Essays and Tales

J >> Joseph Addison >> Essays and Tales

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After his first plunge into the sea, he no sooner raised his head
above the water but he found himself standing by the side of the
tub, with the great men of his court about him, and the holy man at
his side. He immediately upbraided his teacher for having sent him
on such a course of adventures, and betrayed him into so long a
state of misery and servitude; but was wonderfully surprised when he
heard that the state he talked of was only a dream and delusion;
that he had not stirred from the place where he then stood; and that
he had only dipped his head into the water, and immediately taken it
out again.

The Mahometan doctor took this occasion of instructing the sultan
that nothing was impossible with God; and that He, with whom a
thousand years are but as one day, can, if He pleases, make a single
day--nay, a single moment--appear to any of His creatures as a
thousand years.

I shall leave my reader to compare these Eastern fables with the
notions of those two great philosophers whom I have quoted in this
paper; and shall only, by way of application, desire him to consider
how we may extend life beyond its natural dimensions, by applying
ourselves diligently to the pursuit of knowledge.

The hours of a wise man are lengthened by his ideas, as those of a
fool are by his passions. The time of the one is long, because he
does not know what to do with it; so is that of the other, because
he distinguishes every moment of it with useful or amusing thoughts;
or, in other words, because the one is always wishing it away, and
the other always enjoying it.

How different is the view of past life, in the man who is grown old
in knowledge and wisdom, from that of him who is grown old in
ignorance and folly! The latter is like the owner of a barren
country, that fills his eye with the prospect of naked hills and
plains, which produce nothing either profitable or ornamental; the
other beholds a beautiful and spacious landscape divided into
delightful gardens, green meadows, fruitful fields, and can scarce
cast his eye on a single spot of his possessions that is not covered
with some beautiful plant or flower.

CENSURE.

Romulus, et Liber pater, et cum Castore Pollux,
Post ingentia facta, deorum in templa recepti;
Dum terras hominumque colunt genus, aspera bella
Componunt, agros assignant, oppida condunt;
Ploravere suis non respondere favorem
Speratum meritis.
HOR., Epist. ii. 1, 5.

MITATED.

Edward and Henry, now the boast of fame,
And virtuous Alfred, a more sacred name,
After a life of generous toils endured,
The Gaul subdued, or property secured,
Ambition humbled, mighty cities storm'd,
Or laws establish'd, and the world reform'd;
Closed their long glories with a sigh to find
Th' unwilling gratitude of base mankind.
POPE.

"Censure," says a late ingenious author, "is the tax a man pays to
the public for being eminent." It is a folly for an eminent man to
think of escaping it, and a weakness to be affected with it. All
the illustrious persons of antiquity, and indeed of every age in the
world, have passed through this fiery persecution. There is no
defence against reproach but obscurity; it is a kind of concomitant
to greatness, as satires and invectives were an essential part of a
Roman triumph.

If men of eminence are exposed to censure on one hand, they are as
much liable to flattery on the other. If they receive reproaches
which are not due to them, they likewise receive praises which they
do not deserve. In a word, the man in a high post is never regarded
with an indifferent eye, but always considered as a friend or an
enemy. For this reason persons in great stations have seldom their
true characters drawn till several years after their deaths. Their
personal friendships and enmities must cease, and the parties they
were engaged in be at an end, before their faults or their virtues
can have justice done them. When writers have the least opportunity
of knowing the truth, they are in the best disposition to tell it.

It is therefore the privilege of posterity to adjust the characters
of illustrious persons, and to set matters right between those
antagonists who by their rivalry for greatness divided a whole age
into factions. We can now allow Caesar to be a great man, without
derogating from Pompey; and celebrate the virtues of Cato, without
detracting from those of Caesar. Every one that has been long dead
has a due proportion of praise allotted him, in which, whilst he
lived, his friends were too profuse, and his enemies too sparing.

According to Sir Isaac Newton's calculations, the last comet that
made its appearance, in 1680, imbibed so much heat by its approaches
to the sun, that it would have been two thousand times hotter than
red-hot iron, had it been a globe of that metal; and that supposing
it as big as the earth, and at the same distance from the sun, it
would be fifty thousand years in cooling, before it recovered its
natural temper. In the like manner, if an Englishman considers the
great ferment into which our political world is thrown at present,
and how intensely it is heated in all its parts, he cannot suppose
that it will cool again in less than three hundred years. In such a
tract of time it is possible that the heats of the present age may
be extinguished, and our several classes of great men represented
under their proper characters. Some eminent historian may then
probably arise that will not write recentibus odiis, as Tacitus
expresses it, with the passions and prejudices of a contemporary
author, but make an impartial distribution of fame among the great
men of the present age.

