it helps us endure.
dangerous but all-pervasive power of wishful thinking, the feverish intrusion of
desires and hopes that distort reality and lead to false expectations. Almost all of
Johnson’s major writings—verse satire, moral essay, or the prose fable Rasselas
(1759)— express this theme. In Rasselas it is called “the hunger of imagination, The Vanity of Human Wishes This poem is an imitation of Juvenal’s
which preys upon life,” picturing things as one would like them to be, not as they Satire 10. Although it closely follows the order and the ideas of the Latin poem, it
are. The travelers who are the fable’s protagonists pursue some formula for happi- remains a very personal work, for Johnson has used the Roman Stoic’s satire as a
ness; they reflect our naive hope, against the lessons of experience, that one choice means of expressing his own sense of the tragic and comic in human life. He has
of life will make us happy forever. tried to reproduce in English verse the qualities he thought especially Juvenalian:
Johnson also developed a style of his own: balanced, extended sentences, phrases, stateliness, pointed sentences, and declamatory grandeur. The poem is difficult
or clauses moving to carefully controlled rhythms, in language that is characteristi- because of the extreme compactness of the style: every line is forced to convey the
cally general, often Latinate, and frequently polysyllabic. This style is far from greatest possible amount of meaning. Johnson believed that “great thoughts are
Swift’s simplicity or Addison’s neatness, but it never becomes obscure or turgid, for always general,” but he certainly did not intend that the general should fade into the
even a very complex sentence reveals— as it should—the structure of the thought, abstract: observe, for example, how he makes personified nouns concrete, active,
and the learned words are always precisely used. While reading early scientists to and dramatic by using them as subjects of active and dramatic verbs: “Hate dogs
collect words for the Dictionary, Johnson developed a new vocabulary: for example, their flight, and Insult mocks their end” (line 78). But the difficulty of the poem is
obtund, exuberate, fugacity, and frigorific. But he used many of these strange words also related to its theme, the difficulty of seeing anything clearly on this earth. In a
in conversation as well as in his writings, often with a peculiarly Johnsonian felicity, world of blindness and illusion, human beings must struggle to find a point of view
describing the operations of the mind with a scientific precision. that will not deceive them, and a happiness that can last.
After Johnson received his pension in 1762, he no longer had to write for a living,
and because he held that “no man but a blockhead” ever wrote for any other reason,
he produced as little as he decently could during the last twenty years of his life. His The Vanity of Human Wishes
edition of Shakespeare, long delayed, was published in 1765, with a fine preface and
fascinating notes. His last important work is the Lives of the Poets, which came out in In Imitation of the Tenth Satire of Juvenal
two parts in 1779 and 1781. These biographical and critical prefaces were commis-
sioned by a group of booksellers who had joined together to publish a large collection Let Observation, with extensive view,
of the English poets and who wished to give their venture the prestige that Johnson Survey mankind, from China to Peru;
would lend it. The poets to be included (except for four insisted on by Johnson) were Remark each anxious toil, each eager strife,
selected by the booksellers according to current fashions. Therefore the collection And watch the busy scenes of crowded life;
begins with Abraham Cowley and John Milton and ends with Thomas Gray, and it 5 Then say how hope and fear, desire and hate
omits such standard poets as Chaucer, Spenser, Sidney, Donne, and Marvell. O’erspread with snares the clouded maze of fate,
A DICTIONARY OF THE ENGLISH L ANGUAGE | 2929 2930 | SAMUEL JOHNSON
If now and then they condescend to inform the world of par ticular facts, Johnson, still an unknown author, to undertake the project. He hoped to finish it in
they are not always so happy as to select the most important. I know not well three years; it took him nine. But the quantity and quality of work he accomplished,
what advantage posterity can receive from the only circumstance by which aided only by six part-time assistants, made him famous as “Dictionary Johnson.” The
Tickell has distinguished Addison from the rest of mankind, the irregularity Dictionary remained a standard reference book for one hundred years.
of his pulse:9 nor can I think myself overpaid for the time spent in reading Johnson’s achievement is notable in three respects: its size (forty thousand words),
the wealth of illustrative quotations, and the excellence of the definitions. No earlier
the life of Malherbe, by being enabled to relate, after the learned biogra-
English dictionary rivaled the scope of Johnson’s two large folio volumes. About
pher,1 that Malherbe had two predominant opinions; one, that the looseness 114,000 quotations, gathered from the best English writers from Sidney to the eigh-
of a single woman might destroy all her boast of ancient descent; the other, teenth century, exemplify the usage of words as well as their meanings. Above all, it
that the French beggars made use very improperly and barbarously of the was the definitions, however, that established the authority of Johnson’s Dictionary.
phrase noble gentleman, because either word included the sense of both. A small selection is only too likely to concentrate on a few amusing or notorious defi-
There are, indeed, some natural reasons why these narratives are often nitions, but the great majority are full, clear, and totally free from eccentricity.
written by such as were not likely to give much instruction or delight, and Indeed, many of them are still repeated in modern dictionaries. Language, Johnson
why most accounts of par ticular persons are barren and useless. If a life be knew, cannot be fixed once and for all; many of the words he defines have radically
delayed till interest and envy are at an end, we may hope for impartiality, changed meaning since the eighteenth century. Yet Johnson did more than any other
but must expect little intelligence;2 for the incidents which give excellence person of his time to preserve the ideal of a standard English.
to biography are of a volatile and evanescent kind, such as soon escape the
memory, and are rarely transmitted by tradition. We know how few can
portray a living acquaintance, except by his most prominent and observable
particularities, and the grosser features of his mind; and it may be easily From A Dictionary of the English Language
imagined how much of this little knowledge may be lost in imparting it, and From Preface
how soon a succession of copies will lose all resemblance of the original.
If the biographer writes from personal knowledge, and makes haste to * * *
gratify the public curiosity, there is danger lest his interest, his fear, his grati- A large work is difficult because it is large, even though all its parts might
tude, or his tenderness, overpower his fidelity, and tempt him to conceal, if singly be performed with facility; where there are many things to be done,
not to invent. There are many who think it an act of piety to hide the faults or each must be allowed its share of time and labor, in the proportion only which
failings of their friends, even when they can no longer suffer by their detec- it bears to the whole; nor can it be expected that the stones which form the
tion; we therefore see whole ranks of characters adorned with uniform pan- dome of a temple should be squared and polished like the diamond of a ring.
egyric, and not to be known from one another, but by extrinsic and casual Of the event of this work, for which, having labored it with so much appli-
circumstances. “Let me remember,” says Hale, “when I find myself inclined cation, I cannot but have some degree of parental fondness, it is natural to
to pity a criminal, that there is likewise a pity due to the country.”3 If we owe form conjectures. Those who have been persuaded to think well of my design
regard to the memory of the dead, there is yet more respect to be paid to will require that it should fix our language, and put a stop to those alterations
knowledge, to virtue, and to truth. which time and chance have hitherto been suffered to make in it without
opposition. With this consequence I will confess that I flattered myself for a
while;1 but now begin to fear that I have indulged expectation which neither
A Dictionary of the English Language Before Johnson, no standard
reason nor experience can justify. When we see men grow old and die at a
dictionary of the English language existed. The lack had troubled speakers of English certain time one after another, from century to century, we laugh at the elixir
for some time, both because Italian and French academies had produced major dic- that promises to prolong life to a thousand years; and with equal justice may
tionaries of their own tongues and because, in the absence of any authority, English the lexicographer be derided, who being able to produce no example of a
seemed likely to change utterly from one generation to another. Many eighteenth- nation that has preserved their words and phrases from mutability, shall
century authors feared that their own language would soon become obsolete: as imagine that his dictionary can embalm his language and secure it from cor-
Alexander Pope wrote in An Essay on Criticism, ruption and decay, that it is in his power to change sublunary nature, or clear
Our sons their fathers’ failing language see, the world at once from folly, vanity, and affectation.
And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be. With this hope, however, academies have been instituted, to guard the
avenues of their languages, to retain fugitives, and repulse intruders; but
A dictionary could help retard such change, and commercially it would be a book that their vigilance and activity have hitherto been vain; sounds are too volatile
everyone would need to buy. In 1746 a group of London publishers commissioned
and subtle for legal restraints; to enchain syllables, and to lash the wind, are
9. From Thomas Tickell’s preface to Addision’s Racan.

Works (1721). 2. Information. 1. Johnson’s Plan (1747) had called for “a diction- which its purity may be preserved, its use ascer-
1. The life of the French poet François de Mal- 3. From Gilbert Burnet’s Life and Death of Sir ary by which the pronunciation of our language tained, and its duration lengthened.”
herbe (1555–1628) was written by Honorat de Matthew Hale (1682). may be fixed, and its attainment facilitated; by
equally the undertakings of pride, unwilling to measure its desires by its the use of new, or extend the signification of known terms. The tropes8 of
strength. The French language has visibly changed under the inspection of poetry will make hourly encroachments, and the metaphorical will become
the academy;2 the style of Amelot’s translation of father Paul is observed by the current sense: pronunciation will be varied by levity or ignorance, and the
Le Courayer to be un peu passé;3 and no Italian will maintain that the diction pen must at length comply with the tongue; illiterate writers will at one time
of any modern writer is not perceptibly different from that of Boccace, or other, by public infatuation, rise into renown, who, not knowing the origi-
Machiavel, or Caro.4 nal import of words, will use them with colloquial licentiousness, confound
Total and sudden transformations of a language seldom happen; conquests distinction, and forget propriety. As politeness increases, some expressions
and migrations are now very rare: but there are other causes of change, will be considered as too gross and vulgar for the delicate, others as too for-
which, though slow in their operation, and invisible in their progress, are mal and ceremonious for the gay and airy; new phrases are therefore adopted,
perhaps as much superior to human resistance as the revolutions of the sky, which must, for the same reasons, be in time dismissed. Swift, in his petty
or intumescence5 of the tide. Commerce, however necessary, however lucra- treatise on the English language,9 allows that new words must sometimes be
tive, as it depraves the manners, corrupts the language; they that have fre- introduced, but proposes that none should be suffered to become obsolete.
quent intercourse with strangers, to whom they endeavor to accommodate But what makes a word obsolete, more than general agreement to forbear it?
themselves, must in time learn a mingled dialect, like the jargon which serves and how shall it be continued, when it conveys an offensive idea, or recalled
the traffickers6 on the Mediterranean and Indian coasts. This will not always again into the mouths of mankind, when it has once by disuse become unfa-
be confined to the exchange, the warehouse, or the port, but will be commu- miliar, and by unfamiliarity unpleasing.
nicated by degrees to other ranks of the people, and be at last incorporated There is another cause of alteration more prevalent than any other, which
with the current speech. yet in the present state of the world cannot be obviated. A mixture of two
There are likewise internal causes equally forcible. The language most languages will produce a third distinct from both, and they will always be
likely to continue long without alteration would be that of a nation raised a mixed, where the chief part of education, and the most conspicuous accom-
little, and but a little, above barbarity, secluded from strangers, and totally plishment, is skill in ancient or in foreign tongues. He that has long culti-
employed in procuring the conveniencies of life; either without books, or, vated another language, will find its words and combinations crowd upon his
like some of the Mahometan countries, with very few: men thus busied and memory; and haste or negligence, refinement or affectation, will obtrude
unlearned, having only such words as common use requires, would perhaps borrowed terms and exotic expressions.
long continue to express the same notions by the same signs. But no such The great pest of speech is frequency of translation. No book was ever
constancy can be expected in a people polished by arts, and classed by sub- turned from one language into another, without imparting something of its
ordination, where one part of the community is sustained and accommo- native idiom; this is the most mischievous and comprehensive innovation;
dated by the labor of the other. Those who have much leisure to think, single words may enter by thousands, and the fabric of the tongue continue
will always be enlarging the stock of ideas, and every increase of knowl- the same, but new phraseology changes much at once; it alters not the single
edge, whether real or fancied, will produce new words, or combinations of stones of the building, but the order1 of the columns. If an academy should
words. When the mind is unchained from necessity, it will range after be established for the cultivation of our style, which I, who can never wish to
convenience; when it is left at large in the fields of speculation, it will see dependence multiplied, hope the spirit of English liberty will hinder or
shift opinions; as any custom is disused, the words that expressed it must destroy, let them, instead of compiling grammars and dictionaries, endeavor
perish with it; as any opinion grows popular, it will innovate speech in the with all their influence to stop the license of translators, whose idleness and
same proportion as it alters practice. ignorance, if it be suffered to proceed, will reduce us to babble a dialect of
As by the cultivation of various sciences, a language is amplified, it will be France.
more furnished with words deflected from their original sense; the geometri- If the changes that we fear be thus irresistible, what remains but to acqui-
cian will talk of a courtier’s zenith, or the eccentric virtue of a wild hero, and esce with silence, as in the other insurmountable distresses of humanity? It
the physician of sanguine expectations and phlegmatic delays.7 Copiousness remains that we retard what we cannot repel, that we palliate what we can-
of speech will give opportunities to capricious choice, by which some words not cure. Life may be lengthened by care, though death cannot be ultimately
will be preferred, and others degraded; vicissitudes of fashion will enforce defeated: tongues, like governments, have a natural tendency to degenera-
tion; we have long preserved our constitution, let us make some struggles for
2. The French academy, founded to purify the the dictionary published in 1612 by the Italian
our language.
French language, had produced a dictionary in academy. In hope of giving longevity to that which its own nature forbids to be
1694; but revisions were necessary within a few 5. Swelling.
years. 6. Traders.
immortal, I have devoted this book, the labor of years, to the honor of my
3. A bit old-fashioned (French). Le Courayer’s 7. “Sanguine” and “phlegmatic” once referred country, that we may no longer yield the palm of philology without a contest
translation (1736) of Father Paolo Sarpi’s History only to the physiological predominance of blood
of the Council of Trent superseded Amelot’s or phlegm. “Zenith” (the point of the sky directly
(1683). overhead) and “eccentric” (deviating from the 8. “A change of a word from its original significa- little.
4. Like Boccaccio (1313–1375) and Machiavelli center) were originally astronomical and geomet- tion” (Johnson’s Dictionary). 1. Architectural mode (Doric, etc.), which deter-
(1469–1527), Annibale Caro (1507–1566) was a rical terms. 9. “A Proposal for Correcting, Improving, and mines the style and proportions of columns.
classic Italian stylist whose work had preceded Ascertaining the English Tongue” (1712). “Petty”:
to the nations of the continent. The chief glory of every people arises from of the Italian academicians did not secure them from the censure of Beni;7 if
its authors: whether I shall add anything by my own writings to the reputa- the embodied critics of France, when fifty years had been spent upon their
tion of English literature, must be left to time. Much of my life has been lost work, were obliged to change its economy,8 and give their second edition
under the pressures of disease; much has been trifled away; and much has another form, I may surely be contented without the praise of perfection,
always been spent in provision for the day that was passing over me; but I which, if I could obtain, in this gloom of solitude, what would it avail me? I
shall not think my employment useless or ignoble, if by my assistance for- have protracted my work till most of those whom I wished to please have
eign nations, and distant ages, gain access to the propagators of knowledge, sunk into the grave,9 and success and miscarriage are empty sounds: I there-
and understand the teachers of truth; if my labors afford light to the reposi- fore dismiss it with frigid tranquility, having little to fear or hope from cen-
tories of science, and add celebrity to Bacon, to Hooker, to Milton, and to sure or from praise.
Boyle.2
When I am animated by this wish, I look with pleasure on my book, how- [some definitions: a small anthology]1
ever defective; and deliver it to the world with the spirit of a man that has
antho’logy. n.
endeavored well. That it will immediately become popular I have not prom-
1. A collection of flowers.
ised to myself: a few wild blunders and risible absurdities, from which no
To cant. v.
work of such multiplicity was ever free, may for a time furnish folly with
To talk in the jargon of par ticular professions, or in any kind of formal
laughter, and harden ignorance in contempt; but useful diligence will at last
affected language, or with a peculiar and studied tone of voice.
prevail, and there never can be wanting some who distinguish desert;3 who
Men cant endlessly about materia forma; and hunt chimeras by rules of
will consider that no dictionary of a living tongue ever can be perfect, since
art, or dress up ignorance in words of bulk or sound, which may stop
while it is hastening to publication, some words are budding, and some fall-
up the mouth of inquiry.—Glanville’s Scepsis Scientifica.
ing away; that a whole life cannot be spent upon syntax and etymology, and
enthu’siasm. n.
that even a whole life would not be sufficient; that he, whose design includes
1. A vain belief of private revelation; a vain confidence of divine favor or
whatever language can express, must often speak of what he does not under-
communication.
stand; that a writer will sometimes be hurried by eagerness to the end, and
Enthusiasm is founded neither on reason nor divine revelation, but
sometimes faint with weariness under a task, which Scaliger compares to
rises from the conceits of a warmed or overweening brain.—Locke.
the labors of the anvil and the mine;4 that what is obvious is not always
ge’nius. n.
known, and what is known is not always present; that sudden fits of inadver-
1. The protecting or ruling power of men, places, or things.
tency will surprise vigilance, slight avocations5 will reduce attention, and
And as I awake, sweet music breathe,
casual eclipses of the mind will darken learning; and that the writer shall
Sent by some spirit to mortals good,
often in vain trace his memory at the moment of need, for that which yester-
Or th’ unseen genius of the wood.—Milton.
day he knew with intuitive readiness, and which will come uncalled into his
2. A man endowed with superior faculties.
thoughts tomorrow.
3. Mental power or faculties.
In this work, when it shall be found that much is omitted, let it not be for-
4. Disposition of nature by which anyone is qualified for some peculiar
gotten that much likewise is performed; and though no book was ever spared
employment.
out of tenderness to the author, and the world is little solicitous to know
5. Nature; disposition.
whence proceeded the faults of that which it condemns; yet it may gratify
ima’gination, n.
curiosity to inform it, that the English Dictionary was written with little assis-
1. Fancy; the power of forming ideal pictures; the power of representing
tance of the learned, and without any patronage of the great;6 not in the soft
things absent to one’s self or others.
obscurities of retirement, or under the shelter of academic bowers, but amidst
2. Conception; image in the mind; idea.
inconvenience and distraction, in sickness and in sorrow: and it may repress
3. Contrivance; scheme.
the triumph of malignant criticism to observe, that if our language is not here
lexico’grapher. n.
fully displayed, I have only failed in an attempt which no human powers have
A writer of dictionaries; a harmless drudge, that busies himself in tracing
hitherto completed. If the lexicons of ancient tongues, now immutably fixed,
the original, and detailing the signification of words.
and comprised in a few volumes, be yet, after the toil of successive ages, inad-
melancho’ly. n.
equate and delusive; if the aggregated knowledge and cooperating diligence
1. A disease, supposed to proceed from a redundance of black bile.
2. Leading physicist and chemist (1627–1691). scholar and lexicographer, wrote Latin verses
“Science”: knowledge. Richard Hooker wrote The suggesting that criminals should be condemned
Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity (1594–97), a famous to lexicography. 7. Paolo Beni’s L’Anticrusca (1612) violently 9. Johnson’s wife had died three years earlier.
defense of the Church of England. 5. Whatever calls one aside. attacked the first edition of the Vocabolario (the 1. Johnson’s definitions include etymologies and
3. Merit. 6. See Johnson’s letter to Lord Chesterfield in Italian dictionary). illustrative quotations, some of which are omit-
4. Joseph Justus Scaliger (1540–1609), a great Boswell’s Life of Johnson (pp. 2969–72). 8. Organi zation. ted in this selection.
2936 | SAMUEL JOHNSON T HE PREFACE TO SHAKE SPEARE | 2937
whig. n. served, without considering that time has sometimes cooperated with
2. The name of a faction. chance; all perhaps are more willing to honor past than present excellence;
Whoever has a true value for church and state, should avoid the and the mind contemplates genius through the shades of age, as the eye
extremes of whig for the sake of the former, and the extremes of tory on surveys the sun through artificial opacity. The great contention of criticism
the account of the latter.—Swift. is to find the faults of the moderns and the beauties of the ancients. While
wit. n. an author is yet living we estimate his powers by his worst per formance;
1. The powers of the mind; the mental faculties; the intellects. This is the and when he is dead we rate them by his best.
original signification. To works, however, of which the excellence is not absolute and definite, but
2. Imagination; quickness of fancy. gradual and comparative; to works not raised upon principles demonstrative
3. Sentiments produced by quickness of fancy. and scientific, but appealing wholly to observation and experience, no other
4. A man of fancy. test can be applied than length of duration and continuance of esteem. What
5. A man of genius. mankind have long possessed they have often examined and compared; and
6. Sense; judgment. if they persist to value the possession, it is because frequent comparisons
7. In the plural. Sound mind; intellect not crazed. have confirmed opinion in its favor. As among the works of nature no man
8. Contrivance; stratagem; power of expedients. can properly call a river deep or a mountain high, without the knowledge of
many mountains and many rivers; so in the productions of genius, nothing
1755
can be styled excellent till it has been compared with other works of the same
kind. Demonstration1 immediately displays its power and has nothing to
hope or fear from the flux of years; but works tentative and experimental
The Preface to Shakespeare This is the finest piece of Shakespeare must be estimated by their proportion to the general and collective ability of
criticism in the eighteenth century; it culminates a critical tradition that began with man, as it is discovered in a long succession of endeavors. Of the first build-
John Dryden’s remarks on Shakespeare and continued as the plays were edited by ing that was raised, it might be with certainty determined that it was round
Nicholas Rowe, Alexander Pope, Lewis Theobald, and William Warburton. Johnson or square, but whether it was spacious or lofty must have been referred to
addresses the standard topics: Shakespeare is the poet of nature, not learning; the time. The Pythagorean scale of numbers2 was at once discovered to be per-
creator of characters who spring to life; and a writer whose works express the full fect; but the poems of Homer we yet know not to transcend the common
range of human passions. But the Preface also takes a fresh look not only at the plays limits of human intelligence, but by remarking that nation after nation, and
but at the first principles of criticism. Resisting “bardolatry”—uncritical worship of
century after century, has been able to do little more than transpose his inci-
Shakespeare—Johnson points out his faults as well as his virtues and finds that his
truth to life, or “just representations of general nature,” surpasses that of all other dents, new name his characters, and paraphrase his sentiments.
modern writers. The Preface is most original when it attacks the long-standing criti- The reverence due to writings that have long subsisted arises, therefore,
cal reverence for the unities of time and place. What seems real on the stage, John- not from any credulous confidence in the superior wisdom of past ages, or
son argues, does not depend on artificial rules but on what the mind is willing to gloomy persuasion of the degeneracy of mankind, but is the consequence of
imagine. acknowledged and indubitable positions, that what has been longest known
Johnson’s edition of Shakespeare also contained footnotes and brief introductions has been most considered, and what is most considered is best understood.
to each of the plays. Reprinted here are his afterwords to Twelfth Night and King Lear. The poet of whose works I have undertaken the revision may now begin to
assume the dignity of an ancient and claim the privilege of established fame
and prescriptive veneration. He has long outlived his century, the term com-
monly fixed as the test of literary merit.3 Whatever advantages he might once
From The Preface to Shakespeare derive from personal allusions, local customs, or temporary opinions, have
for many years been lost; and every topic of merriment or motive of sorrow
[shakespeare’s excellence, general nature]
which the modes of artificial life afforded him now only obscure the scenes
That praises are without reason lavished on the dead, and that the honors which they once illuminated. The effects of favor and competition are at an
due only to excellence are paid to antiquity, is a complaint likely to be always end; the tradition of his friendships and his enmities has perished; his works
continued by those who, being able to add nothing to truth, hope for emi- support no opinion with arguments nor supply any faction with invectives;
nence from the heresies of paradox; or those who, being forced by disappoint- they can neither indulge vanity nor gratify malignity; but are read without
ment upon consolatory expedients, are willing to hope from posterity what any other reason than the desire of pleasure, and are therefore praised only
the present age refuses, and flatter themselves that the regard which is yet as pleasure is obtained; yet, thus unassisted by interest or passion, they have
denied by envy will be at last bestowed by time. passed through variations of taste and changes of manners, and, as they
Antiquity, like every other quality that attracts the notice of mankind,
1. “The highest degree of deducible or argumen- mine the principal intervals of the musical scale.
has undoubtedly votaries that reverence it not from reason but from preju- tal evidence” (Johnson’s Dictionary). 3. Horace’s Epistles 2.1.39.
dice. Some seem to admire indiscriminately whatever has been long pre- 2. Pythagoras discovered the ratios that deter-
devolved from one generation to another, have received new honors at every which produces it, and is pursued with so much ease and simplicity, that it
transmission. seems scarcely to claim the merit of fiction, but to have been gleaned by dili-
But because human judgment, though it be gradually gaining upon cer- gent selection out of common conversation and common occurrences.
tainty, never becomes infallible, and approbation, though long continued, Upon every other stage the universal agent is love, by whose power all
may yet be only the approbation of prejudice or fashion, it is proper to inquire good and evil is distributed and every action quickened or retarded. To bring
by what peculiarities of excellence Shakespeare has gained and kept the favor a lover, a lady, and a rival into the fable; to entangle them in contradictory
of his countrymen. obligations, perplex them with oppositions of interest, and harass them with
Nothing can please many, and please long, but just representations of violence of desires inconsistent with each other; to make them meet in rap-
general nature. Par ticular manners can be known to few, and therefore ture, and part in agony; to fill their mouths with hyperbolical joy and outra-
few only can judge how nearly they are copied. The irregular combina- geous sorrow; to distress them as nothing human ever was distressed; to
tions of fanciful invention may delight awhile by that novelty of which the deliver them as nothing human ever was delivered, is the business of a mod-
common satiety of life sends us all in quest; but the pleasures of sudden ern dramatist. For this, probability is violated, life is misrepresented, and
wonder are soon exhausted, and the mind can only repose on the stability language is depraved. But love is only one of many passions; and as it has no
of truth. great influence upon the sum of life, it has little operation in the dramas of
Shakespeare is, above all writers, at least above all modern writers, the a poet who caught his ideas from the living world and exhibited only what he
poet of nature, the poet that holds up to his readers a faithful mirror of saw before him. He knew that any other passion, as it was regular or exorbi-
manners and of life. His characters are not modified by the customs of par- tant, was a cause of happiness or calamity.
ticular places, unpracticed by the rest of the world; by the peculiarities of Characters thus ample and general were not easily discriminated and
studies or professions, which can operate but upon small numbers; or by preserved; yet perhaps no poet ever kept his personages more distinct from
the accidents of transient fashions or temporary opinions: they are the each other. I will not say with Pope that every speech may be assigned to
genuine progeny of common humanity, such as the world will always supply the proper speaker,7 because many speeches there are which have nothing
and observation will always find. His persons act and speak by the influ- characteristical; but perhaps though some may be equally adapted to every
ence of those general passions and principles by which all minds are agi- person, it will be difficult to find that any can be properly transferred from
tated and the whole system of life is continued in motion. In the writings of the present possessor to another claimant. The choice is right when there is
other poets a character is too often an individual: in those of Shakespeare reason for choice.
it is commonly a species. Other dramatists can only gain attention by hyperbolical or aggravated
It is from this wide extension of design that so much instruction is characters, by fabulous and unexampled excellence or depravity, as the writers
derived. It is this which fills the plays of Shakespeare with practical axioms of barbarous romances invigorated the reader by a giant and a dwarf; and he
and domestic wisdom. It was said of Euripides4 that every verse was a pre- that should form his expectations of human affairs from the play or from the
cept; and it may be said of Shakespeare that from his works may be collected tale would be equally deceived. Shakespeare has no heroes; his scenes are
a system of civil and economical prudence. Yet his real power is not shown occupied only by men, who act and speak as the reader thinks that he should
in the splendor of particular passages, but by the progress of his fable5 and himself have spoken or acted on the same occasion; even where the agency
the tenor of his dialogue; and he that tries to recommend him by select quo- is supernatural, the dialogue is level with life. Other writers disguise the
tations will succeed like the pedant in Hierocles6 who, when he offered his most natural passions and most frequent incidents so that he who contem-
house to sale, carried a brick in his pocket as a specimen. plates them in the book will not know them in the world: Shakespeare
It will not easily be imagined how much Shakespeare excels in accommo- approximates8 the remote, and familiarizes the wonderful; the event which
dating his sentiments to real life but by comparing him with other authors. It he represents will not happen, but, if it were possible, its effects would prob-
was observed of the ancient schools of declamation that the more diligently ably be such as he has assigned; and it may be said that he has not only
they were frequented, the more was the student disqualified for the world, shown human nature as it acts in real exigencies, but as it would be found in
because he found nothing there which he should ever meet in any other trials to which it cannot be exposed.
place. The same remark may be applied to every stage but that of Shake- This therefore is the praise of Shakespeare, that his drama is the mirror
speare. The theater, when it is under any other direction, is peopled by such of life; that he who has mazed his imagination in following the phantoms
characters as were never seen, conversing in a language which was never which other writers raise up before him, may here be cured of his delirious
heard, upon topics which will never arise in the commerce of mankind. But ecstasies by reading human sentiments in human language, by scenes from
the dialogue of this author is often so evidently determined by the incident which a hermit may estimate the transactions of the world, and a confessor
predict the progress of the passions.
4. The Greek tragic poet (ca. 480– 406 b.c.e.). Dictionary).

