Chapter i.

A wonderful long chapter concerning the marvellous; being much the

longest of all our introductory chapters.

As we are now entering upon a book in which the course of our history

will oblige us to relate some matters of a more strange and surprizing

kind than any which have hitherto occurred, it may not be amiss, in

the prolegomenous or introductory chapter, to say something of that

species of writing which is called the marvellous. To this we shall,

as well for the sake of ourselves as of others, endeavour to set some

certain bounds, and indeed nothing can be more necessary, as

critics[*] of different complexions are here apt to run into very

different extremes; for while some are, with M. Dacier, ready to

allow, that the same thing which is impossible may be yet

probable,[**] others have so little historic or poetic faith, that they

believe nothing to be either possible or probable, the like to which

hath not occurred to their own observation.

[*] By this word here, and in most other parts of our work, we mean

every reader in the world.

[**] It is happy for M. Dacier that he was not an Irishman.

First, then, I think it may very reasonably be required of every

writer, that he keeps within the bounds of possibility; and still

remembers that what it is not possible for man to perform, it is

scarce possible for man to believe he did perform. This conviction

perhaps gave birth to many stories of the antient heathen deities (for

most of them are of poetical original). The poet, being desirous to

indulge a wanton and extravagant imagination, took refuge in that

power, of the extent of which his readers were no judges, or rather

which they imagined to be infinite, and consequently they could not be

shocked at any prodigies related of it. This hath been strongly urged

in defence of Homer's miracles; and it is perhaps a defence; not, as

Mr Pope would have it, because Ulysses told a set of foolish lies to

the Phaeacians, who were a very dull nation; but because the poet

himself wrote to heathens, to whom poetical fables were articles of

faith. For my own part, I must confess, so compassionate is my temper,

I wish Polypheme had confined himself to his milk diet, and preserved

his eye; nor could Ulysses be much more concerned than myself, when

his companions were turned into swine by Circe, who showed, I think,

afterwards, too much regard for man's flesh to be supposed capable of

converting it into bacon. I wish, likewise, with all my heart, that

Homer could have known the rule prescribed by Horace, to introduce

supernatural agents as seldom as possible. We should not then have

seen his gods coming on trivial errands, and often behaving themselves

so as not only to forfeit all title to respect, but to become the

objects of scorn and derision. A conduct which must have shocked the

credulity of a pious and sagacious heathen; and which could never have

been defended, unless by agreeing with a supposition to which I have

been sometimes almost inclined, that this most glorious poet, as he

certainly was, had an intent to burlesque the superstitious faith of

his own age and country.

But I have rested too long on a doctrine which can be of no use to a

Christian writer; for as he cannot introduce into his works any of

that heavenly host which make a part of his creed, so it is horrid

puerility to search the heathen theology for any of those deities who

have been long since dethroned from their immortality. Lord

Shaftesbury observes, that nothing is more cold than the invocation of

a muse by a modern; he might have added, that nothing can be more

absurd. A modern may with much more elegance invoke a ballad, as some

have thought Homer did, or a mug of ale, with the author of Hudibras;

which latter may perhaps have inspired much more poetry, as well as

prose, than all the liquors of Hippocrene or Helicon.

The only supernatural agents which can in any manner be allowed to us

moderns, are ghosts; but of these I would advise an author to be

extremely sparing. These are indeed, like arsenic, and other dangerous

drugs in physic, to be used with the utmost caution; nor would I

advise the introduction of them at all in those works, or by those

authors, to which, or to whom, a horse-laugh in the reader would be

any great prejudice or mortification.

As for elves and fairies, and other such mummery, I purposely omit the

mention of them, as I should be very unwilling to confine within any

bounds those surprizing imaginations, for whose vast capacity the

limits of human nature are too narrow; whose works are to be

considered as a new creation; and who have consequently just right to

do what they will with their own.

Man therefore is the highest subject (unless on very extraordinary

occasions indeed) which presents itself to the pen of our historian,

or of our poet; and, in relating his actions, great care is to be

taken that we do not exceed the capacity of the agent we describe.