I cannot forbear entertaining myself very often with the idea of
such an imaginary historian describing the reign of Anne the First,
and introducing it with a preface to his reader, that he is now
entering upon the most shining part of the English story. The great
rivals in fame will be then distinguished according to their
respective merits, and shine in their proper points of light. Such
an one, says the historian, though variously represented by the
writers of his own age, appears to have been a man of more than
ordinary abilities, great application, and uncommon integrity: nor
was such an one, though of an opposite party and interest, inferior
to him in any of these respects. The several antagonists who now
endeavour to depreciate one another, and are celebrated or traduced
by different parties, will then have the same body of admirers, and
appear illustrious in the opinion of the whole British nation. The
deserving man, who can now recommend himself to the esteem of but
half his countrymen, will then receive the approbations and
applauses of a whole age.

Among the several persons that flourish in this glorious reign,
there is no question but such a future historian, as the person of
whom I am speaking, will make mention of the men of genius and
learning who have now any figure in the British nation. For my own
part, I often flatter myself with the honourable mention which will
then be made of me; and have drawn up a paragraph in my own
imagination, that I fancy will not be altogether unlike what will be
found in some page or other of this imaginary historian.

It was under this reign, says he, that the Spectator published those
little diurnal essays which are still extant. We know very little
of the name or person of this author, except only that he was a man
of a very short face, extremely addicted to silence, and so great a
lover of knowledge, that he made a voyage to Grand Cairo for no
other reason but to take the measure of a pyramid. His chief friend
was one Sir Roger De Coverley, a whimsical country knight, and a
Templar, whose name he has not transmitted to us. He lived as a
lodger at the house of a widow-woman, and was a great humorist in
all parts of his life. This is all we can affirm with any certainty
of his person and character. As for his speculations,
notwithstanding the several obsolete words and obscure phrases of
the age in which he lived, we still understand enough of them to see
the diversions and characters of the English nation in his time:
not but that we are to make allowance for the mirth and humour of
the author, who has doubtless strained many representations of
things beyond the truth. For if we interpret his words in their
literal meaning, we must suppose that women of the first quality
used to pass away whole mornings at a puppet-show; that they
attested their principles by their patches; that an audience would
sit out an evening to hear a dramatical performance written in a
language which they did not understand; that chairs and flower-pots
were introduced as actors upon the British stage; that a promiscuous
assembly of men and women were allowed to meet at midnight in masks
within the verge of the Court; with many improbabilities of the like
nature. We must therefore, in these and the like cases, suppose
that these remote hints and allusions aimed at some certain follies
which were then in vogue, and which at present we have not any
notion of. We may guess by several passages in the speculations,
that there were writers who endeavoured to detract from the works of
this author; but as nothing of this nature is come down to us, we
cannot guess at any objections that could be made to his paper. If
we consider his style with that indulgence which we must show to old
English writers, or if we look into the variety of his subjects,
with those several critical dissertations, moral reflections, -

* * *

The following part of the paragraph is so much to my advantage, and
beyond anything I can pretend to, that I hope my reader will excuse
me for not inserting it.

THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE.

Est brevitate opus, ut currat sententia,
HOR., Sat. i. 10, 9.

Let brevity despatch the rapid thought.

I have somewhere read of an eminent person who used in his private
offices of devotion to give thanks to Heaven that he was born a
Frenchman: for my own part I look upon it as a peculiar blessing
that I was born an Englishman. Among many other reasons, I think
myself very happy in my country, as the language of it is
wonderfully adapted to a man who is sparing of his words, and an
enemy to loquacity.

As I have frequently reflected on my good fortune in this
particular, I shall communicate to the public my speculations upon
the English tongue, not doubting but they will be acceptable to all
my curious readers.

The English delight in silence more than any other European nation,
if the remarks which are made on us by foreigners are true. Our
discourse is not kept up in conversation, but falls into more pauses
and intervals than in our neighbouring countries; as it is observed
that the matter of our writings is thrown much closer together, and
lies in a narrower compass, than is usual in the works of foreign
authors; for, to favour our natural taciturnity, when we are obliged
to utter our thoughts we do it in the shortest way we are able, and
give as quick a birth to our conceptions as possible.