The observation is Cicero’s. 6. Hierocles of Alexandria, a Greek philosopher
5. Plot. “The series or contexture of events which of the 5th century c.e. 7. In the preface to his edition of Shakespeare’s 8. Brings near.
constitute a poem epic or dramatic” (Johnson’s plays (1725).
is commonly supposed to have been a time of stateliness, formality, and

[shakespeare’s faults. the three dramatic unities]
reserve; yet perhaps the relaxations of that severity were not very elegant.
Shakespeare with his excellencies has likewise faults, and faults sufficient There must, however, have been always some modes of gaiety preferable to
to obscure and overwhelm any other merit. I shall show them in the propor- others, and a writer ought to choose the best.
tion in which they appear to me, without envious malignity or superstitious In tragedy his per formance seems constantly to be worse as his labor is
veneration. No question can be more innocently discussed than a dead poet’s more. The effusions of passion, which exigence forces out, are for the most
pretensions to renown; and little regard is due to that bigotry which sets can- part striking and energetic; but whenever he solicits his invention, or strains
dor9 higher than truth. his faculties, the offspring of his throes is tumor,3 meanness, tediousness,
His first defect is that to which may be imputed most of the evil in books and obscurity.
or in men. He sacrifices virtue to convenience, and is so much more careful In narration he affects a disproportionate pomp of diction and a weari-
to please than to instruct that he seems to write without any moral purpose. some train of circumlocution, and tells the incident imperfectly in many
From his writings indeed a system of social duty may be selected, for he that words which might have been more plainly delivered in few. Narration in
thinks reasonably must think morally, but his precepts and axioms drop dramatic poetry is naturally tedious, as it is unanimated and inactive, and
casually from him; he makes no just distribution of good or evil, nor is obstructs the progress of the action; it should therefore always be rapid and
always careful to show in the virtuous a disapprobation of the wicked; he enlivened by frequent interruption. Shakespeare found it an encumbrance,
carries his persons indifferently through right and wrong, and at the close and instead of lightening it by brevity, endeavored to recommend it by dig-
dismisses them without further care, and leaves their examples to operate by nity and splendor.
chance. This fault the barbarity of his age cannot extenuate; for it is always His declamations or set speeches are commonly cold and weak, for his
a writer’s duty to make the world better, and justice is a virtue independent power was the power of nature; when he endeavored, like other tragic writers,
on time or place. to catch opportunities of amplification and, instead of inquiring what the
The plots are often so loosely formed that a very slight consideration may occasion demanded, to show how much his stores of knowledge could supply,
improve them, and so carelessly pursued that he seems not always fully to he seldom escapes without the pity or resentment of his reader.
comprehend his own design. He omits opportunities of instructing or delight- It is incident to him to be now and then entangled with an unwieldy sen-
ing which the train of his story seems to force upon him, and apparently timent which he cannot well express, and will not reject; he struggles with
rejects those exhibitions which would be more affecting for the sake of those it awhile, and, if it continues stubborn, comprises it in words such as occur,
which are more easy. and leaves it to be disentangled and evolved4 by those who have more lei-
It may be observed that in many of his plays the latter part is evidently sure to bestow upon it.
neglected. When he found himself near the end of his work, and in view of Not that always where the language is intricate the thought is subtle, or
his reward, he shortened the labor to snatch the profit. He therefore remits the image always great where the line is bulky; the equality of words to things
his efforts where he should most vigorously exert them, and his catastrophe is very often neglected, and trivial sentiments and vulgar5 ideas disappoint
is improbably produced or imperfectly represented. the attention, to which they are recommended by sonorous epithets and
He had no regard to distinction of time or place, but gives to one age or swelling figures.
nation, without scruple, the customs, institutions, and opinions of another, But the admirers of this great poet have most reason to complain when he
at the expense not only of likelihood but of possibility. These faults Pope has approaches nearest to his highest excellence, and seems fully resolved to sink
endeavored, with more zeal than judgment, to transfer to his imagined inter- them in dejection and mollify them with tender emotions by the fall of great-
polators. We need not wonder to find Hector quoting Aristotle, when we see ness, the danger of innocence, or the crosses of love. What he does best, he
the loves of Theseus and Hippolyta combined with the Gothic mythology of soon ceases to do. He is not long soft and pathetic without some idle conceit
fairies.1 Shakespeare, indeed, was not the only violator of chronology, for in or contemptible equivocation. He no sooner begins to move than he counter-
the same age Sidney, who wanted not the advantages of learning, has, in his acts himself; and terror and pity, as they are rising in the mind, are checked
Arcadia, confounded the pastoral with the feudal times, the days of inno- and blasted by sudden frigidity.
cence, quiet, and security with those of turbulence, violence, and adventure. A quibble6 is to Shakespeare what luminous vapors are to the traveler: he
In his comic scenes he is seldom very successful when he engages his char- follows it at all adventures; it is sure to lead him out of his way, and sure to
acters in reciprocations of smartness and contests of sarcasm; their jests are engulf him in the mire. It has some malignant power over his mind, and its
commonly gross, and their pleasantry licentious; neither his gentlemen nor fascinations are irresistible. Whatever be the dignity or profundity of his dis-
his ladies have much delicacy, nor are sufficiently distinguished from his quisitions, whether he be enlarging knowledge or exalting affection, whether
clowns2 by any appearance of refined manners. Whether he represented the he be amusing7 attention with incidents, or enchaining it in suspense, let but
real conversation of his time is not easy to determine: the reign of Elizabeth
3. Inflated grandeur, false magnificence. 6. Pun.
4. Unfolded. 7. “To entertain with tranquility; to fill with
9. Kindness. summer Night’s Dream, respectively. 5. “Mean; low; being of the common rate” (John- thoughts that engage the mind, without distract-
1. In Troilus and Cressida 2.2.166 and in A Mid- 2. Rustics. son’s Dictionary). ing it” (Johnson’s Dictionary).
a quibble spring up before him, and he leaves his work unfinished. A quibble From the narrow limitation of time necessarily arises the contraction of
is the golden apple for which he will always turn aside from his career8 or place. The spectator who knows that he saw the first act at Alexandria can-
stoop from his elevation. A quibble, poor and barren as it is, gave him such not suppose that he sees the next at Rome, at a distance to which not the
delight that he was content to purchase it by the sacrifice of reason, propri- dragons of Medea2 could, in so short a time, have transported him; he
ety, and truth. A quibble was to him the fatal Cleopatra for which he lost the knows with certainty that he has not changed his place; and he knows that
world, and was content to lose it. place cannot change itself, that what was a house cannot become a plain,
It will be thought strange that in enumerating the defects of this writer, I that what was Thebes can never be Persepolis.
have not yet mentioned his neglect of the unities; his violation of those laws Such is the triumphant language with which a critic exults over the misery
which have been instituted and established by the joint authority of poets of an irregular poet, and exults commonly without resistance or reply. It is
and critics. time, therefore, to tell him by the authority of Shakespeare that he assumes,
For his other deviations from the art of writing, I resign him to critical as an unquestionable principle, a position which, while his breath is forming
justice without making any other demand in his favor than that which must it into words, his understanding pronounces to be false. It is false that any
be indulged to all human excellence: that his virtues be rated with his fail- representation is mistaken for reality; that any dramatic fable in its material-
ings. But from the censure which this irregularity may bring upon him I ity was ever credible or, for a single moment, was ever credited.
shall, with due reverence to that learning which I must oppose, adventure The objection arising from the impossibility of passing the first hour at
to try how I can defend him. Alexandria and the next at Rome supposes that when the play opens the
His histories, being neither tragedies nor comedies, are not subject to any spectator really imagines himself at Alexandria, and believes that his walk
of their laws; nothing more is necessary to all the praise which they expect to the theater has been a voyage to Egypt, and that he lives in the days of
than that the changes of action be so prepared as to be understood; that the Antony and Cleopatra. Surely he that imagines this may imagine more. He
incidents be various and affecting, and the characters consistent, natural, that can take the stage at one time for the palace of the Ptolemies may take
and distinct. No other unity is intended, and therefore none is to be sought. it in half an hour for the promontory of Actium. Delusion, if delusion be
In his other works he has well enough preserved the unity of action. He admitted, has no certain limitation; if the spectator can be once persuaded
has not, indeed, an intrigue regularly perplexed and regularly unraveled: he that his old acquaintances are Alexander and Caesar, that a room illumi-
does not endeavor to hide his design only to discover it, for this is seldom nated with candles is the plain of Pharsalia or the bank of Granicus, he is
the order of real events, and Shakespeare is the poet of nature: but his plan in a state of elevation above the reach of reason or of truth, and from the
has commonly what Aristotle requires,9 a beginning, a middle, and an end; heights of empyrean poetry may despise the circumscriptions of terrestrial
one event is concatenated with another, and the conclusion follows by easy nature. There is no reason why a mind thus wandering in ecstasy should
consequence. There are, perhaps, some incidents that might be spared, as count the clock, or why an hour should not be a century in that calenture3
in other poets there is much talk that only fills up time upon the stage; but of the brain that can make the stage a field.
the general system makes gradual advances, and the end of the play is the The truth is that the spectators are always in their senses, and know, from
end of expectation. the first act to the last, that the stage is only a stage, and that the players are
To the unities of time and place he has shown no regard; and perhaps a only players. They came to hear a certain number of lines recited with just
nearer view of the principles on which they stand will diminish their value gesture and elegant modulation. The lines relate to some action, and an
and withdraw from them the veneration which, from the time of Corneille,1 action must be in some place; but the different actions that complete a story
they have very generally received, by discovering that they have given more may be in places very remote from each other; and where is the absurdity of
trouble to the poet than pleasure to the auditor. allowing that space to represent first Athens, and then Sicily, which was
The necessity of observing the unities of time and place arises from the always known to be neither Sicily nor Athens but a modern theater?
supposed necessity of making the drama credible. The critics hold it impos- By supposition, as place is introduced, time may be extended; the time
sible that an action of months or years can be possibly believed to pass in required by the fable elapses, for the most part, between the acts; for, of so
three hours; or that the spectator can suppose himself to sit in the theater much of the action as is represented, the real and poetical duration is the
while ambassadors go and return between distant kings, while armies are same. If, in the first act, preparations for war against Mithridates are repre-
levied and towns besieged, while an exile wanders and returns, or till he sented to be made in Rome, the event of the war may, without absurdity,
whom they saw courting his mistress shall lament the untimely fall of his be represented, in the catastrophe, as happening in Pontus; we know that
son. The mind revolts from evident falsehood, and fiction loses its force there is neither war nor preparation for war; we know that we are neither in
when it departs from the resemblance of reality. Rome nor Pontus, that neither Mithridates nor Lucullus are before us. The
drama exhibits successive imitations of successive actions; and why may not
8. Course of action; the ground on which a race which she paused to pick up.
is run. In Greek legend Atalanta refused to marry 9. Poetics 7.
any man who could not defeat her in a foot race. 1. Pierre Corneille (1606–1684), the French 2. According to legend, Medea fled the scene of causes sailors to leap into the sea under the delu-
Hippomenes won her by dropping, as he ran, playwright, discussed the unities in his Discours her crimes in a chariot drawn by dragons. sion that it is a green field.
three of the golden apples of the Hesperides, des trois unités (1660). 3. A delirium produced by tropical heat, which
the second imitation represent an action that happened years after the first, his first act passed at Venice and his next in Cyprus.9 Such violations of rules
if it be so connected with it that nothing but time can be supposed to inter- merely positive1 become the comprehensive genius of Shakespeare, and such
vene? Time is, of all modes of existence, most obsequious4 to the imagination; censures are suitable to the minute and slender criticism of Voltaire.
a lapse of years is as easily conceived as a passage of hours. In contemplation
Non usque adeo permiscuit imis
we easily contract the time of real actions, and therefore willingly permit it to
Longus summa dies, ut non, si voce Metelli
be contracted when we only see their imitation. Serventur leges, malint a Caesare tolli.2
It will be asked how the drama moves if it is not credited. It is credited
with all the credit due to a drama. It is credited, whenever it moves, as a just Yet when I speak thus slightly of dramatic rules, I cannot but recollect how
picture of a real original; as representing to the auditor what he would him- much wit and learning may be produced against me; before such authorities
self feel if he were to do or suffer what is there feigned to be suffered or to I am afraid to stand: not that I think the present question one of those that
be done. The reflection that strikes the heart is not that the evils before us are to be decided by mere authority, but because it is to be suspected that
are real evils, but that they are evils to which we ourselves may be exposed. these precepts have not been so easily received but for better reasons than I
If there be any fallacy, it is not that we fancy the players, but that we fancy have yet been able to find. The result of my inquiries, in which it would be
ourselves, unhappy for a moment; but we rather lament the possibility than ludicrous to boast of impartiality, is that the unities of time and place are not
suppose the presence of misery, as a mother weeps over her babe when she essential to a just drama, that though they may sometimes conduce to plea-
remembers that death may take it from her. The delight of tragedy proceeds sure, they are always to be sacrificed to the nobler beauties of variety and
from our consciousness of fiction; if we thought murders and treasons real, instruction; and that a play written with nice observation of critical rules is
they would please no more. to be contemplated as an elaborate curiosity, as the product of superfluous
Imitations produce pain or pleasure, not because they are mistaken for and ostentatious art, by which is shown rather what is possible than what is
realities, but because they bring realities to mind. When the imagination is necessary.
recreated5 by a painted landscape, the trees are not supposed capable to give He that without diminution of any other excellence shall preserve all the
us shade or the fountains coolness; but we consider how we should be pleased unities unbroken deserves the like applause with the architect who shall
with such fountains playing beside us and such woods waving over us. We display all the orders of architecture in a citadel without any deduction for
are agitated in reading the history of Henry the Fifth; yet no man takes his its strength; but the principal beauty of a citadel is to exclude the enemy,
book for the field of Agincourt. A dramatic exhibition is a book recited with and the greatest graces of a play are to copy nature and instruct life. * * *
concomitants that increase or diminish its effect. Familiar6 comedy is often
more powerful on the theater than in the page; imperial tragedy is always [twelfth night]
less. The humor of Petruchio may be heightened by grimace; but what voice This play is in the graver part elegant and easy, and in some of the lighter
or what gesture can hope to add dignity or force to the soliloquy of Cato?7 scenes exquisitely humorous. Ague-cheek is drawn with great propriety, but
A play read affects the mind like a play acted. It is therefore evident that his character is, in a great measure, that of natural fatuity, and is therefore
the action is not supposed to be real; and it follows that between the acts a not the proper prey of a satirist. The soliloquy of Malvolio is truly comick;
longer or shorter time may be allowed to pass, and that no more account of he is betrayed to ridicule merely by his pride. The marriage of Olivia, and
space or duration is to be taken by the auditor of a drama than by the reader the succeeding perplexity, though well enough contrived to divert on the
of a narrative, before whom may pass in an hour the life of a hero or the stage, wants credibility, and fails to produce the proper instruction required
revolutions of an empire. in the drama, as it exhibits no just picture of life.
Whether Shakespeare knew the unities and rejected them by design or
deviated from them by happy ignorance, it is, I think, impossible to decide [king lear]
and useless to inquire. We may reasonably suppose that, when he rose to
notice, he did not want8 the counsels and admonitions of scholars and critics, The tragedy of Lear is deservedly celebrated among the dramas of Shake-
and that he at last deliberately persisted in a practice which he might have speare. There is perhaps no play which keeps the attention so strongly fixed;
begun by chance. As nothing is essential to the fable but unity of action, and which so much agitates our passions and interests our curiosity. The artful
as the unities of time and place arise evidently from false assumptions, and, involutions3 of distinct interests, the striking opposition of contrary charac-
by circumscribing the extent of the drama, lessen its variety, I cannot think it ters, the sudden changes of fortune, and the quick succession of events, fill
much to be lamented that they were not known by him, or not observed: nor, the mind with a perpetual tumult of indignation, pity, and hope. There is no
if such another poet could arise, should I very vehemently reproach him that scene which does not contribute to the aggravation of the distress or con-
duct of the action, and scarce a line which does not conduce to the progress
4. “Obedient; compliant” (Johnson’s Dictionary). quizes on immortality shortly before committing 9. As is the case in Othello. laws would not rather be trampled on by Caesar
5. Delighted. suicide. Petruchio is the hero of Shakespeare’s 1. Arbitrary; not natural. than saved by Metellus.”
6. Domestic. comedy The Taming of the Shrew. 2. Lucan’s Pharsalia 3.138– 40: “The course of 3. Entanglements.
7. In Addison’s tragedy Cato (5.1), the hero solilo- 8. Lack. time has not wrought such confusion that the
2946 | SAMUEL JOHNSON
of the scene. So powerful is the current of the poet’s imagination, that the
mind, which once ventures within it, is hurried irresistibly along.
On the seeming improbability of Lear’s conduct it may be observed, that
he is represented according to histories at that time vulgarly4 received as
true. And perhaps if we turn our thoughts upon the barbarity and igno-
rance of the age to which this story is referred, it will appear not so unlikely T H E
as while we estimate Lear’s manners by our own. Such preference of one
daughter to another, or resignation of dominion on such conditions, would
be yet credible, if told of a petty prince of Guinea or Madagascar. Shake-
speare, indeed, by the mention of his earls and dukes, has given us the idea
LIFE
of times more civilized, and of life regulated by softer manners; and the
truth is, that though he so nicely discriminates, and so minutely describes A N D
the characters of men, he commonly neglects and confounds the characters
of ages, by mingling customs ancient and modern, English and foreign.
My learned friend Mr. Warton, who has in the Adventurer very minutely
criticized this play,5 remarks, that the instances of cruelty are too savage
OPINIONS
and shocking, and that the intervention of Edmund destroys the simplicity
of the story. These objections may, I think, be answered, by repeating that
the cruelty of the daughters is an historical fact, to which the poet has
O F
added little, having only drawn it into a series by dialogue and action. But I
am not able to apologize with equal plausibility for the extrusion of Glouces-
ter’s eyes, which seems an act too horrid to be endured in dramatic exhibi- TRISTRAM SHANDY,
tion, and such as must always compel the mind to relieve its distress by
incredulity. Yet let it be remembered that our author well knew what would G E N T L E M A N.
please the audience for which he wrote.
The injury done by Edmund to the simplicity of the action is abundantly
recompensed by the addition of variety, by the art with which he is made to
co-operate with the chief design, and the opportunity which he gives the Ταρασσει τοὐϚ Ἀνϑρώπους οὐ τὰ Πράγματα,
poet of combining perfidy with perfidy, and connecting the wicked son with αλλα τὰ περι τῶν Πραγμάτων, Δογματα.
the wicked daughters, to impress this important moral, that villainy is
never at a stop, that crimes lead to crimes, and at last terminate in ruin.
But though this moral be incidentally enforced, Shakespeare has suffered
the virtue of Cordelia to perish in a just cause, contrary to the natural ideas V O L. I.
of justice, to the hope of the reader, and, what is yet more strange, to the
faith of chronicles. Yet this conduct is justified by the Spectator, who blames
Tate for giving Cordelia success and happiness in his alteration, and declares
that in his opinion, “the tragedy has lost half its beauty.” 6 Dennis has
remarked, whether justly or not, that to secure the favorable reception of
Cato, “the town was poisoned with much false and abominable criticism,”7
and that endeavors had been used to discredit and decry poetical justice. A
play in which the wicked prosper, and the virtuous miscarry, may doubtless
be good, because it is a just representation of the common events of human
life: but since all reasonable beings naturally love justice, I cannot easily be
persuaded, that the observation of justice makes a play worse; or, that if
4. Popularly. ending, in the adaptation by Nahum Tate.