Nor is possibility alone sufficient to justify us; we must keep

likewise within the rules of probability. It is, I think, the opinion

of Aristotle; or if not, it is the opinion of some wise man, whose

authority will be as weighty when it is as old, “That it is no excuse

for a poet who relates what is incredible, that the thing related is

really matter of fact.” This may perhaps be allowed true with regard

to poetry, but it may be thought impracticable to extend it to the

historian; for he is obliged to record matters as he finds them,

though they may be of so extraordinary a nature as will require no

small degree of historical faith to swallow them. Such was the

successless armament of Xerxes described by Herodotus, or the

successful expedition of Alexander related by Arrian. Such of later

years was the victory of Agincourt obtained by Harry the Fifth, or

that of Narva won by Charles the Twelfth of Sweden. All which

instances, the more we reflect on them, appear still the more

astonishing.

Such facts, however, as they occur in the thread of the story, nay,

indeed, as they constitute the essential parts of it, the historian is

not only justifiable in recording as they really happened, but indeed

would be unpardonable should he omit or alter them. But there are

other facts not of such consequence nor so necessary, which, though

ever so well attested, may nevertheless be sacrificed to oblivion in

complacence to the scepticism of a reader. Such is that memorable

story of the ghost of George Villiers, which might with more propriety

have been made a present of to Dr Drelincourt, to have kept the ghost

of Mrs Veale company, at the head of his Discourse upon Death, than

have been introduced into so solemn a work as the History of the

Rebellion.

To say the truth, if the historian will confine himself to what really

happened, and utterly reject any circumstance, which, though never so

well attested, he must be well assured is false, he will sometimes

fall into the marvellous, but never into the incredible. He will often

raise the wonder and surprize of his reader, but never that

incredulous hatred mentioned by Horace. It is by falling into fiction,

therefore, that we generally offend against this rule, of deserting

probability, which the historian seldom, if ever, quits, till he

forsakes his character and commences a writer of romance. In this,

however, those historians who relate public transactions, have the

advantage of us who confine ourselves to scenes of private life. The

credit of the former is by common notoriety supported for a long time;

and public records, with the concurrent testimony of many authors,

bear evidence to their truth in future ages. Thus a Trajan and an

Antoninus, a Nero and a Caligula, have all met with the belief of

posterity; and no one doubts but that men so very good, and so very

bad, were once the masters of mankind.

But we who deal in private character, who search into the most retired

recesses, and draw forth examples of virtue and vice from holes and

corners of the world, are in a more dangerous situation. As we have no

public notoriety, no concurrent testimony, no records to support and

corroborate what we deliver, it becomes us to keep within the limits

not only of possibility, but of probability too; and this more

especially in painting what is greatly good and amiable. Knavery and

folly, though never so exorbitant, will more easily meet with assent;

for ill-nature adds great support and strength to faith.

Thus we may, perhaps, with little danger, relate the history of

Fisher; who having long owed his bread to the generosity of Mr Derby,

and having one morning received a considerable bounty from his hands,

yet, in order to possess himself of what remained in his friend's

scrutore, concealed himself in a public office of the Temple, through

which there was a passage into Mr Derby's chambers. Here he overheard

Mr Derby for many hours solacing himself at an entertainment which he

that evening gave his friends, and to which Fisher had been invited.

During all this time, no tender, no grateful reflections arose to

restrain his purpose; but when the poor gentleman had let his company

out through the office, Fisher came suddenly from his lurking-place,

and walking softly behind his friend into his chamber, discharged a

pistol-ball into his head. This may be believed when the bones of

Fisher are as rotten as his heart. Nay, perhaps, it will be credited,

that the villain went two days afterwards with some young ladies to

the play of Hamlet; and with an unaltered countenance heard one of the

ladies, who little suspected how near she was to the person, cry out,

“Good God! if the man that murdered Mr Derby was now present!”

manifesting in this a more seared and callous conscience than even

Nero himself; of whom we are told by Suetonius, “that the

consciousness of his guilt, after the death of his mother, became

immediately intolerable, and so continued; nor could all the

congratulations of the soldiers, of the senate, and the people, allay

the horrors of his conscience.”

But now, on the other hand, should I tell my reader, that I had known

a man whose penetrating genius had enabled him to raise a large

fortune in a way where no beginning was chaulked out to him; that he

had done this with the most perfect preservation of his integrity, and

not only without the least injustice or injury to any one individual

person, but with the highest advantage to trade, and a vast increase

of the public revenue; that he had expended one part of the income of

this fortune in discovering a taste superior to most, by works where

the highest dignity was united with the purest simplicity, and another