This humour shows itself in several remarks that we may make upon
the English language. As, first of all, by its abounding in
monosyllables, which gives us an opportunity of delivering our
thoughts in few sounds. This indeed takes off from the elegance of
our tongue, but at the same time expresses our ideas in the readiest
manner, and consequently answers the first design of speech better
than the multitude of syllables which make the words of other
languages more tuneable and sonorous. The sounds of our English
words are commonly like those of string music, short and transient,
which rise and perish upon a single touch; those of other languages
are like the notes of wind instruments, sweet and swelling, and
lengthened out into variety of modulation.

In the next place we may observe that, where the words are not
monosyllables, we often make them so, as much as lies in our power,
by our rapidity of pronunciation; as it generally happens in most of
our long words which are derived from the Latin, where we contract
the length of the syllables, that gives them a grave and solemn air
in their own language, to make them more proper for despatch, and
more conformable to the genius of our tongue. This we may find in a
multitude of words, as "liberty," "conspiracy," "theatre," "orator,"
&c.

The same natural aversion to loquacity has of late years made a very
considerable alteration in our language, by closing in one syllable
the termination of our preterperfect tense, as in the words
"drown'd," "walk'd," "arriv'd," for " drowned," "walked," "arrived,"
which has very much disfigured the tongue, and turned a tenth part
of our smoothest words into so many clusters of consonants. This is
the more remarkable because the want of vowels in our language has
been the general complaint of our politest authors, who nevertheless
are the men that have made these retrenchments, and consequently
very much increased our former scarcity.

This reflection on the words that end in "ed" I have heard in
conversation from one of the greatest geniuses this age has
produced. I think we may add to the foregoing observation, the
change which has happened in our language by the abbreviation of
several words that are terminated in "eth," by substituting an "s"
in the room of the last syllable, as in "drowns," "walks,"
"arrives," and innumerable other words, which in the pronunciation
of our forefathers were "drowneth," "walketh," "arriveth." This has
wonderfully multiplied a letter which was before too frequent in the
English tongue, and added to that hissing in our language which is
taken so much notice of by foreigners, but at the same time humours
our taciturnity, and eases us of many superfluous syllables.

I might here observe that the same single letter on many occasions
does the office of a whole word, and represents the "his" and "her"
of our forefathers. There is no doubt but the ear of a foreigner,
which is the best judge in this case, would very much disapprove of
such innovations, which indeed we do ourselves in some measure, by
retaining the old termination in writing, and in all the solemn
offices of our religion.

As, in the instances I have given, we have epitomised many of our
particular words to the detriment of our tongue, so on other
occasions we have drawn two words into one, which has likewise very
much untuned our language, and clogged it with consonants, as
"mayn't," "can't," "shan't," "won't," and the like, for "may not,"
"can not," "shall not," "will not," &c.

It is perhaps this humour of speaking no more than we needs must
which has so miserably curtailed some of our words, that in familiar
writings and conversations they often lose all but their first
syllables, as in "mob.," "rep.," "pos.," "incog.," and the like; and
as all ridiculous words make their first entry into a language by
familiar phrases, I dare not answer for these that they will not in
time be looked upon as a part of our tongue. We see some of our
poets have been so indiscreet as to imitate Hudibras's doggrel
expressions in their serious compositions, by throwing out the signs
of our substantives which are essential to the English language.
Nay, this humour of shortening our language had once run so far,
that some of our celebrated authors, among whom we may reckon Sir
Roger L'Estrange in particular, began to prune their words of all
superfluous letters, as they termed them, in order to adjust the
spelling to the pronunciation; which would have confounded all our
etymologies, and have quite destroyed our tongue.

We may here likewise observe that our proper names, when
familiarised in English, generally dwindle to monosyllables, whereas
in other modern languages they receive a softer turn on this
occasion, by the addition of a new syllable.--Nick, in Italian, is
Nicolini; Jack, in French, Janot; and so of the rest.

There is another particular in our language which is a great
instance of our frugality in words, and that is the suppressing of
several particles which must be produced in other tongues to make a
sentence intelligible. This often perplexes the best writers, when
they find the relatives "whom," "which," or "they," at their mercy,
whether they may have admission or not; and will never be decided
till we have something like an academy, that by the best
authorities, and rules drawn from the analogy of languages, shall
settle all controversies between grammar and idiom.