5. Joseph Warton (1722–1800) contributed sev- 7. John Dennis, “Remarks upon Cato, a Tragedy”
eral papers to Johnson’s periodical the Adven- (1713). Dennis implies that Addison excuses the
turer; nos. 113, 116, and 122 discuss King Lear.
6. Addison, Spectator 40. During the 18th cen-
lack of poetic justice in Lear to justify the absence
of poetic justice in his own play, Cato.  7 6 0.
tury, King Lear was often performed with a happy
6 VOL. I
when they are once set a-going, whether right or wrong, ’tis not
a halfpenny matter,- - away they go cluttering like hey-go-mad;
and by treading the same steps over and over again, they pres-
THE ently make a road of it, as plain and as smooth as a garden-walk,
which, when they are once used to, the Devil himself sometimes
LIFE and OPINIONS shall not be able to drive them off it.
Pray, my dear, quoth my mother, have you not forgot to
OF wind up the clock?——Good G—! cried my father, making an
exclamation, but taking care to moderate his voice at the same
TRISTRAM SHANDY, Gent. time,——Did ever woman, since the creation of the world,
interrupt a man with such a silly question? Pray, what was your
————————————————————————————————— father saying?——Nothing.
C HA P. I. C HA P. II.
I Wish either my father or my mother, or indeed both of them,

as they were in duty both equally bound to it, had minded
what they were about when they begot me; had they duly
——Then, positively, there is nothing in the question, that I can
see, either good or bad.——Then let me tell you, Sir, it was a
very unseasonable question at least,—because it scattered and
consider’d how much depended upon what they were then dispersed the animal spirits, whose business it was to have
doing;—that not only the production of a rational Being was escorted and gone hand-in-hand with the HOMUNCULUS,
concern’d in it, but that possibly the happy formation and and conducted him safe to the place destined for his reception.
temperature of his body, perhaps his genius and the very cast The HOMUNCULUS, Sir, in how-ever low and ludicrous a
of his mind;—and, for aught they knew to the contrary, even light he may appear, in this age of levity, to the eye of folly or
the fortunes of his whole house might take their turn from the prejudice;—to the eye of reason in scientifick research, he stands
humours and dispositions which were then uppermost:—— confess’d—a BEING guarded and circumscribed with rights:
Had they duly weighed and considered all this, and proceeded ——The minutest philosophers, who, by the bye, have the most
accordingly,——I am verily persuaded I should have made a enlarged understandings, (their souls being inversely as their
quite different figure in the world, from that, in which the reader enquiries) shew us incontestably, That the HOMUNCULUS is
is likely to see me.—Believe me, good folks, this is not so created by the same hand,—engender’d in the same course
inconsiderable a thing as many of you may think it;—you have of nature,—endowed with the same loco-motive powers and
all, I dare say, heard of the animal spirits, as how they are faculties with us:——That he consists, as we do, of skin, hair,
transfused from father to son, &c. &c.—and a great deal to fat, flesh, veins, arteries, ligaments, nerves, cartileges, bones,
that purpose:—Well, you may take my word, that nine parts in marrow, brains, glands, genitals, humours, and articulations;
ten of a man’s sense or his nonsense, his successes and mis- ——is a Being of as much activity,——and, in all senses of the
carriages in this world depend upon their motions and activity, word, as much and as truly our fellow-creature as my Lord
and the different tracks and trains you put them into; so that Chancellor of England.—He may be benefited, he may be
CHAP. II–III 7 8 VOL. I
injured,—he may obtain redress;—in a word, he has all the knew no more than her backside what my father meant,- - but
claims and rights of humanity, which Tully, Puffendorff, or my uncle, Mr. Toby Shandy, who had been often informed of
the best ethick writers allow to arise out of that state and the affair,—understood him very well.
relation.
Now, dear Sir, what if any accident had befallen him in his
way alone?——or that, thro’ terror of it, natural to so young a
traveller, my little gentleman had got to his journey’s end C HA P. IV.
miserably spent;——his muscular strength and virility worn
down to a thread;—his own animal spirits ruffled beyond
description,—and that in this sad disorder’d state of nerves, he
had laid down a prey to sudden starts, or a series of melancholy
I Know there are readers in the world, as well as many other
good people in it, who are no readers at all,—who find
themselves ill at ease, unless they are let into the whole secret
dreams and fancies for nine long, long months together.——I from first to last, of every thing which concerns you.
tremble to think what a foundation had been laid for a thou- It is in pure compliance with this humour of theirs, and from
sand weaknesses both of body and mind, which no skill of the a backwardness in my nature to disappoint any one soul living,
physician or the philosopher could ever afterwards have set that I have been so very particular already. As my life and
thoroughly to rights. opinions are likely to make some noise in the world, and, if I
conjecture right, will take in all ranks, professions, and denomi-
nations of men whatever,—be no less read than the Pilgrim’s
Progress itself - - - and, in the end, prove the very thing which
C HA P. III. Montaigne dreaded his essays should turn out, that is, a book
for a parlour-window;—I find it necessary to consult every one
T O my uncle Mr. Toby Shandy do I stand indebted for

the preceding anecdote, to whom my father, who was an
excellent natural philosopher, and much given to close reason-
a little in his turn; and therefore must beg pardon for going on
a little further in the same way: For which cause, right glad I
am, that I have begun the history of myself in the way I have
ing upon the smallest matters, had oft, and heavily, complain’d done; and that I am able to go on tracing every thing in it, as
of the injury; but once more particularly, as my uncle Toby Horace says, ab Ovo.
well remember’d, upon his observing a most unaccountable Horace, I know, does not recommend this fashion altogether:
obliquity, (as he call’d it) in my manner of setting up my top, But that gentleman is speaking only of an epic poem or a
and justifying the principles upon which I had done it,—the old tragedy;—(I forget which)—besides, if it was not so, I should
gentleman shook his head, and in a tone more expressive by half beg Mr. Horace’s pardon;—for in writing what I have set about,
of sorrow than reproach,—he said his heart all along foreboded, I shall confine myself neither to his rules, nor to any man’s rules
and he saw it verified in this, and from a thousand other observa- that ever lived.
tions he had made upon me, That I should neither think nor act To such, however, as do not choose to go so far back into
like any other man’s child:——But alas! continued he, shaking these things, I can give no better advice, than that they skip over
his head a second time, and wiping away a tear which was the remaining part of this Chapter; for I declare before hand,
trickling down his cheeks, My Tristram’s misfortunes began ’tis wrote only for the curious and inquisitive.
nine months before ever he came into the world. ———————————–Shut the door.———————————
——My mother, who was sitting by, look’d up,—but she I was begot in the night, betwixt the first Sunday and the first
CHAP. IV 9 0 VOL. I
Monday in the month of March, in the year of our Lord one geniture,—my father set out upon his journey to London with
thousand seven hundred and eighteen. I am positive I was.— my eldest brother Bobby, to fix him at Westminster school;”
But how I came to be so very particular in my account of a thing and, as it appears from the same authority, “That he did not
which happened before I was born, is owing to another small get down to his wife and family till the second week in May
anecdote known only in our own family, but now made public following,”—it brings the thing almost to a certainty. However,
for the better clearing up this point. what follows in the beginning of the next chapter puts it beyond
My father, you must know, who was originally a Turky all possibility of doubt.
merchant, but had left off business for some years, in order to ———–But pray, Sir, What was your father doing all
retire to, and die upon, his paternal estate in the county of December,—January, and February?——Why, Madam,—he
———–, was, I believe, one of the most regular men in every was all that time afflicted with a Sciatica.
thing he did, whether ’twas matter of business, or matter of
amusement, that ever lived. As a small specimen of this extreme
exactness of his, to which he was in truth a slave,—he had made
it a rule for many years of his life,—on the first Sunday night of C HA P. V.
every month throughout the whole year,—as certain as ever the
Sunday night came,——to wind up a large house-clock which
we had standing upon the back-stairs head, with his own
hands:—And being somewhere between fifty and sixty years of
O N the fifth day of November, 78, which to the æra fixed
on, was as near nine kalendar months as any husband
could in reason have expected,—was I Tristram Shandy,
age, at the time I have been speaking of,—he had likewise Gentleman, brought forth into this scurvy and disasterous
gradually brought some other little family concernments to the world of ours.—I wish I had been born in the Moon, or in any
same period, in order, as he would often say to my uncle Toby, of the planets, (except Jupiter or Saturn, because I never could
to get them all out of the way at one time, and be no more bear cold weather) for it could not well have fared worse with
plagued and pester’d with them the rest of the month. me in any of them (tho’ I will not answer for Venus) than it has
It was attended but with one misfortune, which, in a great in this vile, dirty planet of ours,—which o’ my conscience, with
measure, fell upon myself, and the effects of which I fear I shall reverence be it spoken, I take to be made up of the shreds and
carry with me to my grave; namely, that, from an unhappy clippings of the rest;——not but the planet is well enough,
association of ideas which have no connection in nature, it so provided a man could be born in it to a great title or to a great
fell out at length, that my poor mother could never hear the estate; or could any how contrive to be called up to publick
said clock wound up,—but the thoughts of some other things charges, and employments of dignity or power;—but that is not
unavoidably popp’d into her head,—& vice versâ:—which my case; - - - - and therefore every man will speak of the fair as his
strange combination of ideas, the sagacious Locke, who cer- own market has gone in it;—for which cause I affirm it over
tainly understood the nature of these things better than most again to be one of the vilest worlds that ever was made; - - - for I
men, affirms to have produced more wry actions than all other can truly say, that from the first hour I drew my breath in it, to
sources of prejudice whatsoever. this, that I can now scarce draw it at all, for an asthma I got in
But this by the bye. scating against the wind in Flanders; - - I have been the continual
Now it appears, by a memorandum in my father’s pocket- sport of what the world calls Fortune; and though I will not
book, which now lies upon the table, “That on Lady-Day, wrong her by saying, She has ever made me feel the weight of
which was on the 25th of the same month in which I date my any great or signal evil; - - - yet with all the good temper in the
CHAP. V–VI  2 VOL. I
world, I affirm it of her, That in every stage of my life, and at

every turn and corner where she could get fairly at me, the C HA P. VII.
ungracious Duchess has pelted me with a set of as pitiful mis-
adventures and cross accidents as ever small HERO sustained.
I N the same village where my father and my mother dwelt,
dwelt also a thin, upright, motherly, notable, good old body
of a midwife, who, with the help of a little plain good sense,
and some years full employment in her business, in which she
C HA P. VI. had all along trusted little to her own efforts, and a great deal
to those of dame nature,—had acquired, in her way, no small
I N the beginning of the last chapter, I inform’d you exactly

when I was born;—but I did not inform you, how. No; that
particular was reserved entirely for a chapter by itself;—besides,
degree of reputation in the world;—by which word world, need
I in this place inform your worship, that I would be understood
to mean no more of it, than a small circle described upon the
Sir, as you and I are in a manner perfect strangers to each other, circle of the great world, of four English miles diameter, or
it would not have been proper to have let you into too many thereabouts, of which the cottage where the good old woman
circumstances relating to myself all at once.—You must have a lived, is supposed to be the centre.——She had been left, it
little patience. I have undertaken, you see, to write not only my seems, a widow in great distress, with three or four small chil-
life, but my opinions also; hoping and expecting that your dren, in her forty-seventh year; and as she was at that time a
knowledge of my character, and of what kind of a mortal I am, person of decent carriage,—grave deportment,——a woman
by the one, would give you a better relish for the other: As you moreover of few words, and withall an object of compassion,
proceed further with me, the slight acquaintance which is now whose distress and silence under it call’d out the louder for a
beginning betwixt us, will grow into familiarity; and that, unless friendly lift: the wife of the parson of the parish was touch’d
one of us is in fault, will terminate in friendship.——O diem with pity; and having often lamented an inconvenience, to which
præclarum!——then nothing which has touched me will be her husband’s flock had for many years been exposed, inasmuch,
thought trifling in its nature, or tedious in its telling. Therefore, as there was no such thing as a midwife, of any kind or degree
my dear friend and companion, if you should think me some- to be got at, let the case have been never so urgent, within less
what sparing of my narrative on my first setting out,—bear with than six or seven long miles riding; which said seven long miles
me,—and let me go on, and tell my story my own way:——or in dark nights and dismal roads, the country thereabouts being
if I should seem now and then to trifle upon the road,——or nothing but a deep clay, was almost equal to fourteen; and that
should sometimes put on a fool’s cap with a bell to it, for a in effect was sometimes next to having no midwife at all; it came
moment or two as we pass along,- - don’t fly off,—but rather into her head, that it would be doing as seasonable a kindness
courteously give me credit for a little more wisdom than appears to the whole parish, as to the poor creature herself, to get her a
upon my outside;—and as we jogg on, either laugh with me, or little instructed in some of the plain principles of the business,
at me, or in short, do any thing,——only keep your temper. in order to set her up in it. As no woman thereabouts was better
qualified to execute the plan she had formed than herself, the
Gentlewoman very charitably undertook it; and having great
influence over the female part of the parish, she found no diffi-
culty in effecting it to the utmost of her wishes. In truth, the
parson join’d his interest with his wife’s in the whole affair; and
CHAP. VII 3 4 VOL. I
in order to do things as they should be, and give the poor soul
as good a title by law to practise, as his wife had given by C HA P. VIII.
institution,——he chearfully paid the fees for the ordinaries
licence himself, amounting, in the whole, to the sum of eighteen —De gustibus non est disputandum;—that is, there is no
shillings and fourpence; so that, betwixt them both, the good disputing against HOBBY-HORSES ; and, for my part, I seldom
woman was fully invested in the real and corporal possession of do; nor could I with any sort of grace, had I been an enemy to
her office, together with all its rights, members, and appurte- them at the bottom; for happening, at certain intervals and
nances whatsoever. changes of the Moon, to be both fiddler and painter, according
These last words, you must know, were not according to the as the fly stings: - - - Be it known to you, that I keep a couple of
old form in which such licences, faculties, and powers usually pads myself, upon which, in their turns, (nor do I care who
ran, which in like cases had heretofore been granted to the knows it) I frequently ride out and take the air;—tho’ some-
sisterhood. But it was according to a neat Formula of Didius times, to my shame be it spoken, I take somewhat longer journies
his own devising, who having a particular turn for taking to than what a wise man would think altogether right.—–But the
pieces, and new framing over again, all kind of instruments in truth is,- - - I am not a wise man;——and besides am a mortal of
that way, not only hit upon this dainty amendment, but coax’d so little consequence in the world, it is not much matter what I
many of the old licensed matrons in the neighbourhood, to open do; so I seldom fret or fume at all about it: Nor does it much
their faculties afresh, in order to have this whim-wham of his disturb my rest when I see such great Lords and tall Personages
inserted. as hereafter follow; - - - such, for instance, as my Lord A, B, C, D,
I own I never could envy Didius in these kinds of fancies of E, F, G, H, I, K, L, M, N, O, P, Q, and so on, all of a row,
his:—But every man to his own taste.—Did not Dr. Kuna- mounted upon their several horses; - - some with large stirrups,
strokius, that great man, at his leisure hours, take the greatest getting on in a more grave and sober pace; - - - - others on the
delight imaginable in combing of asses tails, and plucking the contrary, tuck’d up to their very chins, with whips across their
dead hairs out with his teeth, though he had tweezers always in mouths, scouring and scampering it away like so many little
his pocket? Nay, if you come to that, Sir, have not the wisest of party-colour’d devils astride a mortgage,——and as if some of
men in all ages, not excepting Solomon himself,—have they them were resolved to break their necks.—So much the better—
not had their HOBBY-HORSES ;—their running horses,—their say I to myself;—for in case the worst should happen, the world
coins and their cockle-shells, their drums and their trumpets, will make a shift to do excellently well without them;—and for
their fiddles, their pallets,——their maggots and their butter- the rest,- - - - why,- - - - God speed them,- - - - e’en let them ride on
flies?—and so long as a man rides his HOBBY-HORSE peaceably without any opposition from me; for were their lordships
and quietly along the King’s high-way, and neither compels you unhorsed this very night,——’tis ten to one but that many of
or me to get up behind him,——pray, Sir, what have either you them would be worse mounted by one half before to-morrow
or I to do with it? morning.
Not one of these instances therefore can be said to break in
upon my rest.—But there is an instance, which I own puts me
off my guard, and that is, when I see one born for great actions,
and, what is still more for his honour, whose nature ever inclines
him to good ones; - - - - when I behold such a one, my Lord, like
yourself, whose principles and conduct are as generous and
CHAP. VIII–IX 5 6 VOL. I
noble as his blood, and whom, for that reason, a corrupt world offence or objection which might arise against it, from the
cannot spare one moment;—when I see such a one, my Lord, manner in which I propose to make the most of it; - - - which is
mounted, though it is but for a minute beyond the time which the putting it up fairly to publick sale; which I now do.
my love to my country has prescribed to him, and my zeal for ——Every author has a way of his own, in bringing his points
his glory wishes,—then, my Lord, I cease to be a philosopher, to bear; - - for my own part, as I hate chaffering and higgling for
and in the first transport of an honest impatience, I wish the a few guineas in a dark entry; - - - I resolved within myself, from
HOBBY-HORSE, with all his fraternity, at the Devil. the very beginning, to deal squarely and openly with your Great
Folks in this affair, and try whether I should not come off the
My Lord, better by it.
“I Maintain this to be a dedication, notwithstanding its

singularity in the three great essentials of matter, form,
and place: I beg, therefore, you will accept it as such, and that
If therefore there is any one Duke, Marquis, Earl, Viscount,
or Baron, in these his Majesty’s dominions, who stands in need
of a tight, genteel dedication, and whom the above will suit, (for
you will permit me to lay it, with the most respectful humility, by the bye, unless it suits in some degree, I will not part with it)
at your Lordship’s feet,- - when you are upon them,- - which you ——it is much at his service for fifty guineas;——which I am
can be when you please; - - - - and that is, my Lord, when ever positive is twenty guineas less than it ought to be afforded for,
there is occasion for it, and I will add, to the best purposes too. by any man of genius.
I have the honour to be, My Lord, if you examine it over again, it is far from being a
gross piece of daubing, as some dedications are. The design,
My Lord, your Lordship sees, is good, the colouring transparent,—the
drawing not amiss;—or to speak more like a man of science,—
Your Lordship’s most obedient,
and measure my piece in the painter’s scale, divided into 20,—
and most devoted, I believe, my Lord, the out-lines will turn out as 2,—the
composition as 9,—the colouring as 6,—the expression 3 and
and most humble servant,
a half,—and the design,—if I may be allowed, my Lord, to
TRISTRAM SHANDY.” understand my own design, and supposing absolute perfection
in designing, to be as 20,—I think it cannot well fall short of
9. Besides all this,—there is keeping in it, and the dark strokes
in the HOBBY-HORSE, (which is a secondary figure, and a kind
C HA P. IX. of back-ground to the whole) give great force to the principal
lights in your own figure, and make it come off wonderfully;
I Solemnly declare to all mankind, that the above dedication

was made for no one Prince, Prelate, Pope, or Potentate,—
Duke, Marquis, Earl, Viscount, or Baron of this, or any other
——and besides, there is an air of originality in the tout
ensemble.
Be pleased, my good Lord, to order the sum to be paid into
Realm in Christendom; - - - - - nor has it yet been hawk’d about, the hands of Mr. Dodsley, for the benefit of the author; and in
or offered publickly or privately, directly or indirectly, to any the next edition care shall be taken that this chapter be
one person or personage, great or small; but is honestly a true expunged, and your Lordship’s titles, distinctions, arms and
Virgin-Dedication untried on, upon any soul living. good actions, be placed at the front of the preceding chapter:
I labour this point so particularly, merely to remove any All which, from the words, De gustibus non est disputandum,
CHAP. IX–X 7 8 VOL. I
and whatever else in this book relates to HOBBY-HORSES, but him; for he answered his description to a hair-breadth in every
no more, shall stand dedicated to your Lordship.- - - The rest I thing,—except that I do not remember ’tis any where said, that
dedicate to the MOON, who, by the bye, of all the PATRONS or Rosinante was broken winded; and that, moreover, Rosinante,
MATRONS I can think of, has most power to set my book as is the happiness of most Spanish horses, fat or lean,—was
a-going, and make the world run mad after it. undoubtedly a horse at all points.
I know very well that the HERO’s horse was a horse of chaste
Bright Goddess, deportment, which may have given grounds for a contrary
If thou art not too busy with CANDID and Miss CUNEGUND’s opinion: But it is as certain at the same time, that Rosinante’s
affairs,- - take Tristram Shandy’s under thy protection also. continency (as may be demonstrated from the adventure of the
Yanguesian carriers) proceeded from no bodily defect or cause
whatsoever, but from the temperance and orderly current of his
blood.—And let me tell you, Madam, there is a great deal of
C HA P. X. very good chastity in the world, in behalf of which you could
not say more for your life.
W Hatever degree of small merit, the act of benignity in