I have only considered our language as it shows the genius and
natural temper of the English, which is modest, thoughtful, and
sincere, and which, perhaps, may recommend the people, though it has
spoiled the tongue. We might, perhaps, carry the same thought into
other languages, and deduce a great part of what is peculiar to them
from the genius of the people who speak them. It is certain the
light talkative humour of the French has not a little infected their
tongue, which might be shown by many instances; as the genius of the
Italians, which is so much addicted to music and ceremony, has
moulded all their words and phrases to those particular uses. The
stateliness and gravity of the Spaniards shows itself to perfection
in the solemnity of their language; and the blunt, honest humour of
the Germans sounds better in the roughness of the High-Dutch than it
would in a politer tongue.

THE VISION OF MIRZA.

- Omnem, quae nunc obducta tuenti
Mortales hebetat visus tibi, et humida circum
Caligat, nubem eripiam.
VIRG., AEn. ii. 604.

The cloud, which, intercepting the clear light,
Hangs o'er thy eyes, and blunts thy mortal sight,
I will remove.

When I was at Grand Cairo, I picked up several Oriental manuscripts,
which I have still by me. Among others I met with one entitled "The
Visions of Mirza," which I have read over with great pleasure. I
intend to give it to the public when I have no other entertainment
for them; and shall begin with the first vision, which I have
translated word for word as follows:

"On the fifth day of the moon, which, according to the custom of my
forefathers, I always keep holy, after having washed myself, and
offered up my morning devotions, I ascended the high hills of
Bagdad, in order to pass the rest of the day in meditation and
prayer. As I was here airing myself on the tops of the mountains, I
fell into a profound contemplation on the vanity of human life; and
passing from one thought to another, 'Surely,' said I, 'man is but a
shadow, and life a dream.' Whilst I was thus musing, I cast my eyes
towards the summit of a rock that was not far from me, where I
discovered one in the habit of a shepherd, with a musical instrument
in his hand. As I looked upon him he applied it to his lips, and
began to play upon it. The sound of it was exceeding sweet, and
wrought into a variety of tunes that were inexpressibly melodious,
and altogether different from anything I had ever heard. They put
me in mind of those heavenly airs that are played to the departed
souls of good men upon their first arrival in Paradise, to wear out
the impressions of their last agonies, and qualify them for the
pleasures of that happy place. My heart melted away in secret
raptures.

"I had been often told that the rock before me was the haunt of a
genius, and that several had been entertained with music who had
passed by it, but never heard that the musician had before made
himself visible. When he had raised my thoughts by those
transporting airs which he played, to taste the pleasures of his
conversation, as I looked upon him like one astonished, he beckoned
to me, and, by the waving of his hand, directed me to approach the
place where he sat. I drew near with that reverence which is due to
a superior nature; and, as my heart was entirely subdued by the
captivating strains I had heard, I fell down at his feet and wept.
The genius smiled upon me with a look of compassion and affability
that familiarised him to my imagination, and at once dispelled all
the fears and apprehensions with which I approached him. He lifted
me from the ground, and, taking me by the hand, 'Mirza,' said he, 'I
have heard thee in thy soliloquies; follow me.'

"He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and placing me
on the top of it, 'Cast thy eyes eastward,' said he, 'and tell me
what thou seest.' 'I see,' said I, 'a huge valley, and a prodigious
tide of water rolling through it.' 'The valley that thou seest,'
said he, 'is the Vale of Misery, and the tide of water that thou
seest is part of the great tide of Eternity.' 'What is the reason,'
said I, 'that the tide I see rises out of a thick mist at one end,
and again loses itself in a thick mist at the other?' 'What thou
seest,' said he, 'is that portion of Eternity which is called Time,
measured out by the sun, and reaching from the beginning of the
world to its consummation. Examine now,' said he, 'this sea that is
bounded with darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou
discoverest in it.' 'I see a bridge,' said I, 'standing in the
midst of the tide.' 'The bridge thou seest,' said he, 'is Human
Life; consider it attentively.' Upon a more leisurely survey of it,
I found that it consisted of threescore and ten entire arches, with
several broken arches, which, added to those that were entire, made
up the number about a hundred. As I was counting the arches, the
genius told me that this bridge consisted at first of a thousand
arches; but that a great flood swept away the rest, and left the
bridge in the ruinous condition I now beheld it. 'But tell me
further,' said he, 'what thou discoverest on it.' 'I see multitudes
of people passing over it,' said I, 'and a black cloud hanging on
each end of it.' As I looked more attentively, I saw several of the
passengers dropping through the bridge into the great tide that
flowed underneath it; and, upon further examination, perceived there
were innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed in the bridge, which
the passengers no sooner trod upon but they fell through them into
the tide, and immediately disappeared. These hidden pit-falls were
set very thick at the entrance of the bridge, so that throngs of
people no sooner broke through the cloud but many of them fell into
them. They grew thinner towards the middle, but multiplied and lay
closer together towards the end of the arches that were entire.