favour of the midwife, might justly claim, or in whom
that claim truly rested,—at first sight seems not very material
Let that be as it may, as my purpose is to do exact justice to
every creature brought upon the stage of this dramatic work,—
I could not stifle this distinction in favour of Don Quixote’s
to this history;——certain however it was, that the gentle- horse;——in all other points the parson’s horse, I say, was just
woman, the parson’s wife, did run away at that time with the such another,——for he was as lean, and as lank, and as sorry
whole of it: And yet, for my life, I cannot help thinking but that a jade, as HUMILITY herself could have bestrided.
the parson himself, tho’ he had not the good fortune to hit upon In the estimation of here and there a man of weak judgment,
the design first,—yet, as he heartily concurred in it the moment it was greatly in the parson’s power to have helped the figure
it was laid before him, and as heartily parted with his money to of this horse of his,—for he was master of a very handsome
carry it into execution, had a claim to some share of it,—if not demi-peak’d saddle, quilted on the seat with green plush, gar-
to a full half of whatever honour was due to it. nished with a double row of silver-headed studs, and a noble
The world at that time was pleased to determine the matter pair of shining brass stirrups, with a housing altogether suitable,
otherwise. of grey superfine cloth, with an edging of black lace, terminating
Lay down the book, and I will allow you half a day to give a in a deep, black, silk fringe, poudrè d’or,—all which he had
probable guess at the grounds of this procedure. purchased in the pride and prime of his life, together with a
Be it known then, that, for about five years before the date of grand embossed bridle, ornamented at all points as it should
the midwife’s licence, of which you have had so circumstantial be.——But not caring to banter his beast, he had hung all these
an account,—the parson we have to do with, had made himself up behind his study door;—and, in lieu of them, had seriously
a country-talk by a breach of all decorum, which he had com- befitted him with just such a bridle and such a saddle, as the
mitted against himself, his station, and his office;——and that figure and value of such a steed might well and truly deserve.
was, in never appearing better, or otherwise mounted, than In the several sallies about his parish, and in the neighbouring
upon a lean, sorry, jack-ass of a horse, value about one pound visits to the gentry who lived around him,——you will easily
fifteen shillings; who, to shorten all description of him, was full comprehend, that the parson, so appointed, would both hear
brother to Rosinante, as far as similitude congenial could make and see enough to keep his philosophy from rusting. To speak
CHAP. X 9 20 VOL. I
the truth, he never could enter a village, but he caught the were two incompatible movements.- - But that, upon his steed—
attention of both old and young.- - - - Labour stood still as he he could unite and reconcile every thing,—he could compose
pass’d,- - - the bucket hung suspended in the middle of the well, his sermon,—he could compose his cough,——and, in case
——the spinning-wheel forgot its round,———–even chuck- nature gave a call that way, he could likewise compose himself
farthing and shuffle-cap themselves stood gaping till he had got to sleep.—In short, the parson upon such encounters would
out of sight; and as his movement was not of the quickest, assign any cause, but the true cause,—and he with-held the true
he had generally time enough upon his hands to make his one, only out of a nicety of temper, because he thought it did
observations,- - to hear the groans of the serious,——and the honour to him.
laughter of the light-hearted;—all which he bore with excellent But the truth of the story was as follows: In the first years of
tranquility.—His character was,——he loved a jest in his this gentleman’s life, and about the time when the superb saddle
heart—and as he saw himself in the true point of ridicule, he and bridle were purchased by him, it had been his manner, or
would say, he could not be angry with others for seeing him in vanity, or call it what you will,——to run into the opposite
a light, in which he so strongly saw himself: So that to his extream.—In the language of the county where he dwelt, he
friends, who knew his foible was not the love of money, and who was said to have loved a good horse, and generally had one of
therefore made the less scruple in bantering the extravagance of the best in the whole parish standing in his stable always ready
his humour,—instead of giving the true cause,——he chose for saddling; and as the nearest midwife, as I told you, did not
rather to join in the laugh against himself; and as he never live nearer to the village than seven miles, and in a vile country,
carried one single ounce of flesh upon his own bones, being ——it so fell out that the poor gentleman was scarce a whole
altogether as spare a figure as his beast,—he would sometimes week together without some piteous application for his beast;
insist upon it, that the horse was as good as the rider deserved;— and as he was not an unkind-hearted man, and every case was
that they were, centaur-like,- - - both of a piece. At other times, more pressing and more distressful than the last,—as much as
and in other moods, when his spirits were above the temptation he loved his beast, he had never a heart to refuse him; the upshot
of false wit,—he would say, he found himself going off fast in of which was generally this, that his horse was either clapp’d,
a consumption; and, with great gravity, would pretend, he could or spavin’d, or greaz’d;—or he was twitter-bon’d, or broken-
not bear the sight of a fat horse without a dejection of heart, winded, or something, in short, or other had befallen him
and a sensible alteration in his pulse; and that he had made which would let him carry no flesh;—so that he had every nine
choice of the lean one he rode upon, not only to keep himself in or ten months a bad horse to get rid of,—and a good horse to
countenance, but in spirits. purchase in his stead.
At different times he would give fifty humourous and opposite What the loss in such a balance might amount to, commun-
reasons for riding a meek-spirited jade of a broken-winded ibus annis, I would leave to a special jury of sufferers in the
horse, preferably to one of mettle;—for on such a one he could same traffic, to determine;—but let it be what it would, the
sit mechanically, and meditate as delightfully de vanitate mundi honest gentleman bore it for many years without a murmur, till
et fugâ sæculi, as with the advantage of a death’s head before at length, by repeated ill accidents of the kind, he found it
him;—that, in all other exercitations, he could spend his time, necessary to take the thing under consideration; and upon
as he rode slowly along,——to as much account as in his weighing the whole, and summing it up in his mind, he found it
study;—that he could draw up an argument in his sermon,—or not only disproportion’d to his other expences, but withall so
a hole in his breeches, as steadily on the one as in the other;—that heavy an article in itself, as to disable him from any other act of
brisk trotting and slow argumentation, like wit and judgment, generosity in his parish: Besides this he considered, that, with
CHAP. X 2 22 VOL. I
half the sum thus galloped away, he could do ten times as much their destruction, were known and distinctly remembered.—
good;——and what still weighed more with him than all other The story ran like wild-fire.—“The parson had a returning fit
considerations put together, was this, that it confined all his of pride which had just seized him; and he was going to be well
charity into one particular channel, and where, as he fancied, it mounted once again in his life; and if it was so, ’twas plain as
was the least wanted, namely, to the child-bearing and child- the sun at noon-day, he would pocket the expence of the licence,
getting part of his parish; reserving nothing for the impotent,- - - ten times told the very first year:——so that every body was left
nothing for the aged,- - - nothing for the many comfortless scenes to judge what were his views in this act of charity.”
he was hourly called forth to visit, where poverty, and sickness, What were his views in this, and in every other action of his
and affliction dwelt together. life,—or rather what were the opinions which floated in the
For these reasons he resolved to discontinue the expence; and brains of other people concerning it, was a thought which too
there appeared but two possible ways to extricate him clearly much floated in his own, and too often broke in upon his rest,
out of it;—and these were, either to make it an irrevocable law when he should have been sound asleep.
never more to lend his steed upon any application whatever,— About ten years ago this gentleman had the good fortune to
or else be content to ride the last poor devil, such as they had be made entirely easy upon that score,——it being just so long
made him, with all his aches and infirmities, to the very end of since he left his parish,——and the whole world at the same
the chapter. time behind him,- - and stands accountable to a judge of whom
As he dreaded his own constancy in the first,——he very he will have no cause to complain.
chearfully betook himself to the second; and tho’ he could very But there is a fatality attends the actions of some men: Order
well have explain’d it, as I said, to his honour,—yet, for that them as they will, they pass thro’ a certain medium which so
very reason, he had a spirit above it; choosing rather to bear the twists and refracts them from their true directions———–
contempt of his enemies, and the laughter of his friends, than that, with all the titles to praise which a rectitude of heart can
undergo the pain of telling a story, which might seem a panygeric give, the doers of them are nevertheless forced to live and die
upon himself. without it.
I have the highest idea of the spiritual and refined sentiments Of the truth of which this gentleman was a painful example.
of this reverend gentleman, from this single stroke in his charac- ——But to know by what means this came to pass,- - - - and to
ter, which I think comes up to any of the honest refinements of make that knowledge of use to you, I insist upon it that you
the peerless knight of La Mancha, whom, by the bye, with all read the two following chapters, which contain such a sketch
his follies, I love more, and would actually have gone further to of his life and conversation, as will carry its moral along with
have paid a visit to, than the greatest hero of antiquity. it.- -When this is done, if nothing stops us in our way, we will
But this is not the moral of my story: The thing I had in view go on with the midwife.
was to shew the temper of the world in the whole of this affair.—
For you must know, that so long as this explanation would have
done the parson credit,—the devil a soul could find it out,—I
suppose his enemies would not, and that his friends could not. C HA P. XI.
——But no sooner did he bestir himself in behalf of the midwife,
and pay the expences of the ordinary’s licence to set her up,—
but the whole secret came out; every horse he had lost, and two
horses more than ever he had lost, with all the circumstances of
Y ORICK was this parson’s name, and, what is very
remarkable in it, (as appears from a most antient account
of the family, wrote upon strong vellum, and now in perfect
CHAP. XI 23 24 VOL. I
preservation) it had been exactly so spelt for near,——I was parts of Europe, and of which original journey perform’d by us
within an ace of saying nine hundred years;——but I would two, a most delectable narrative will be given in the progress
not shake my credit in telling an improbable truth, however of this work. I had just time, I say, and that was all, to prove the
indisputable in itself;——and therefore I shall content myself truth of an observation made by a long sojourner in that country;
with only saying,- - - It had been exactly so spelt, without the - - - - namely, “That nature was neither very lavish, nor was she
least variation or transposition of a single letter, for I do not very stingy in her gifts of genius and capacity to its inhabitants;
know how long; which is more than I would venture to say of - - but, like a discreet parent, was moderately kind to them all;
one half of the best surnames in the kingdom; which, in a course observing such an equal tenor in the distribution of her favours,
of years, have generally undergone as many chops and changes as to bring them, in those points, pretty near to a level with each
as their owners.—Has this been owing to the pride, or to the other; so that you will meet with few instances in that kingdom
shame of the respective proprietors?—In honest truth, I think, of refin’d parts; but a great deal of good plain houshold under-
sometimes to the one, and sometimes to the other, just as the standing amongst all ranks of people, of which every body has
temptation has wrought. But a villainous affair it is, and will a share;” which is, I think, very right.
one day so blend and confound us all together, that no one shall With us, you see, the case is quite different;—we are all ups
be able to stand up and swear, “That his own great grand father and downs in this matter;—you are a great genius; - - or ’tis fifty
was the man who did either this or that.” to one, Sir, you are a great dunce and a blockhead; - - - not that
This evil had been sufficiently fenced against by the prudent there is a total want of intermediate steps,—no,—we are not so
care of the Yorick’s family, and their religious preservation of irregular as that comes to;—but the two extremes are more
these records I quote, which do further inform us, That the common, and in a greater degree in this unsettled island, where
family was originally of Danish extraction, and had been trans- nature, in her gifts and dispositions of this kind, is most whimsi-
planted into England as early as in the reign of Horwendillus, cal and capricious; fortune herself not being more so in the
king of Denmark, in whose court it seems, an ancestor of this bequest of her goods and chattels than she.
Mr. Yorick’s, and from whom he was lineally descended, held This is all that ever stagger’d my faith in regard to Yorick’s
a considerable post to the day of his death. Of what nature this extraction, who, by what I can remember of him, and by all the
considerable post was, this record saith not;—it only adds, That, accounts I could ever get of him, seem’d not to have had one
for near two centuries, it had been totally abolished as altogether single drop of Danish blood in his whole crasis; in nine hundred
unnecessary, not only in that court, but in every other court of years, it might possibly have all run out: - - - - I will not philoso-
the Christian world. phize one moment with you about it; for happen how it would,
It has often come into my head, that this post could be no the fact was this:—That instead of that cold phlegm and exact
other than that of the king’s chief Jester; - - - and that Hamlet’s regularity of sense and humours, you would have look’d for, in
Yorick, in our Shakespear, many of whose plays, you know, are one so extracted; - - - he was, on the contrary, as mercurial and
founded upon authenticated facts,- - was certainly the very man. sublimated a composition,—–as heteroclite a creature in all his
I have not the time to look into Saxo-Grammaticus’s Danish declensions;——with as much life and whim, and gaité de
history, to know the certainty of this;—but if you have leisure, cœur about him, as the kindliest climate could have engendered
and can easily get at the book, you may do it full as well yourself. and put together. With all this sail, poor Yorick carried not one
I had just time, in my travels through Denmark with Mr. ounce of ballast; he was utterly unpractised in the world; and,
Noddy’s eldest son, whom, in the year 74, I accompanied as at the age of twenty-six, knew just about as well how to steer
governor, riding along with him at a prodigious rate thro’ most his course in it, as a romping, unsuspicious girl of thirteen: So
CHAP. XI 25 26 VOL. I
that upon his first setting out, the brisk gale of his spirits, as you either personage, time, or place; - - - so that when mention was
will imagine, ran him foul ten times in a day of some body’s made of a pitiful or an ungenerous proceeding,- - - he never gave
tackling; and as the grave and more slow-paced were oftenest himself a moment’s time to reflect who was the Hero of the
in his way,- - - - - you may likewise imagine, ’twas with such he piece,- - - - what his station,- - - - or how far he had power to hurt
had generally the ill luck to get the most entangled. For aught I him hereafter; - - - but if it was a dirty action,- - - - - without more
know there might be some mixture of unlucky wit at the bottom ado,- - - - - The man was a dirty fellow,- - - and so on: - - -And as his
of such Fracas: - - - For, to speak the truth, Yorick had an invin- comments had usually the ill fate to be terminated either in a
cible dislike and opposition in his nature to gravity;- - - -not to bon mot, or to be enliven’d throughout with some drollery or
gravity as such; - - - - for where gravity was wanted, he would be humour of expression, it gave wings to Yorick’s indiscretion. In
the most grave or serious of mortal men for days and weeks a word, tho’ he never sought, yet, at the same time, as he seldom
together; - - - but he was an enemy to the affectation of it, and shun’d occasions of saying what came uppermost, and without
declared open war against it, only as it appeared a cloak for much ceremony; - - - - he had but too many temptations in life, of
ignorance, or for folly; and then, whenever it fell in his way, scattering his wit and his humour,—his gibes and his jests
however sheltered and protected, he seldom gave it much about him.- - - - They were not lost for want of gathering.
quarter. What were the consequences, and what was Yorick’s catas-
Sometimes, in his wild way of talking, he would say, That trophe thereupon, you will read in the next chapter.
gravity was an errant scoundrel; and he would add,—of the
most dangerous kind too,- - - - because a sly one; and that, he
verily believed, more honest, well-meaning people were
bubbled out of their goods and money by it in one twelve- C HA P. XII.
month, than by pocket-picking and shop-lifting in seven. In the
naked temper which a merry heart discovered, he would say,
There was no danger,- - but to itself:—whereas the very essence
of gravity was design, and consequently deceit; - - -’twas a taught
T HE Mortgager and Mortgageé differ the one from the other,
not more in length of purse, than the Jester and Jesteé do,
in that of memory. But in this the comparison between them
trick to gain credit of the world for more sense and knowledge runs, as the scholiasts call it, upon all-four; which, by the bye,
than a man was worth; and that, with all its pretensions,- - - it is upon one or two legs more, than some of the best of Homer’s
was no better, but often worse, than what a French wit had can pretend to;—namely, That the one raises a sum and the
long ago defined it, - - - viz. A mysterious carriage of the body to other a laugh at your expence, and think no more about it.
cover the defects of the mind;—which definition of gravity, Interest, however, still runs on in both cases; - - - - the periodical
Yorick, with great imprudence, would say, deserved to be wrote or accidental payments of it, just serving to keep the memory of
in letters of gold. the affair alive; till, at length, in some evil hour,- - - - pop comes
But, in plain truth, he was a man unhackneyed and unprac- the creditor upon each, and by demanding principal upon the
tised in the world, and was altogether as indiscreet and foolish spot, together with full interest to the very day, makes them
on every other subject of discourse where policy is wont to both feel the full extent of their obligations.
impress restraint. Yorick had no impression but one, and that As the reader (for I hate your ifs) has a thorough knowledge
was what arose from the nature of the deed spoken of; which of human nature, I need not say more to satisfy him, that my
impression he would usually translate into plain English without Hero could not go on at this rate without some slight experience
any periphrasis,——and too oft without much distinction of of these incidental mementos. To speak the truth, he had
CHAP. XII 27 28 VOL. I
wantonly involved himself in a multitude of small book-debts of thee, my dear friend, as to make thee heartily sick of it, and of
this stamp, which, notwithstanding Eugenius’s frequent advice, thy life too.
he too much disregarded; thinking, that as not one of them was REVENGE from some baneful corner shall level a tale of
contracted thro’ any malignancy; - - - but, on the contrary, from dishonour at thee, which no innocence of heart or integrity of
an honesty of mind, and a mere jocundity of humour, they conduct shall set right.——The fortunes of thy house shall
would all of them be cross’d out in course. totter,- - - thy character, which led the way to them, shall bleed
Eugenius would never admit this; and would often tell him, on every side of it,- - thy faith questioned,- - thy works belied,- -
that one day or other he would certainly be reckoned with; and thy wit forgotten,- - thy learning trampled on. To wind up the
he would often add, in an accent of sorrowful apprehension,- - - last scene of thy tragedy, CRUELTY and COWARDICE, twin
to the uttermost mite. To which Yorick, with his usual careles- ruffians, hired and set on by MALICE in the dark, shall strike
ness of heart, would as often answer with a pshaw! - - - and if the together at all thy infirmities and mistakes: - - - the best of us, my
subject was started in the fields,- - - with a hop, skip, and a jump, dear lad, lye open there,- - - and trust me,- - - - trust me, Yorick,
at the end of it; but if close pent up in the social chimney corner, When to gratify a private appetite, it is once resolved upon, that
where the culprit was barricado’d in, with a table and a couple an innocent and an helpless creature shall be sacrificed, ’tis an
of arm chairs, and could not so readily fly off in a tangent,- - - - easy matter to pick up sticks enew from any thicket where it has
Eugenius would then go on with his lecture upon discretion, in strayed, to make a fire to offer it up with.
words to this purpose, though somewhat better put together. Yorick scarce ever heard this sad vaticination of his destiny
Trust me, dear Yorick, this unwary pleasantry of thine will read over to him, but with a tear stealing from his eye, and a
sooner or later bring thee into scrapes and difficulties, which no promissory look attending it, that he was resolved, for the time
after-wit can extricate thee out of.——In these sallies, too oft, to come, to ride his tit with more sobriety.—But, alas, too late!
I see, it happens, that a person laugh’d at, considers himself in - - - a grand confederacy, with * * * * * and * * * * * at the head
the light of a person injured, with all the rights of such a situation of it, was form’d before the first prediction of it.- - - - The whole
belonging to him; and when thou viewest him in that light too, plan of the attack, just as Eugenius had foreboded, was put in
and reckons up his friends, his family, his kindred, and allies, execution all at once,- - - - - with so little mercy on the side of the
- - - - and musters up with them the many recruits which will list allies,- - - and so little suspicion in Yorick, of what was carrying
under him from a sense of common danger; - - -’tis no extravagant on against him,- - - that when he thought, good easy man! full
arithmetic to say, that for every ten jokes,- - - thou hast got a surely preferment was o’ripening,- - they had smote his root, and
hundred enemies; and till thou hast gone on, and raised a swarm then he fell, as many a worthy man had fallen before him.
of wasps about thy ears, and art half stung to death by them, Yorick, however, fought it out with all imaginable gallantry
thou will never be convinced it is so. for some time; till, over-power’d by numbers, and worn out at
I cannot suspect it in the man whom I esteem, that there is length by the calamities of the war,- - - - but more so, by the
the least spur from spleen or malevolence of intent in these ungenerous manner in which it was carried on,- - - he threw down
sallies.——I believe and know them to be truly honest and the sword; and though he kept up his spirits in appearance to
sportive: - - - But consider, my dear lad, that fools cannot distin- the last,- - - - he died, nevertheless, as was generally thought, quite
guish this,- - and that knaves will not; and thou knowest not broken hearted.
what it is, either to provoke the one, or to make merry with the What inclined Eugenius to the same opinion, was as follows:
other,- - whenever they associate for mutual defence, depend A few hours before Yorick breath’d his last, Eugenius stept
upon it, they will carry on the war in such a manner against in with an intent to take his last sight and last farewell of him:
CHAP. XII 29 30 VOL. I
Upon his drawing Yorick’s curtain, and asking how he felt Eugenius was convinced from this, that the heart of his friend
himself, Yorick, looking up in his face, took hold of his hand, was broke; he squeez’d his hand,——and then walk’d softly out
- - - - and, after thanking him for the many tokens of his friendship of the room, weeping as he walk’d. Yorick followed Eugenius
to him, for which, he said, if it was their fate to meet hereafter, with his eyes to the door,- - - - he then closed them,—and never
- - - he would thank him again and again.—He told him, he was opened them more.
within a few hours of giving his enemies the slip for ever.- - - - - I He lies buried in a corner of his church-yard, in the parish of
hope not, answered Eugenius, with tears trickling down his ———–, under a plain marble slabb, which his friend Eugenius,
cheeks, and with the tenderest tone that ever man spoke,- - - I by leave of his executors, laid upon his grave, with no more
hope not, Yorick, said he. - - Yorick replied, with a look up, and than these three words of inscription serving both for his epitaph
a gentle squeeze of Eugenius’s hand, and that was all,- - but it cut and elegy.
Eugenius to his heart.- - Come,- - come, Yorick, quoth Eugenius,
wiping his eyes, and summoning up the man within him,- - - - -
my dear lad, be comforted,- - - let not all thy spirits and fortitude
forsake thee at this crisis when thou most wants them;——who
knows what resourses are in store, and what the power of God Alas, poor YOR IC K !
may yet do for thee?——Yorick laid his hand upon his heart,
and gently shook his head; - - - for my part, continued Eugenius,
crying bitterly as he uttered the words,—I declare I know not,
Yorick, how to part with thee,——and would gladly flatter my
hopes, added Eugenius, chearing up his voice, that there is still Ten times in a day has Yorick’s ghost the consolation to hear
enough left of thee to make a bishop,- - - and that I may live to his monumental inscription read over with such a variety of
see it.——I beseech thee, Eugenius, quoth Yorick, taking off plaintive tones, as denote a general pity and esteem for him;
his night-cap as well as he could with his left hand,——his right ——a foot-way crossing the church-yard close by the side of his
being still grasped close in that of Eugenius,——I beseech thee grave,—not a passenger goes by without stopping to cast a look
to take a view of my head.- - - - I see nothing that ails it, replied upon it,——and sighing as he walks on,
Eugenius. Then, alas! my friend, said Yorick, let me tell you,
that ’tis so bruised and misshapen’d with the blows which Alas, poor YOR IC K !
* * * * * and * * * * *, and some others have so unhandsomely
given me in the dark, that I might say with Sancho Pança, that
should I recover, and “Mitres thereupon be suffer’d to rain
down from heaven as thick as hail, not one of ’em would fit it.”
———–Yorick’s last breath was hanging upon his trembling lips
ready to depart as he uttered this; - - - yet still it was utter’d with
something of a cervantick tone; - - and as he spoke it, Eugenius
could perceive a stream of lambent fire lighted up for a moment
in his eyes; - - - - faint picture of those flashes of his spirit, which
(as Shakespear said of his ancestor) were wont to set the table
in a roar!
CHAP. XII 3 32 VOL. I
]
CHAP. XIII 33 34 VOL. I
the thought of such a thing;——but by way of commentary,

C HA P. XIII. scholium, illustration, and key to such passages, incidents, or
inuendos as shall be thought to be either of private interpre-
I T is so long since the reader of this rhapsodical work has

been parted from the midwife, that it is high time to mention
her again to him, merely to put him in mind that there is such a
tation, or of dark or doubtful meaning after my life and my
opinions shall have been read over, (now don’t forget the
meaning of the word) by all the world; - - which, betwixt you
body still in the world, and whom, upon the best judgment I can and me, and in spight of all the gentlemen reviewers in Great-
form upon my own plan at present,- - - I am going to introduce to Britain, and of all that their worships shall undertake to write
him for good and all: But as fresh matter may be started, or say to the contrary,- - - - I am determined shall be the case.
and much unexpected business fall out betwixt the reader and ——I need not tell your worship, that all this is spoke in
myself, which may require immediate dispatch; - - - - -’twas right confidence.
to take care that the poor woman should not be lost in the
mean time; - - - because when she is wanted we can no way do
without her.
I think I told you that this good woman was a person of C HA P. XIV.
no small note and consequence throughout our whole village
and township; - - - that her fame had spread itself to the very
out-edge and circumference of that circle of importance, of
which kind every soul living, whether he has a shirt to his
U PON looking into my mother’s marriage settlement, in
order to satisfy myself and reader in a point necessary to
be clear’d up, before we could proceed any further in this history;
back or no,- - - - has one surrounding him; - - which said circle, - - - I had the good fortune to pop upon the very thing I wanted
by the way, whenever ’tis said that such a one is of great before I had read a day and a half straight forwards,- - it might
weight and importance in the world,——I desire may be en- have taken me up a month; - - which shews plainly, that when a
larged or contracted in your worship’s fancy, in a compound- man sits down to write a history,- - - tho’ it be but the history of
ratio of the station, profession, knowledge, abilities, height Jack Hickathrift or Tom Thumb, he knows no more than his
and depth (measuring both ways) of the personage brought heels what lets and confounded hinderances he is to meet with
before you. in his way,- - - or what a dance he may be led, by one excursion
In the present case, if I remember, I fixed it at about four or or another, before all is over. Could a historiographer drive on
five miles, which not only comprehended the whole parish, but his history, as a muleteer drives on his mule,—straight forward;
extended itself to two or three of the adjacent hamlets in the - - - - for instance, from Rome all the way to Loretto, without
skirts of the next parish; which made a considerable thing of ever once turning his head aside either to the right hand or to
it. I must add, That she was, moreover, very well looked on at the left,—he might venture to foretell you to an hour when he
one large grange-house and some other odd houses and farms should get to his journey’s end; - - - - - but the thing is, morally
within two or three miles, as I said, from the smoke of her own speaking, impossible: For, if he is a man of the least spirit, he
chimney: - - - - But I must here, once for all, inform you, that all will have fifty deviations from a straight line to make with this
this will be more exactly delineated and explain’d in a map, or that party as he goes along, which he can no ways avoid. He
now in the hands of the engraver, which, with many other will have views and prospects to himself perpetually solliciting
pieces and developments to this work, will be added to the his eye, which he can no more help standing still to look at than
end of the twentieth volume,- - - not to swell the work,—I detest he can fly; he will moreover have various
CHAP. XIV–XV 35 36 VOL. I
Accounts to reconcile: marriage to be had, and, by God’s blessing, to be well and truly
Anecdotes to pick up: solemnized and consummated between the said Walter Shandy
Inscriptions to make out: and Elizabeth Mollineux aforesaid, and divers other good and
Stories to weave in: valuable causes and considerations him thereunto specially
Traditions to sift: moving,—doth grant, covenant, condescend, consent, con-
Personages to call upon: clude, bargain, and fully agree to and with John Dixon and
Panygericks to paste up at this door: James Turner, Esqrs. the above-named trustees, &c.&c.—
Pasquinades at that:——All which both the man and his mule to wit,—That in case it should hereafter so fall out, chance,
are quite exempt from. To sum up all; there are archives at every happen, or otherwise come to pass,—That the said Walter
stage to be look’d into, and rolls, records, documents, and Shandy, merchant, shall have left off business before the
endless genealogies, which justice ever and anon calls him back time or times, that the said Elizabeth Mollineux shall, according
to stay the reading of: - - - - In short, there is no end of it; - - - - - for to the course of nature, or otherwise, have left off bearing and
my own part, I declare I have been at it these six weeks, making bringing forth children;—and that, in consequence of the said
all the speed I possibly could,—and am not yet born: - - I have Walter Shandy having so left off business, shall, in despight,
just been able, and that’s all, to tell you when it happen’d, but and against the free will, consent, and good-liking of the said
not how; - - - so that you see the thing is yet far from being Elizabeth Mollineux,—make a departure from the city of
accomplished. London, in order to retire to, and dwell upon, his estate at
These unforeseen stoppages, which I own I had no conception Shandy-Hall, in the county of ——, or at any other country
of when I first set out; - - - but which, I am convinced now, will seat, castle, hall, mansion-house, messuage, or grainge-house,
rather increase than diminish as I advance,- - - have struck out a now purchased, or hereafter to be purchased, or upon any part
hint which I am resolved to follow; - - - and that is,- - - not to be in or parcel thereof:—That then, and as often as the said Elizabeth
a hurry; - - - but to go on leisurely, writing and publishing two Mollineux shall happen to be enceint with child or children
volumes of my life every year; - - - - which, if I am suffered to go severally and lawfully begot, or to be begotten, upon the body
on quietly, and can make a tolerable bargain with my bookseller, of the said Elizabeth Mollineux during her said coverture,——
I shall continue to do as long as I live. he the said Walter Shandy shall, at his own proper cost and
charges, and out of his own proper monies, upon good and
reasonable notice, which is hereby agreed to be within six weeks
of her the said Elizabeth Mollineux’s full reckoning, or time of
C HA P. XV. supposed and computed delivery,—pay, or cause to be paid,
the sum of one hundred and twenty pounds of good and lawful
T HE article in my mother’s marriage settlement, which I told