"There were indeed some persons, but their number was very small,
that continued a kind of hobbling march on the broken arches, but
fell through one after another, being quite tired and spent with so
long a walk.

"I passed some time in the contemplation of this wonderful
structure, and the great variety of objects which it presented. My
heart was filled with a deep melancholy to see several dropping
unexpectedly in the midst of mirth and jollity, and catching at
everything that stood by them to save themselves. Some were looking
up towards the heavens in a thoughtful posture, and in the midst of
a speculation stumbled and fell out of sight. Multitudes were very
busy in the pursuit of bubbles that glittered in their eyes and
danced before them; but often when they thought themselves within
the reach of them, their footing failed and down they sunk. In this
confusion of objects, I observed some with scimitars in their hands,
who ran to and fro from the bridge, thrusting several persons on
trapdoors which did not seem to lie in their way, and which they
might have escaped had they not been thus forced upon them.

"The genius, seeing me indulge myself on this melancholy prospect,
told me I had dwelt long enough upon it. 'Take thine eyes off the
bridge,' said he, 'and tell me if thou yet seest anything thou dost
not comprehend.' Upon looking up, 'What mean,' said I, 'those great
flights of birds that are perpetually hovering about the bridge, and
settling upon it from time to time? I see vultures, harpies,
ravens, cormorants, and among many other feathered creatures,
several little winged boys, that perch in great numbers upon the
middle arches.' 'These,' said the genius, 'are Envy, Avarice,
Superstition, Despair, Love, with the like cares and passions that
infest human life.'

"I here fetched a deep sigh. 'Alas,' said I, 'man was made in vain!
how is he given away to misery and mortality! tortured in life, and
swallowed up in death!' The genius, being moved with compassion
towards me, bade me quit so uncomfortable a prospect. 'Look no
more,' said he, 'on man in the first stage of his existence, in his
setting out for Eternity; but cast thine eye on that thick mist into
which the tide bears the several generations of mortals that fall
into it.' I directed my sight as I was ordered, and, whether or no
the good genius strengthened it with any supernatural force, or
dissipated part of the mist that was before too thick for the eye to
penetrate, I saw the valley opening at the further end, and
spreading forth into an immense ocean, that had a huge rock of
adamant running through the midst of it, and dividing it into two
equal parts. The clouds still rested on one half of it, insomuch
that I could discover nothing in it; but the other appeared to me a
vast ocean planted with innumerable islands, that were covered with
fruits and flowers, and interwoven with a thousand little shining
seas that ran among them. I could see persons dressed in glorious
habits, with garlands upon their heads, passing among the trees,
lying down by the sides of fountains, or resting on beds of flowers;
and could hear a confused harmony of singing birds, falling waters,
human voices, and musical instruments. Gladness grew in me upon the
discovery of so delightful a scene. I wished for the wings of an
eagle, that I might fly away to those happy seats; but the genius
told me there was no passage to them, except through the gates of
death that I saw opening every moment upon the bridge. 'The
islands,' said he, 'that lie so fresh and green before thee, amid
with which the whole face of the ocean appears spotted as far as
thou canst see, are more in number than the sands on the sea-shore:
there are myriads of islands behind those which thou here
discoverest, reaching further than thine eye, or even thine
imagination can extend itself. These are the mansions of good men
after death, who, according to the degree and kinds of virtue in
which they excelled, are distributed among those several islands,
which abound with pleasures of different kinds and degrees, suitable
to the relishes and perfections of those who are settled in them:
every island is a paradise accommodated to its respective
inhabitants. Are not these, O Mirza, habitations worth contending
for? Does life appear miserable that gives thee opportunities of
earning such a reward? Is death to be feared that will convey thee
to so happy an existence? Think not man was made in vain, who has
such an Eternity reserved for him.' I gazed with inexpressible
pleasure on these happy islands. At length, said I, 'Show me now, I
beseech thee, the secrets that lie hid under those dark clouds which
cover the ocean on the other side of the rock of adamant.' The
genius making me no answer, I turned about to address myself to him
a second time, but I found that he had left me; I then turned again
to the vision which I had been so long contemplating: but instead
of the rolling tide, the arched bridge, and the happy islands, I saw
nothing but the long hollow valley of Bagdad, with oxen, sheep, and
camels grazing upon the sides of it."

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