the reader I was at the pains to search for, and which, now
that I have found it, I think proper to lay before him,—is so
money, to John Dixon and James Turner, Esqrs. or assigns,—
upon TRUST and confidence, and for and unto the use and uses,
intent, end, and purpose following:—That i‚ to say,—That the
much more fully express’d in the deed itself, than ever I can said sum of one hundred and twenty pounds shall be paid into
pretend to do it, that it would be barbarity to take it out of the the hands of the said Elizabeth Mollineux, or to be otherwise
lawyer’s hand:—It is as follows. applied by them the said trustees, for the well and truly hiring
“And thi‚ Indenture further witnesseth, That the said Walter of one coach, with able and sufficient horses, to carry and
Shandy, merchant, in consideration of the said intended convey the body of the said Elizabeth Mollineux and the child or
CHAP. XV 37 38 VOL. I
children which she shall be then and there enceint and pregnant underwoods, drains, fisheries, waters, and water-courses;—
with,—unto the city of London; and for the further paying and together with all rents, reversions, services, annuities, fee-farms,
defraying of all other incidental costs, charges, and expences knights fees, views of frank-pledge, escheats, reliefs, mines,
whatsoever,—in and about, and for, and relating to her said quarries, goods and chattels of felons and fugitives, felons of
intended delivery and lying-in, in the said city or suburbs thereof. themselves, and put in exigent, deodands, free warrens, and all
And that the said Elizabeth Mollineux shall and may, from time other royalties and seignories, rights and jurisdictions, privileges
to time, and at all such time and times as are here covenanted and hereditaments whatsoever.——And also the advowson,
and agreed upon,—peaceably and quietly hire the said coach donation, presentation and free disposition of the rectory or
and horses, and have free ingress, egress, and regress through- parsonage of Shandy aforesaid, and all and every the tenths,
out her journey, in and from the said coach, according to the tythes, glebe-lands”——In three words,——“My mother was
tenor, true intent, and meaning of these presents, without any to lay in, (if she chose it) in London.”
let, suit, trouble, disturbance, molestation, discharge, hin- But in order to put a stop to the practice of any unfair play
derance, forfeiture, eviction, vexation, interruption, or incum- on the part of my mother, which a marriage article of this nature
berance whatsoever.—And that it shall moreover be lawful to too manifestly opened a door to, and which indeed had never
and for the said Elizabeth Mollineux, from time to time, and as been thought of at all, but for my uncle Toby Shandy; - - a clause
oft or often as she shall well and truly be advanced in her said was added in security of my father, which was this:—“That in
pregnancy, to the time heretofore stipulated and agreed upon,— case my mother hereafter should, at any time, put my father to
to live and reside in such place or places, and in such family or the trouble and expence of a London journey upon false cries
families, and with such relations, friends, and other persons and tokens;——that for every such instance she should forfeit
within the said city of London, as she, at her own will and all the right and title which the covenant gave her to the next
pleasure, notwithstanding her present coverture, and as if turn;——but to no more,- - and so on, toties quoties, in as
she was a femme sole and unmarried,—shall think fit.— effectual a manner, as if such a covenant betwixt them had not
And thi‚ Indenture further witnesseth, That for the more effec- been made.”—This, by the way, was no more than what was
tually carrying of the said covenant into execution, the said reasonable;—and yet, as reasonable as it was, I have ever
Walter Shandy, merchant, doth hereby grant, bargain, sell, thought it hard that the whole weight of the article should have
release, and confirm unto the said John Dixon and James fallen entirely, as it did, upon myself.
Turner, Esqrs. their heirs, executors, and assigns, in their actual But I was begot and born to misfortunes;—for my poor
possession now being, by virtue of an indenture of bargain and mother, whether it was wind or water,—or a compound of
sale for a year to them the said John Dixon and James Turner, both,—or neither; - - - - or whether it was simply the mere swell of
Esqrs. by him the said Walter Shandy, merchant, thereof made; imagination and fancy in her;—or how far a strong wish and
which said bargain and sale for a year, bears date the day next desire to have it so, might mislead her judgment;—in short,
before the date of these presents, and by force and virtue of the whether she was deceived or deceiving in this matter, it no way
statute for transferring of uses into possession,———–All that becomes me to decide. The fact was this, That, in the latter end
the manor and lordship of Shandy in the county of———–, with of September, 77, which was the year before I was born, my
all the rights, members, and appurtenances thereof; and all mother having carried my father up to town much against the
and every the messuages, houses, buildings, barns, stables, grain,—he peremptorily insisted upon the clause; - - - - so that I was
orchards, gardens, backsides, tofts, crofts, garths, cottages, doom’d, by marriage articles, to have my nose squeez’d as flat to
lands, meadows, feedings, pastures, marshes, commons, woods, my face, as if the destinies had actually spun me without one.
CHAP. XV–XVI 39 40 VOL. I
How this event came about,- - - and what a train of vexatious stages were so truly tragicomical, that she did nothing but laugh
disappointments, in one stage or other of my life, have pursued and cry in a breath, from one end to the other of them all the
me from the mere loss, or rather compression, of this one single way.
member,- - - shall be laid before the reader all in due time. From Grantham, till they had cross’d the Trent, my father
was out of all kind of patience at the vile trick and imposition
which he fancied my mother had put upon him in this affair.- - -
“Certainly, he would say to himself, over and over again, “the
C HA P. XVI. woman could not be deceived herself;——if she could,———–
what weakness!”——tormenting word! which led his imagina-
M Y father, as any body may naturally imagine, came

down with my mother into the country, in but a pettish
kind of a humour. The first twenty or five-and-twenty miles
tion a thorny dance, and, before all was over, play’d the duce
and all with him;——for sure as ever the word weakness was
uttered, and struck full upon his brain,—so sure it set him upon
he did nothing in the world but fret and teaze himself, and in- running divisions upon how many kinds of weaknesses there
deed my mother too, about the cursed expence, which he said were;——that there was such a thing as weakness of the body,
might every shilling of it have been saved;—then what vexed ——as well as weakness of the mind,- - - - and then he would do
him more than every thing else was the provoking time of the nothing but syllogize within himself for a stage or two together,
year,——which, as I told you, was towards the end of Sep- How far the cause of all these vexations might, or might not,
tember, when his wall-fruit, and green gages especially, in have arisen out of himself.
which he was very curious, were just ready for pulling:—— In short, he had so many little subjects of disquietude spring-
“Had he been whistled up to London, upon a Tom Fool’s errand ing out of this one affair, all fretting successively in his mind as
in any other month of the whole year, he should not have said they rose up in it, that my mother, whatever was her journey
three words about it.” up, had but an uneasy journey of it down.——In a word, as she
For the next two whole stages, no subject would go down, complained to my uncle Toby, he would have tired out the
but the heavy blow he had sustain’d from the loss of a son, whom patience of any flesh alive.
it seems he had fully reckon’d upon in his mind, and register’d
down in his pocket-book, as a second staff for his old age, in
case Bobby should fail him. “The disappointment of this, he said,
“was ten times more to a wise man than all the money which the C HA P. XVII.
journey, &c. had cost him, put together,- - - rot the hundred and
twenty pounds,——he did not mind it a rush.”
From Stilton, all the way to Grantham, nothing in the whole
affair provoked him so much as the condolences of his friends,
T Hough my father travelled homewards, as I told you, in
none of the best of moods,- - - pshaw-ing and pish-ing all the
way down,- - - - yet he had the complaisance to keep the worst
and the foolish figure they should both make at church the first part of the story still to himself;—which was the resolution he
Sunday;——of which, in the satirical vehemence of his wit, had taken of doing himself the justice, which my uncle Toby’s
now sharpen’d a little by vexation, he would give so many clause in the marriage settlement empowered him; nor was it till
humorous and provoking descriptions,- - - and place his rib and the very night in which I was begot, which was thirteen months
self in so many tormenting lights and attitudes in the face of after, that she had the least intimation of his design; - - - when
the whole congregation; - - - that my mother declared, these two my father, happening, as you remember, to be a little chagrin’d
CHAP. XVII–XVIII 4 42 VOL. I
and out of temper,——took occasion as they lay chatting week from this very day, in which I am now writing this book
gravely in bed afterwards, talking over what was to come,—— for the edification of the world,- - - which is March 9, 759,
to let her know that she must accommodate herself as well as ——that my dear, dear Jenny observing I look’d a little grave,
she could to the bargain made between them in their marriage as she stood cheapening a silk of five-and-twenty shillings a
deeds; which was to lye-in of her next child in the country to yard,—told the mercer, she was sorry she had given him so
balance the last year’s journey. much trouble;—and immediately went and bought herself a
My father was a gentleman of many virtues,—but he had a yard-wide stuff of ten-pence a yard.—’Tis the duplication of
strong spice of that in his temper which might, or might not, one and the same greatness of soul; only what lessen’d the
add to the number.- - - -’Tis known by the name of perseverance honour of it somewhat, in my mother’s case, was, that she could
in a good cause,—and of obstinacy in a bad one: Of this my not heroine it into so violent and hazardous an extream, as one
mother had so much knowledge, that she knew ’twas to no in her situation might have wish’d, because the old midwife had
purpose to make any remonstrance,—so she e’en resolved to sit really some little claim to be depended upon,—as much, at least,
down quietly, and make the most of it. as success could give her; having, in the course of her practice
of near twenty years in the parish, brought every mother’s son
of them into the world without any one slip or accident which
could fairly be laid to her account.
C HA P. XVIII. These facts, tho’ they had their weight, yet did not altogether
satisfy some few scruples and uneasinesses which hung upon
A S the point was that night agreed, or rather determin’d, that

my mother should lye-in of me in the country, she took her
measures accordingly; for which purpose, when she was three
my father’s spirits in relation to this choice.—To say nothing
of the natural workings of humanity and justice,—or of the
yearnings of parental and connubial love, all which prompted
days, or thereabouts, gone with child, she began to cast her eyes him to leave as little to hazard as possible in a case of this kind;
upon the midwife, whom you have so often heard me mention; ——he felt himself concern’d in a particular manner, that all
and before the week was well got round, as the famous Dr. should go right in the present case;—from the accumulated
Maningham was not to be had, she had come to a final determi- sorrow he lay open to, should any evil betide his wife and child
nation in her mind,——notwithstanding there was a scientifick in lying-in at Shandy-Hall.——He knew the world judged by
operator within so near a call as eight miles of us, and who, events, and would add to his afflictions in such a misfortune, by
moreover, had expressly wrote a five shillings book upon the loading him with the whole blame of it.——“Alas o’day!—had
subject of midwifery, in which he had exposed, not only the Mrs. Shandy, poor gentlewoman! had but her wish in going up
blunders of the sisterhood itself,——but had likewise super- to town just to lye-in and come down again; - - - which, they say,
added many curious improvements for the quicker extraction she begg’d and pray’d for upon her bare knees,——and which,
of the fœtus in cross births, and some other cases of danger in my opinion, considering the fortune which Mr. Shandy got
which belay us in getting into the world; notwithstanding all with her,—was no such mighty matter to have complied with,
this, my mother, I say, was absolutely determined to trust her the lady and her babe might both of ’em have been alive at this
life and mine with it, into no soul’s hand but this old woman’s hour.”
only.—Now this I like;—when we cannot get at the very thing This exclamation, my father knew was unanswerable; - - - - and
we wish,- - - - - never to take up with the next best in degree to it; yet, it was not merely to shelter himself,—nor was it altogether
- - - no; that’s pitiful beyond description;—it is no more than a for the care of his offspring and wife that he seem’d so extremely
CHAP. XVIII 43 44 VOL. I
anxious about this point;—my father had extensive views of too big for the body; - - - that the extreams, now wasted and pin’d
things,——and stood, moreover, as he thought, deeply con- in, be restored to their due share of nourishment, and regain,
cern’d in it for the publick good, from the dread he entertained with it, their natural strength and beauty: - - I would effectually
of the bad uses an ill-fated instance might be put to. provide, That the meadows and corn-fields, of my dominions,
He was very sensible that all political writers upon the subject should laugh and sing;—that good chear and hospitality flourish
had unanimously agreed and lamented, from the beginning of once more;—and that such weight and influence be put thereby
Queen Elizabeth’s reign down to his own time, that the current into the hands of the Squirality of my kingdom, as should
of men and money towards the metropolis, upon one frivolous counterpoise what I perceive my Nobility are now taking from
errand or another,—set in so strong,—as to become dangerous them.
to our civil rights;—tho’, by the bye,——a current was not “Why are there so few palaces and gentlemen’s seats, he
the image he took most delight in,- - a distemper was here his would ask, with some emotion, as he walked a-cross the room,
favourite metaphor, and he would run it down into a perfect “throughout so many delicious provinces in France? Whence
allegory, by maintaining it was identically the same in the body is it that the few remaining Chateaus amongst them are so
national as in the body natural, where blood and spirits were dismantled,—so unfurnished, and in so ruinous and desolate a
driven up into the head faster than they could find their ways condition?—Because, Sir, (he would say) “in that kingdom no
down;——a stoppage of circulation must ensue, which was man has any country-interest to support; - - - the little interest of
death in both cases. any kind, which any man has any where in it, is concentrated in
There was little danger, he would say, of losing our liberties the court, and the looks of the Grand Monarch; by the sun-shine
by French politicks or French invasions;——nor was he so of whose countenance, or the clouds which pass a-cross it, every
much in pain of a consumption from the mass of corrupted French man lives or dies.”
matter and ulcerated humours in our constitution,—which he Another political reason which prompted my father so
hoped was not so bad as it was imagined;—but he verily feared, strongly to guard against the least evil accident in my mother’s
that in some violent push, we should go off, all at once, in a lying-in in the country,——was, That any such instance would
state-apoplexy;—and then he would say, The Lord have mercy infallibly throw a balance of power, too great already, into the
upon us all. weaker vessels of the gentry, in his own, or higher stations;
My father was never able to give the history of this distemper, - - - - which, with the many other usurped rights which that part
- - - without the remedy along with it. of the constitution was hourly establishing,—would, in the end,
“Was I an absolute prince, he would say, pulling up his prove fatal to the monarchical system of domestick government
breeches with both his hands, as he rose from his arm-chair, “I established in the first creation of things by God.
would appoint able judges, at every avenue of my metropolis, In this point he was entirely of Sir Robert Filmer’s opinion,
who should take cognizance of every fool’s business who came That the plans and institutions of the greatest monarchies in the
there; - - - and if, upon a fair and candid hearing, it appeared not eastern parts of the world, were, originally, all stolen from that
of weight sufficient to leave his own home, and come up, bag admirable pattern and prototype of this houshold and paternal
and baggage, with his wife and children, farmers sons, &c. &c. power; - - - which, for a century, he said, and more, had gradually
at his backside, they should be all sent back, from constable to been degenerating away into a mix’d government;——the form
constable, like vagrants as they were, to the place of their legal of which, however desirable in great combinations of the
settlements. By this means, I shall take care, that my metropolis species,——was very troublesome in small ones,—and seldom
totter’d not thro’ its own weight;—that the head be no longer produced any thing, that he saw, but sorrow and confusion.
CHAP. XVIII 45 46 VOL. I
For all these reasons, private and publick, put together,—my my kept mistress;—no,—that would be flattering my character
father was for having the man-midwife by all means,- - - in the other extream, and giving it an air of freedom, which,
my mother by no means. My father begg’d and intreated, she perhaps, it has no kind of right to. All I contend for, is the
would for once recede from her prerogative in this matter, and utter impossibility for some volumes, that you, or the most
suffer him to choose for her;—my mother, on the contrary, penetrating spirit upon earth, should know how this matter
insisted upon her privilege in this matter, to choose for really stands.- - - - It is not impossible, but that my dear, dear
herself,—and have no mortal’s help but the old woman’s.— Jenny! tender as the appellation is, may be my child.——Con-
What could my father do? He was almost at his wit’s end;—— sider,—I was born in the year eighteen.—Nor is there any thing
talked it over with her in all moods;—placed his arguments in unnatural or extravagant in the supposition, that my dear Jenny
all lights;—argued the matter with her like a christian,—like a may be my friend.——Friend!—My friend.—Surely, Madam, a
heathen,—like a husband,—like a father,—like a patriot,—like friendship between the two sexes may subsist, and be supported
a man:—My mother answered every thing only like a woman; without———–Fy! Mr. Shandy:—Without any thing, Madam,
which was a little hard upon her;—for as she could not but that tender and delicious sentiment, which ever mixes in
assume and fight it out behind such a variety of characters,— friendship, where there is a difference of sex. Let me intreat
’twas no fair match;—’twas seven to one.—What could my you to study the pure and sentimental parts of the best French
mother do?——She had the advantage (otherwise she had been Romances;——it will really, Madam, astonish you to see with
certainly overpowered) of a small reinforcement of chagrine what a variety of chaste expression this delicious sentiment,
personal at the bottom which bore her up, and enabled her to which I have the honour to speak of, is dress’d out.
dispute the affair with my father with so equal an advantage,
——that both sides sung Te Deum. In a word, my mother
was to have the old woman,—and the operator was to have
licence to drink a bottle of wine with my father and my uncle C HA P. XIX.
Toby Shandy in the back parlour,—for which he was to be paid
five guineas.
I must beg leave, before I finish this chapter, to enter a caveat
in the breast of my fair reader;—and it is this:——Not to take
I Would sooner undertake to explain the hardest problem in
Geometry, than pretend to account for it, that a gentleman
of my father’s great good sense,——knowing, as the reader
it absolutely for granted from an unguarded word or two which must have observed him, and curious too, in philosophy,- - wise
I have dropp’d in it,——“That I am a married man.”- - - I own also in political reasoning,—and in polemical (as he will find)
the tender appellation of my dear, dear Jenny,—–with some no way ignorant,- - - could be capable of entertaining a notion in
other strokes of conjugal knowledge, interspersed here and his head, so out of the common track,- - - that I fear the reader,
there, might, naturally enough, have misled the most candid when I come to mention it to him, if he is the least of a cholerick
judge in the world into such a determination against me.- - -All temper, will immediately throw the book by; if mercurial, he
I plead for, in this case, Madam, is strict justice, and that you will laugh most heartily at it;—and if he is of a grave and
do so much of it, to me as well as to yourself,—as not to saturnine cast, he will, at first sight, absolutely condemn as
prejudge or receive such an impression of me, till you have better fanciful and extravagant; and that was in respect to the choice
evidence, than I am positive, at present, can be produced against and imposition of Christian names, on which he thought a
me: - - - Not that I can be so vain or unreasonable, Madam, as to great deal more depended than what superficial minds were
desire you should therefore think, that my dear, dear Jenny is capable of conceiving.
CHAP. XIX 47 48 VOL. I
His opinion, in this matter, was, That there was a strange trampled upon the offer; - - - you would have thrown the tempta-
kind of magick bias, which good or bad names, as he called tion at the tempter’s head with abhorrence.
them, irresistibly impress’d upon our characters and conduct. Your greatness of mind in this action, which I admire, with
The Hero of Cervantes argued not the point with more that generous contempt of money which you shew me in the
seriousness,- - - - nor had he more faith,- - - - or more to say on whole transaction, is really noble; - - - and what renders it more
the powers of Necromancy in dishonouring his deeds,—or on so, is the principle of it; - - - the workings of a parent’s love upon
DULCINEA’s name, in shedding lustre upon them, than my the truth and conviction of this very hypothesis, namely, That
father had on those of TRISMEGISTUS or ARCHIMEDES, on was your son called JUDAS,- - - the sordid and treacherous idea,
the one hand,—or of NYKY and SIMKIN on the other. How so inseparable from the name, would have accompanied him
many CÆSARS and POMPEYS, he would say, by mere inspiration thro’ life like his shadow, and, in the end, made a miser and a
of the names, have been render’d worthy of them? And how rascal of him, in spight, Sir, of your example.
many, he would add, are there who might have done exceeding I never knew a man able to answer this argument.——But,
well in the world, had not their characters and spirits been indeed, to speak of my father as he was;—he was certainly
totally depress’d and NICODEMUS’D into nothing. irresistible, both in his orations and disputations;—he was born
I see plainly, Sir, by your looks, (or as the case happen’d) my an orator;—ΘεοδιδαϰτοϚ.—Persuasion hung upon his lips, and
father would say,—that you do not heartily subscribe to this the elements of Logick and Rhetorick were so blended up in
opinion of mine,—which, to those, he would add, who have him,—and, withall, he had so shrewd guess at the weaknesses
not carefully sifted it to the bottom,—I own has an air more of and passions of his respondent,——that NATURE might have
fancy than of solid reasoning in it; - - - - and yet, my dear Sir, if I stood up and said,—“This man is eloquent.” In short, whether
may presume to know your character, I am morally assured, I he was on the weak or the strong side of the question, ’twas
should hazard little in stating a case to you,- - - not as a party in hazardous in either case to attack him:—And yet, ’tis strange,
the dispute,—but as a judge, and trusting my appeal upon it to he had never read Cicero nor Quintilian de Oratore, nor Isoc-
your own good sense and candid disquisition in this matter; rates, nor Aristotle, nor Longinus amongst the antients;——
——–you are a person free from as many narrow prejudices of nor Vossius, nor Skioppius, nor Ramus, nor Farnaby amongst
education as most men;—and, if I may presume to penetrate the moderns;—and what is more astonishing, he had never in
further into you,—of a liberality of genius above bearing down his whole life the least light or spark of subtilty struck into his
an opinion, merely because it wants friends. Your son! - - - your mind, by one single lecture upon Crackenthorp or Burgers-
dear son,- - - from whose sweet and open temper you have so dicius, or any Dutch logician or commentator;—he knew not
much to expect.—Your BILLY, Sir!—would you, for the world, so much as in what the difference of an argument ad igno-
have called him JUDAS ?—Would you, my dear Sir, he would rantiam, and an argument ad hominem consisted; so that I well
say, laying his hand upon your breast, with the genteelest remember, when he went up along with me to enter my name at
address,- - - and in that soft and irresistible piano of voice, which Jesus College in * * * *,—it was a matter of just wonder with
the nature of the argumentum ad hominem absolutely my worthy tutor, and two or three fellows of that learned
requires,—Would you, Sir, if a Jew of a godfather had proposed society,- - - that a man who knew not so much as the names of
the name for your child, and offered you his purse along with his tools, should be able to work after that fashion with ’em.
it, would you have consented to such a desecration of him?—— To work with them in the best manner he could, was what
O my God! he would say, looking up, if I know your temper my father was, however, perpetually forced upon;——for he
right, Sir,- - - you are incapable of it;——–you would have had a thousand little sceptical notions of the comick kind to
CHAP. XIX 49 50 VOL. I
defend,——most of which notions, I verily believe, at first which he could give, it had never yet adventured, he would say,
enter’d upon the footing of mere whims, and of a vive la Baga- to go a step further.
telle; and as such he would make merry with them for half an It was observable, that tho’ my father, in consequence of this
hour or so, and having sharpen’d his wit upon ’em, dismiss them opinion, had, as I have told you, the strongest likings and
till another day. dislikings towards certain names;—that there were still numbers
I mention this, not only as matter of hypothesis or conjecture of names which hung so equally in the balance before him, that
upon the progress and establishment of my father’s many odd they were absolutely indifferent to him. Jack, Dick, and Tom
opinions,- - but as a warning to the learned reader against the were of this class: These my father call’d neutral names;—
indiscreet reception of such guests, who, after a free and undis- affirming of them, without a satyr, That there had been as many
turbed enterance, for some years, into our brains,—at length knaves and fools, at least, as wise and good men, since the world
claim a kind of settlement there,——working sometimes like began, who had indifferently borne them; - - - so that, like equal
yeast;—but more generally after the manner of the gentle forces acting against each other in contrary directions, he
passion, beginning in jest,—but ending in downright earnest. thought they mutually destroyed each others effects; for which
Whether this was the case of the singularity of my father’s reason, he would often declare, He would not give a cherry-stone
notions,—or that his judgment, at length, became the dupe of to choose amongst them. Bob, which was my brother’s name,
his wit;—or how far, in many of his notions, he might, tho’ was another of these neutral kinds of Christian names, which
odd, be absolutely right;——the reader, as he comes at them, operated very little either way; and as my father happen’d to be
shall decide. All that I maintain here, is, that in this one, of the at Epsom, when it was given him,—he would oft times thank
influence of Christian names, however it gain’d footing, he was heaven it was no worse. Andrew was something like a negative
serious;—he was all uniformity;—he was systematical, and, like quantity in Algebra with him; - - -’twas worse, he said, than
all systematick reasoners, he would move both heaven and nothing.- - - William stood pretty high: - - - - - Numps again was
earth, and twist and torture every thing in nature to support his low with him; - - and Nick, he said, was the DEVIL.
hypothesis. In a word, I repeat it over again;—he was serious;— But, of all the names in the universe, he had the most uncon-
and, in consequence of it, he would lose all kind of patience querable aversion for TRISTRAM ; - - - he had the lowest and most
whenever he saw people, especially of condition, who should contemptible opinion of it of any thing in the world,- - - thinking
have known better,——as careless and as indifferent about the it could possibly produce nothing in rerum naturâ, but what
name they imposed upon their child,—or more so, than in the was extreamly mean and pitiful: So that in the midst of a dispute
choice of Ponto or Cupid for their puppy dog. on the subject, in which, by the bye, he was frequently involved,
This, he would say, look’d ill;—and had, moreover, this - - - - - he would sometimes break off in a sudden and spirited
particular aggravation in it, viz. That when once a vile name EPIPHONEMA, or rather EROTESIS, raised a third, and some-
was wrongfully or injudiciously given, ’twas not like the case of times a full fifth, above the key of the discourse,——and
a man’s character, which, when wrong’d, might hereafter be demand it categorically of his antagonist, Whether he would
clear’d;——and, possibly, sometime or other, if not in the man’s take upon him to say, he had ever remember’d,- - - - - whether he
life, at least after his death,—be, somehow or other, set to rights had ever read,- - - or even whether he had ever heard tell of
with the world: But the injury of this, he would say, could never a man, call’d Tristram, performing any thing great or worth
be undone; - - - nay, he doubted even whether an act of parliament recording?—No - - -, he would say,- - - TRISTRAM ! - - - The thing is
could reach it:——He knew as well as you, that the legislature impossible.
assum’d a power over surnames;—but for very strong reasons, What could be wanting in my father but to have wrote a book
CHAP. XIX–XX 5 52 VOL. I
to publish this notion of his to the world? Little boots it to the not miss’d a word.——Then I was asleep, Sir.—My pride,
subtle speculatist to stand single in his opinions,- - - - unless he Madam, cannot allow you that refuge.——Then, I declare, I
gives them proper vent: - - - It was the identical thing which my know nothing at all about the matter.—That, Madam, is the
father did;—for in the year sixteen, which was two years before very fault I lay to your charge; and as a punishment for it, I do
I was born, he was at the pains of writing an express DISSER- insist upon it, that you immediately turn back, that is, as soon
TATION simply upon the word Tristram,—shewing the world, as you get to the next full stop, and read the whole chapter over
with great candour and modesty, the grounds of his great abhor- again.
rence to the name. I have imposed this penance upon the lady, neither out of
When this story is compared with the title-page,- - -Will not wantonness or cruelty, but from the best of motives; and there-
the gentle reader pity my father from his soul? - - - - to see an fore shall make her no apology for it when she returns back:—
orderly and well-disposed gentleman, who tho’ singular,—yet ’Tis to rebuke a vicious taste which has crept into thousands
inoffensive in his notions,—so played upon in them by cross besides herself,—of reading straight forwards, more in quest of
purposes;——to look down upon the stage, and see him baffled the adventures, than of the deep erudition and knowledge which
and overthrown in all his little systems and wishes; to behold a a book of this cast, if read over as it should be, would infallibly
train of events perpetually falling out against him, and in so impart with them.——The mind should be accustomed to make
critical and cruel a way, as if they had purposedly been plann’d wise reflections, and draw curious conclusions as it goes along;
and pointed against him, merely to insult his speculations.—— the habitude of which made Pliny the younger affirm, “That
In a word, to behold such a one, in his old age, ill-fitted for he never read a book so bad, but he drew some profit from it.”
troubles, ten times in a day suffering sorrow;—ten times in a The stories of Greece and Rome, run over without this turn
day calling the child of his prayers TRISTRAM !——Melancholy and application,—do less service, I affirm it, than the history
dissyllable of sound! which, to his ears, was unison to Nicom- of Parismus and Parismenus, or of the Seven Champions of
poop, and every name vituperative under heaven.——By his England, read with it.
ashes! I swear it,—if ever malignant spirit took pleasure, or ———–But here comes my fair Lady. Have you read over
busied itself in traversing the purposes of mortal man,- - - it must again the chapter, Madam, as I desired you?—You have: And
have been here; - - - and if it was not necessary I should be born did you not observe the passage, upon the second reading, which
before I was christened, I would this moment give the reader an admits the inference?——Not a word like it! Then, Madam, be
account of it. pleased to ponder well the last line but one of the chapter, where
I take upon me to say, “It was necessary I should be born before
I was christen’d.” Had my mother, Madam, been a Papist, that
consequence did not follow.*
C HA P. XX.
* The Romish Rituals direct the baptizing of the child, in cases of danger,
———–How could you, Madam, be so inattentive in reading before it is born;—but upon this proviso, That some part or other of the child’s
the last chapter? I told you in it, That my mother was not a body be seen by the baptizer :——But the Doctors of the Sorbonne, by a
papist.——Papist! You told me no such thing, Sir. Madam, I deliberation held amongst them, April 0, 733,—have enlarged the powers
of the midwives, by determining, That tho’ no part of the child’s body should
beg leave to repeat it over again, That I told you as plain, at appear,——that baptism shall, nevertheless, be administered to it by injec-
least, as words, by direct inference, could tell you such a thing.— tion,—par le moyen d’une petite Canulle.—Anglicé, a squirt.——’Tis very
Then, Sir, I must have miss’d a page.- - No, Madam,—you have strange that St. Thomas Aquinas, who had so good a mechanical head, both
CHAP. XX 53 54 VOL. I
It is a terrible misfortune for this same book of mine, but aucun tort à la mere.——Il demande si ce moyen, qu’il vient de
more so to the Republick of Letters;—so that my own is quite proposer, est permis & legitime, & s’il peut s’en servir dans le
swallowed up in the consideration of it,- - that this self-same vile cas qu’il vient d’exposer.
pruriency for fresh adventures in all things, has got so strongly
into our habit and humours,—and so wholly intent are we upon
satisfying the impatience of our concupiscence that way,—that R É P ON SE .
nothing but the gross and more carnal parts of a composition
will go down:—The subtle hints and sly communications of
science fly off, like spirits, upwards;——–the heavy moral
escapes downwards; and both the one and the other are as much
L E conseil estime, que la question proposée souffre de
grandes difficultés. Les theologiens posent d’un côté pour
principe, que le baptême, qui est une naissance spirituelle, sup-
lost to the world, as if they were still left in the bottom of the pose une premiere naissance; il faut être né dans le monde, pour
ink-horn. renaître en Jesus Christ, comme ils l’enseignent. S. Thomas, 3â.
I wish the male-reader has not pass’d by many a one, as quaint part. quæst. 68. artic. . suit cette doctrine comme une verité
and curious as this one, in which the female-reader has been constante; l’on ne peut, dit ce S. docteur, baptiser les enfans qui
detected. I wish it may have its effects;—and that all good sont renfermés dans le sein de leurs meres, et S. Thomas est
people, both male and female, from her example, may be taught fondé sur ce, que les enfans ne sont point nés, & ne peuvent être
to think as well as read. comptés parmi les autres hommes; d’où il conclud, qu’ils ne
peuvent être l’objet d’une action exterieure, pour recevoir par
ME M O I RE presenté a Messieurs les Docteurs leur ministere les sacremens nécessaires au salut: pueri in ma-
de S O RB O N N E *. ternis uteris existentes nondum prodierunt in lucem ut cum
aliis hominibus vitam ducant; unde non possunt subjici actioni
U N Chirurgien Accoucheur, represente à Messieurs les Doc-

teurs de Sorbonne, qu’il y a des cas, quoique très-rares, où
une mere ne sçauroit accoucher, & même où l’enfant est telle-
humanæ, ut per eorum ministerium sacramenta recipiant ad
salutem. Les rituels ordonnent dans la pratique ce que les theolo-
giens ont établi sur les mêmes matieres, & ils deffendent tous
ment renfermé dans le sein de sa mere, qu’il ne fait paroître d’une maniere uniforme de baptiser les enfans qui sont renfermés
aucune partie de son corps, ce qui seroit un cas, suivant les dans le sein de leurs meres, s’ils ne font paroître quelque partie
rituels, de lui conferer, du moins sous condition, le baptême. Le de leurs corps. Le concours des theologiens, & des rituels, qui
chirurgien, qui consulte, prétend, par le moyen d’une petite sont les regles des dioceses, paroît former une autorité qui
canulle, de pouvoir baptiser immediatement l’enfant, sans faire termine la question presente; cependant le conseil de conscience
considerant d’un côté, que le raisonnement des theologiens est
* Vide Deventer. Paris Edit. 4to. 734, p. 366. uniquement fondé sur une raison de convenance, & que la
————————— deffense des rituels, suppose que l’on ne peut baptiser immedi-
for tying and untying the knots of school-divinity,—should, after so much atement les enfans ainsi renfermés dans le sein de leurs meres,
pains bestowed upon this,—give up the point at last, as a second La chose ce qui est contre la supposition presente; & d’un autre côté,
impossible;—“Infantes in maternis uteris existentes (quoth St. Thomas) bapti- considerant que les mêmes theologiens enseignent, que l’on peut
zari possunt nullo modo.”—O Thomas! Thomas!
If the reader has the curiosity to see the question upon baptism, by injection,
risquer les sacremens qu’ Jesus Christ a établis comme des
as presented to the Doctors of the Sorbonne,—with their consultation there- moyens faciles, mais nécessaires pour sanctifier les hommes; &
upon, it is as follows. d’ailleurs estimant, que les enfans renfermés dans le sein de
CHAP. XX 55 56 VOL. I
leurs meres, pourroient être capables de salut, parce qu’ils sont Mr. Tristram Shandy’s compliments to Messrs. Le Moyne,
capables de damnation;—pour ces considerations, & eu égard De Romigny, and De Marcilly, hopes they all rested well the
à l’exposé, suivant lequel on assure avoir trouvé un moyen night after so tiresome a consultation.—He begs to know,
certain de baptiser ces enfans ainsi renfermés, sans faire aucun whether, after the ceremony of marriage, and before that of
tort à la mere, le conseil estime que l’on pourroit se servir du consummation, the baptizing all the HOMUNCULI at once,
moyen proposé, dans la confiance qu’il a, que Dieu n’a point slap-dash, by injection, would not be a shorter and safer cut
laissé ces sortes d’enfans sans aucuns secours, & supposant, still; on condition, as above, That if the HOMUNCULI do well
comme il est exposé, que le moyen dont il s’agit est propre and come safe into the world after this, That each and every of
à leur procurer le baptême; cependant comme il s’agiroit, en them shall be baptized again (sous condition.)——And pro-
autorisant la pratique proposée, de changer une regle uni- vided, in the second place, That the thing can be done, which
versellement établie, le conseil croit que celui qui consulte doit Mr. Shandy apprehends it may, par le moyen d’une petite
s’adresser à son evêque, à qui il appartient de juger de l’utilité, canulle, and, sans faire aucun tort a le pere.
& du danger du moyen proposé, & comme, sous le bon plaisir
de l’evêque, le conseil estime qu’il faudroit recourir au Pape, qui
a le droit d’expliquer les regles de l’eglise, & d’y déroger dans
les cas, où la loi ne sçauroit obliger, quelque sage & quelque C HA P. XXI.
utile que paroisse la maniere de baptiser dont il s’agit, le conseil
ne pourroit l’approuver sans le concours de ces deux autorités. ———–I wonder what’s all that noise, and running backwards
On conseille au moins à celui qui consulte, de s’adresser à son and forwards for, above stairs, quoth my father, addressing
evêque, & de lui faire part de la presente décision, afin que, si le himself, after an hour and a half ’s silence, to my uncle Toby,
prélat entre dans les raisons sur lesquelles les docteurs soussignés ——who you must know, was sitting on the opposite side of
s’appuyent, il puisse être autorisé dans le cas de nécessité, ou il the fire, smoking his social pipe all the time, in mute contem-
risqueroit trop d’attendre que la permission fût demandée & plation of a new pair of black-plush-breeches which he had got
accordée d’employer le moyen qu’il propose si avantageux au on;—What can they be doing brother? quoth my father,—we
salut de l’enfant. Au reste le conseil, en estimant que l’on pourroit can scarce hear ourselves talk.
s’en servir, croit cependant que, si les enfans dont il s’agit venoient I think, replied my uncle Toby, taking his pipe from his
au monde, contre l’esperance de ceux qui se seroient servis du mouth, and striking the head of it two or three times upon the
même moyen, il seroit nécessaire de les baptiser sous condition, nail of his left thumb, as he began his sentence,——I think,
& en cela, le conseil se conforme à tous les rituels, qui, en autoris- says he:——But to enter rightly into my uncle Toby’s senti-
ant le baptême d’un enfant qui fait paroître quelque partie de son ments upon this matter, you must be made to enter first a little
corps, enjoignent neanmoins, & ordonnent de le baptiser sous into his character, the out-lines of which I shall just give you,
condition, s’il vient heureusement au monde. and then the dialogue between him and my father will go on as
well again.
Déliberé en Sorbonne, le 0 Avril, 733. —Pray what was that man’s name,- - - for I write in such a
hurry, I have no time to recollect or look for it,——who first
A. LE MOYNE, made the observation, “That there was great inconstancy in
L. DE ROMIGNY, our air and climate?” Whoever he was, ’twas a just and good
DE MARCILLY. observation in him.- - - - But the corollary drawn from it, namely,
CHAP. XXI 57 58 VOL. I
“That it is this which has furnished us with such a variety of of my begetting, as well as the mode and manner of it, had been
odd and whimsical characters;”—that was not his; - - - - it was a little alter’d,- - or that it could have been put off with any
found out by another man, at least a century and a half after convenience to my father or mother, for some twenty or five-
him:—Then again,—that this copious store-house of original and-twenty years longer, when a man in the literary world might
materials, is the true and natural cause that our Comedies are have stood some chance.———–
so much better than those of France, or any others that either But I forget my uncle Toby, whom all this while we have left
have, or can be wrote upon the Continent;——that discovery knocking the ashes out of his tobacco pipe.
was not fully made till about the middle of king William’s reign, His humour was of that particular species, which does honour
- - - when the great Dryden, in writing one of his long prefaces, to our atmosphere; and I should have made no scruple of ranking
(if I mistake not) most fortunately hit upon it. Indeed towards him amongst one of the first-rate productions of it, had not
the latter end of queen Anne, the great Addison began to there appear’d too many strong lines in it of a family-likeness,
patronize the notion, and more fully explained it to the world which shewed that he derived the singularity of his temper more
in one or two of his Spectators;—but the discovery was not from blood, than either wind or water, or any modifications or
his.—Then, fourthly and lastly, that this strange irregularity in combinations of them whatever: And I have, therefore, oft times
our climate, producing so strange an irregularity in our charac- wondered, that my father, tho’ I believe he had his reasons for
ters,——doth thereby, in some sort, make us amends, by giving it, upon his observing some tokens of excentricity in my course
us somewhat to make us merry with when the weather will not when I was a boy,—should never once endeavour to account
suffer us to go out of doors,- - that observation is my own; - - and for them in this way; for all the SHANDY FAMILY were of
was struck out by me this very rainy day, March 26, 759, and an original character throughout;——I mean the males,—the
betwixt the hours of nine and ten in the morning. females had no character at all,—except, indeed, my great aunt
Thus,- - - thus my fellow labourers and associates in this great DINAH, who, about sixty years ago, was married and got with
harvest of our learning, now ripening before our eyes; thus it is, child by the coachman, for which my father, according to his
by slow steps of casual increase, that our knowledge physical, hypothesis of Christian names, would often say, She might
metaphysical, physiological, polemical, nautical, mathematical, thank her godfathers and godmothers.
ænigmatical, technical, biographical, romantical, chemical, and It will seem very strange,——and I would as soon think of
obstetrical, with fifty other branches of it, (most of ’em ending, dropping a riddle in the reader’s way, which is not my interest
as these do, in ical) have, for these two last centuries and more, to do, as set him upon guessing how it could come to pass, that
gradually been creeping upwards towards that Αϰμὴ of their an event of this kind, so many years after it had happened,
perfections, from which, if we may form a conjecture from the should be reserved for the interruption of the peace and unity,
advances of these last seven years, we cannot possibly be far off. which otherwise so cordially subsisted, between my father and
When that happens, it is to be hoped, it will put an end to all my uncle Toby. One would have thought, that the whole force
kind of writings whatsoever;—the want of all kind of writing of the misfortune should have spent and wasted itself in the
will put an end to all kind of reading; - - - and that in time, As war family at first,—as is generally the case:—But nothing ever
begets poverty, poverty peace,——must, in course, put an end wrought with our family after the ordinary way. Possibly at the
to all kind of knowledge,- - - and then——we shall have all to very time this happened, it might have something else to afflict
begin over again; or, in other words, be exactly where we it; and as afflictions are sent down for our good, and that as this
started. had never done the SHANDY FAMILY any good at all, it might
———–Happy! thrice happy Times! I only wish that the æra lye waiting till apt times and circumstances should give it an
CHAP. XXI 59 60 VOL. I
opportunity to discharge its office.———–Observe, I determine my father’s wife and my mother,——my uncle Toby scarce
nothing upon this.———–My way is ever to point out to the exchanged three words with the sex in as many years;——no,
curious, different tracts of investigation, to come at the first he got it, Madam, by a blow.——A blow! - - -Yes, Madam, it
springs of the events I tell;—not with a pedantic Fescue,—or was owing to a blow from a stone, broke off by a ball from the
in the decisive Manner of Tacitus, who outwits himself and his parapet of a horn-work at the siege of Namur, which struck
reader;—but with the officious humility of a heart devoted to full upon my uncle Toby’s groin.- - -Which way could that effect
the assistance merely of the inquisitive; - - to them I write,—— it? The story of that, Madam, is long and interesting;—–but it
and by them I shall be read,——if any such reading as this could would be running my history all upon heaps to give it you
be supposed to hold out so long, to the very end of the world. here.——’Tis for an episode hereafter; and every circumstance
Why this cause of sorrow, therefore, was thus reserved for relating to it in its proper place, shall be faithfully laid before
my father and uncle, is undetermined by me. But how and in you: - - - -’Till then, it is not in my power to give further light into
what direction it exerted itself, so as to become the cause of this matter, or say more than what I have said already,- - - - - That
dissatisfaction between them, after it began to operate, is what my uncle Toby was a gentleman of unparallel’d modesty, which
I am able to explain with great exactness, and is as follows: happening to be somewhat subtilized and rarified by the con-
My uncle TOBY SHANDY, Madam, was a gentleman, who, stant heat of a little family-pride,- - - - - they both so wrought
with the virtues which usually constitute the character of a man together within him, that he could never bear to hear the affair
of honour and rectitude,—possessed one in a very eminent of my aunt DINAH touch’d upon, but with the greatest emotion.
degree, which is seldom or never put into the catalogue; and ——The least hint of it was enough to make the blood fly into
that was a most extream and unparallel’d modesty of nature; his face; - - - but when my father enlarged upon the story in mixed
——tho’ I correct the word nature, for this reason, that I may companies, which the illustration of his hypothesis frequently
not prejudge a point which must shortly come to a hearing; and obliged him to do,- - - - the unfortunate blight of one of the fairest
that is, Whether this modesty of his was natural or acquir’d. branches of the family, would set my uncle Toby’s honour and
———–Which ever way my uncle Toby came by it, ’twas never- modesty o’bleeding; and he would often take my father aside,
theless modesty in the truest sense of it; and that is, Madam, not in the greatest concern imaginable, to expostulate and tell
in regard to words, for he was so unhappy as to have very little him, he would give him any thing in the world, only to let the
choice in them,—but to things;——and this kind of modesty story rest.
so possess’d him, and it arose to such a height in him, as almost My father, I believe, had the truest love and tenderness for
to equal, if such a thing could be, even the modesty of a woman: my uncle Toby, that ever one brother bore towards another,
That female nicety, Madam, and inward cleanliness of mind and would have done any thing in nature, which one brother in
and fancy, in your sex, which makes you so much the awe of reason could have desir’d of another, to have made my uncle
ours. Toby’s heart easy in this, or any other point. But this lay out of
You will imagine, Madam, that my uncle Toby had contracted his power.
all this from this very source; - - - - that he had spent a great part ——My father, as I told you, was a philosopher in grain,—
of his time in converse with your sex; and that, from a thorough speculative,—systematical;—and my aunt Dinah’s affair was a
knowledge of you, and the force of imitation which such fair matter of as much consequence to him, as the retrogradation of
examples render irresistable,- - - he had acquired this amiable the planets to Copernicus:—The backslidings of Venus in her
turn of mind. orbit fortified the Copernican system, call’d so after his name;
I wish I could say so,- - - - for unless it was with his sister-in-law, and the backslidings of my aunt Dinah in her orbit, did the same
CHAP. XXI 6 62 VOL. I
service in establishing my father’s system, which, thro’ which his passions got vent, when any thing shocked or
I trust, will for ever hereafter be call’d the Shandean System, surprised him;——but especially when any thing, which he
after his. deem’d very absurd, was offer’d.
In any other family dishonour, my father, I believe, had as As not one of our logical writers, nor any of the commentators
nice a sense of shame as any man whatever;——and neither he, upon them, that I remember, have thought proper to give a
nor, I dare say, Copernicus, would have divulged the affair in name to this particular species of argument,—I here take the
either case, or have taken the least notice of it to the world, but liberty to do it myself, for two reasons. First, That, in order
for the obligations they owed, as they thought, to truth.— to prevent all confusion in disputes, it may stand as much
Amicus Plato, my father would say, construing the words to my distinguished for ever, from every other species of argument,
uncle Toby, as he went along, Amicus Plato; that is, DINAH ———–as the Argumentum ad Verecundiam, ex Absurdo, ex
was my aunt;—sed magis amica veritas——but TRUTH is my Fortiori, or any other argument whatsoever:——And, sec-
sister. ondly, That it may be said by my children’s children, when my
This contrariety of humours betwixt my father and my uncle, head is laid to rest,- - - - that their learned grand-father’s head had
was the source of many a fraternal squabble. The one could not been busied to as much purpose once, as other people’s:—That
bear to hear the tale of family disgrace recorded,———–and the he had invented a name,- - - and generously thrown it into the
other would scarce ever let a day pass to an end without some TREASURY of the Ars Logica, for one of the most unanswer-
hint at it. able arguments in the whole science. And if the end of dispu-
For God’s sake, my uncle Toby would cry,——and for my tation is more to silence than convince,- - they may add, if they
sake, and for all our sakes, my dear brother Shandy,—do let please, to one of the best arguments too.
this story of our aunt’s and her ashes sleep in peace;——how I do therefore, by these presents, strictly order and command,
can you,———–how can you have so little feeling and com- That it be known and distinguished by the name and title of the
passion for the character of our family:——What is the charac- Argumentum Fistulatorium, and no other; - - - and that it rank
ter of a family to an hypothesis? my father would reply.—— hereafter with the Argumentum Baculinum, and the Argu-
Nay, if you come to that—what is the life of a family:———– mentum ad Crumenam, and for ever hereafter be treated of in
The life of a family!—my uncle Toby would say, throwing the same chapter.
himself back in his arm-chair, and lifting up his hands, his As for the Argumentum Tripodium, which is never used but
eyes, and one leg.——Yes the life,——my father would say, by the woman against the man; - - - and the Argumentum ad Rem,
maintaining his point. How many thousands of ’em are there which, contrarywise, is made use of by the man only against the
every year that comes cast away, (in all civilized countries at woman:—As these two are enough in conscience for one lecture;
least)——and consider’d as nothing but common air, in compe- ——and, moreover, as the one is the best answer to the other,
tition of an hypothesis. In my plain sense of things, my uncle - - - let them likewise be kept apart, and be treated of in a place
Toby, would answer,——every such instance is downright by themselves.
MURDER, let who will commit it.——There lies your mistake,
my father would reply;——for, in Foro Scientiæ there is no
such thing as MURDER,——’tis only DEATH, brother.
My uncle Toby would never offer to answer this by any other
kind of argument, than that of whistling half a dozen bars of
Lillabullero.——You must know it was the usual channel
CHAP. XXII 63 64 VOL. I
reconciled, which were thought to be at variance with each

C HA P. XXII. other. In a word, my work is digressive, and it is progressive
too,—and at the same time.
T HE learned Bishop Hall, I mean the famous Dr. Joseph

Hall, who was Bishop of Exeter in King James the first’s
reign, tells us in one of his Decads, at the end of his divine art
This, Sir, is a very different story from that of the earth’s
moving round her axis, in her diurnal rotation, with her pro-
gress in her elliptick orbit which brings about the year, and
of meditation, imprinted at London, in the year 60, by John constitutes that variety and vicissitude of seasons we enjoy; - - -
Beal, dwelling in Aldersgate-street, “That it is an abomin- though I own it suggested the thought,—as I believe the greatest
able thing for a man to commend himself;”- - - and I really think of our boasted improvements and discoveries have come from
it is so. some such trifling hints.
And yet, on the other hand, when a thing is executed in a Digressions, incontestably, are the sun-shine;——they are
masterly kind of a fashion, which thing is not likely to be found the life, the soul of reading; - - - take them out of this book for
out; - - - I think it is full as abominable, that a man should lose instance,- - you might as well take the book along with them;—
the honour of it, and go out of the world with the conceit of it one cold eternal winter would reign in every page of it; restore
rotting in his head. them to the writer; - - - - - he steps forth like a bridegroom,—bids
This is precisely my situation. All hail; brings in variety, and forbids the appetite to fail.
For in this long digression which I was accidentally led into, All the dexterity is in the good cookery and management of
as in all my digressions (one only excepted) there is a master- them, so as to be not only for the advantage of the reader, but
stroke of digressive skill, the merit of which has all along, I fear, also of the author, whose distress, in this matter, is truely
been overlooked by my reader,- - not for want of penetration in pitiable: For, if he begins a digression,- - - from that moment, I
him,—but because ’tis an excellence seldom looked for, or observe, his whole work stands stock-still;—and if he goes on
expected indeed, in a digression; - - - and it is this: That tho’ my with his main work,- - - - then there is an end of his digression.
digressions are all fair, as you observe,—and that I fly off from ——This is vile work.—For which reason, from the begin-
what I am about, as far and as often too as any writer in ning of this, you see, I have constructed the main work and the
Great-Britain; yet I constantly take care to order affairs so, that adventitious parts of it with such intersections, and have so
my main business does not stand still in my absence. complicated and involved the digressive and progressive move-
I was just going, for example, to have given you the great ments, one wheel within another, that the whole machine, in
out-lines of my uncle Toby’s most whimsical character;—when general, has been kept a-going; - - - and, what’s more, it shall be
my aunt Dinah and the coachman came a-cross us, and led us a kept a-going these forty years, if it pleases the fountain of health
vagary some millions of miles into the very heart of the planetary to bless me so long with life and good spirits.
system: Notwithstanding all this, you perceive that the drawing
of my uncle Toby’s character went on gently all the time; - - -
not the great contours of it,—that was impossible,- - - but some
familiar strokes and faint designations of it, were here and there C HA P. XXIII.
touch’d in, as we went along, so that you are much better
acquainted with my uncle Toby now than you was before.
By this contrivance the machinery of my work is of a species
by itself; two contrary motions are introduced into it, and
I Have a strong propensity in me to begin this chapter very
nonsensically, and I will not balk my fancy.—Accordingly I
set off thus.
CHAP. XXIII 65 66 VOL. I
If the fixure of Momus’s glass, in the human breast, according blood; so that if we would come to the specifick characters of
to the proposed emendation of that arch-critick, had taken them, we must go some other way to work.
place,——first, This foolish consequence would certainly have Many, in good truth, are the ways which human wit has been
followed,- - That the very wisest and the very gravest of us all, in forced to take to do this thing with exactness.
one coin or other, must have paid window-money every day of Some, for instance, draw all their characters with wind instru-
our lives. ments.—Virgil takes notice of that way in the affair of Dido
And, secondly, That had the said glass been there set up, and Æneas;—but it is as fallacious as the breath of fame;—
nothing more would have been wanting, in order to have taken and, moreover, bespeaks a narrow genius. I am not ignorant
a man’s character, but to have taken a chair and gone softly, as that the Italians pretend to a mathematical exactness in their
you would to a dioptrical bee-hive, and look’d in,- - view’d the designations of one particular sort of character among them,
soul stark naked; - - - observ’d all her motions,—her machina- from the forte or piano of a certain wind instrument they
tions;—traced all her maggots from their first engendering to use,—which they say is infallible.—I dare not mention the
their crawling forth; - - - watched her loose in her frisks, her gam- name of the instrument in this place; - -’tis sufficient we have it
bols, her capricios; and after some notice of her more solemn amongst us,—but never think of making a drawing by it; - - - this
deportment, consequent upon such frisks, &c.——then taken is ænigmatical, and intended to be so, at least, ad populum:
your pen and ink and set down nothing but what you had seen, - - -And therefore I beg, Madam, when you come here, that you
and could have sworn to: - - - But this is an advantage not to be read on as fast as you can, and never stop to make any inquiry
had by the biographer in this planet,—in the planet Mercury about it.
(belike) it may be so, if not better still for him; - - - - for there the There are others again, who will draw a man’s character from
intense heat of the country, which is proved by computators, no other helps in the world, but merely from his evacuations;—
from its vicinity to the sun, to be more than equal to that of red but this often gives a very incorrect out-line,- - - unless, indeed,
hot iron,—must, I think, long ago have vitrified the bodies of you take a sketch of his repletions too; and by correcting one
the inhabitants, (as the efficient cause) to suit them for the drawing from the other, compound one good figure out of them
climate (which is the final cause); so that, betwixt them both, both.
all the tenements of their souls, from top to bottom, may be I should have no objection to this method, but that I think it
nothing else, for aught the soundest philosophy can shew to the must smell too strong of the lamp,—and be render’d still more
contrary, but one fine transparent body of clear glass (bating operose, by forcing you to have an eye to the rest of his Non-
the umbilical knot); - - - so, that till the inhabitants grow old and Naturals.——Why the most natural actions of a man’s life
tolerably wrinkled, whereby the rays of light, in passing through should be call’d his Non-Naturals,- - - is another question.
them, become so monstrously refracted,- - - - - or return reflected There are others, fourthly, who disdain every one of these
from their surfaces in such transverse lines to the eye, that a expedients;—not from any fertility of their own, but from the
man cannot be seen thro’; - - - his soul might as well, unless, for various ways of doing it, which they have borrowed from the
more ceremony,- - - or the trifling advantage which the umbilical honourable devices which the Pentagraphic Brethren* of
point gave her,- - - - might, upon all other accounts, I say, as well the brush have shewn in taking copies.—These, you must know,
play the fool out o’doors as in her own house. are your great historians.
But this, as I said above, is not the case of the inhabitants of
this earth;—our minds shine not through the body, but are * Pentagraph, an instrument to copy prints and pictures mechanically, and in
wrapt up here in a dark covering of uncrystalized flesh and any proportion.
CHAP. XXIII–XXIV 67 68 VOL. I
One of these you will see drawing a full-length character Now the HOBBY-HORSE which my uncle Toby always rode
against the light;—that’s illiberal,- - - - dishonest,- - - - and hard upon, was, in my opinion, an HOBBY-HORSE well worth giving
upon the character of the man who sits. a description of, if it was only upon the score of his great
Others, to mend the matter, will make a drawing of you in singularity; for you might have travelled from York to Dover,
the Camera; - - - that is most unfair of all,- - - because, there you ——from Dover to Penzance in Cornwall, and from Penzance
are sure to be represented in some of your most ridiculous to York back again, and not have seen such another upon the
attitudes. road; or if you had seen such a one, whatever haste you had
To avoid all and every one of these errors, in giving you been in, you must infallibly have stopp’d to have taken a view
my uncle Toby’s character, I am determin’d to draw it by no of him. Indeed, the gait and figure of him was so strange, and
mechanical help whatever;——nor shall my pencil be guided so utterly unlike was he, from his head to his tail, to any one of
by any one wind instrument which ever was blown upon, either the whole species, that it was now and then made a matter of
on this, or on the other side of the Alps;—nor will I con- dispute,——whether he was really a HOBBY-HORSE or no:
sider either his repletions or his discharges,—or touch upon his But as the Philosopher would use no other argument to the
Non-Naturals; - - - but, in a word, I will draw my uncle Toby’s sceptic, who disputed with him against the reality of motion,
character from his HOBBY-HORSE. save that of rising up upon his legs, and walking a-cross the
room;—so would my uncle Toby use no other argument to
prove his HOBBY-HORSE was a HOBBY-HORSE indeed, but
by getting upon his back and riding him about;—leaving the
C HA P. XXIV. world after that to determine the point as it thought fit.
In good truth, my uncle Toby mounted him with so much
I F I was not morally sure that the reader must be out of

all patience for my uncle Toby’s character,——I would
here previously have convinced him, that there is no instru-
pleasure, and he carried my uncle Toby so well,——that he
troubled his head very little with what the world either said or
thought about it.
ment so fit to draw such a thing with, as that which I have It is now high time, however, that I give you a description of
pitch’d upon. him:—But to go on regularly, I only beg you will give me leave
A man and his HOBBY-HORSE, tho’ I cannot say that they to acquaint you first, how my uncle Toby came by him.
act and re-act exactly after the same manner in which the
soul and body do upon each other: Yet doubtless there is a
communication between them of some kind, and my opinion
rather is, that there is something in it more of the manner of C HA P. XXV.
electrified bodies,- - and that by means of the heated parts of the
rider, which come immediately into contact with the back of
the HOBBY-HORSE.—By long journies and much friction, it so
happens that the body of the rider is at length fill’d as full of
T HE wound in my uncle Toby’s groin, which he received at
the siege of Namur, rendering him unfit for the service, it
was thought expedient he should return to England, in order, if
HOBBY-HORSICAL matter as it can hold; - - - - so that if you are possible, to be set to rights.
able to give but a clear description of the nature of the one, you He was four years totally confined,—part of it to his bed, and
may form a pretty exact notion of the genius and character of all of it to his room; and in the course of his cure, which was all
the other. that time in hand, suffer’d unspeakable miseries,—owing to a
CHAP. XXV 69 70 VOL. I
succession of exfoliations from the oss pubis, and the outward and singular a humour, that if I thought you was able to form
edge of that part of the coxendix called the oss illeum,—— the least judgment or probable conjecture to yourself, of what
both which bones were dismally crush’d, as much by the irregu- was to come in the next page,—I would tear it out of my book.
larity of the stone, which I told you was broke off the parapet,—
as by its size,—(though it was pretty large) which inclined the E N D of the FIRST VOLUME.
surgeon all along to think, that the great injury which it had
done my uncle Toby’s groin, was more owing to the gravity of
the stone itself, than to the projectile force of it,—which he
would often tell him was a great happiness.
My father at that time was just beginning business in London,
and had taken a house;—and as the truest friendship and cordi-
ality subsisted between the two brothers,—and that my father
thought my uncle Toby could no where be so well nursed and
taken care of as in his own house,——he assign’d him the very
best apartment in it.—And what was a much more sincere
mark of his affection still, he would never suffer a friend or an
acquaintance to step into the house on any occasion, but he
would take him by the hand, and lead him up stairs to see his
brother Toby, and chat an hour by his bed side.
The history of a soldier’s wound beguiles the pain of it;—
my uncle’s visiters at least thought so, and in their daily calls
upon him, from the courtesy arising out of that belief, they
would frequently turn the discourse to that subject,—and from
that subject the discourse would generally roll on to the siege
itself.
These conversations were infinitely kind; and my uncle Toby
received great relief from them, and would have received much
more, but that they brought him into some unforeseen per-
plexities, which, for three months together, retarded his cure
greatly; and if he had not hit upon an expedient to extricate
himself out of them, I verily believe they would have laid him
in his grave.
What these perplexities of my uncle Toby were,——’tis
impossible for you to guess;—if you could,—I should blush;
not as a relation,—not as a man,—nor even as a woman,—but
I should blush as an author; inasmuch as I set no small store by
myself upon this very account, that my reader has never yet
been able to guess at any thing. And in this, Sir, I am of so nice

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18th Century 18TH CENTURY BRITISH LITERATURE (1660-1785)

WEEK 1: Historical Background, Neoclassicism, Empiricism and Enlightenment

WEEK 2: Social Contract, Liberty, Slavery

Instructor: WEEK 4: Patriarchy, Marriage, and Women

WEEK 5: Mind and God, Faith and Doubt

WEEKS 6-7: “State of Nature” in the Novel

WEEK 13: English Language and Johnson’s Dictionary

A Philosopher Giving That Lecture on the Orrery, in Which a

THE CONTEXT OF IDEAS

The test of a poet’s true mettle is language. When Wordsworth, in the

CONTINUIT Y AND REVOLUTION

chapter 13. of the natural condition of mankind as

from chapter 14. of the first and second natural laws * * *

reckoned on) tendeth to his own destruction, howsoever4 some accident,

apply it to myself, if the reader would be kind enough to think it belongs to

Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots sword-knots strive,

And parti-colored troops, a shining train,

T. Medland, The Gothic

The busy tribes of flesh and blood

60 They led— a kind of— as it were;

50 Nor yet the tedious labor to beguile,

The costly pride of Persian looms,

An Essay on Man Pope’s philosophical poem An Essay on Man represents

Why then a Borgia, or a Catiline?8 200 Die of a rose in aromatic pain?

And, if each system in gradation roll

80 Resolved to go through thick and thin; By vicious fancy coupled fast,

Nor gained admittance to the bower, Who never undertook to preach;

That charm shall grow, while what fatigues the Ring9

Since knowledge ceased, philosophy’s unknown.

My master continues to be very a able to me. As yet I see no cause

9. From Thomas Tickell’s preface to Addision’s Racan.

4. The Greek tragic poet (ca. 480– 406 b.c.e.). Dictionary).

is commonly supposed to have been a time of stateliness, formality, and

4. Popularly. ending, in the adaptation by Nahum Tate.

I Wish either my father or my mother, or indeed both of them,

T O my uncle Mr. Toby Shandy do I stand indebted for

world, I affirm it of her, That in every stage of my life, and at

I N the beginning of the last chapter, I inform’d you exactly

“I Maintain this to be a dedication, notwithstanding its

I Solemnly declare to all mankind, that the above dedication

W Hatever degree of small merit, the act of benignity in

the thought of such a thing;——but by way of commentary,

I T is so long since the reader of this rhapsodical work has

T HE article in my mother’s marriage settlement, which I told

M Y father, as any body may naturally imagine, came

A S the point was that night agreed, or rather determin’d, that

U N Chirurgien Accoucheur, represente à Messieurs les Doc-

reconciled, which were thought to be at variance with each

T HE learned Bishop Hall, I mean the famous Dr. Joseph

I F I was not morally sure that the reader must be out of

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