CHAPTER I.
_Matter prefatory in praise of biography._
Notwithstanding the preference which may be vulgarly given to theauthority of those romance writers who entitle their books "the Historyof England, the History of France, of Spain, &c.," it is most certainthat truth is to be found only in the works of those who celebrate thelives of great men, and are commonly called biographers, as the othersshould indeed be termed topographers, or chorographers; words whichmight well mark the distinction between them; it being the business ofthe latter chiefly to describe countries and cities, which, with theassistance of maps, they do pretty justly, and may be depended upon; butas to the actions and characters of men, their writings are not quite soauthentic, of which there needs no other proof than those eternalcontradictions occurring between two topographers who undertake thehistory of the same country: for instance, between my Lord Clarendon andMr Whitelocke, between Mr Echard and Rapin, and many others; where,facts being set forth in a different light, every reader believes as hepleases; and, indeed, the more judicious and suspicious very justlyesteem the whole as no other than a romance, in which the writer hathindulged a happy and fertile invention. But though these widely differin the narrative of facts; some ascribing victory to the one, and othersto the other party; some representing the same man as a rogue, whileothers give him a great and honest character; yet all agree in the scenewhere the fact is supposed to have happened, and where the person, whois both a rogue and an honest man, lived. Now with us biographers thecase is different; the facts we deliver may be relied on, though weoften mistake the age and country wherein they happened: for, though itmay be worth the examination of critics, whether the shepherdChrysostom, who, as Cervantes informs us, died for love of the fairMarcella, who hated him, was ever in Spain, will any one doubt but thatsuch a silly fellow hath really existed? Is there in the world such asceptic as to disbelieve the madness of Cardenio, the perfidy ofFerdinand, the impertinent curiosity of Anselmo, the weakness ofCamilla, the irresolute friendship of Lothario? though perhaps, as tothe time and place where those several persons lived, that goodhistorian may be deplorably deficient. But the most known instance ofthis kind is in the true history of Gil Blas, where the inimitablebiographer hath made a notorious blunder in the country of Dr Sangrado,who used his patients as a vintner doth his wine-vessels, by letting outtheir blood, and filling them up with water. Doth not every one, who isthe least versed in physical history, know that Spain was not thecountry in which this doctor lived? The same writer hath likewise erredin the country of his archbishop, as well as that of those greatpersonages whose understandings were too sublime to taste anything buttragedy, and in many others. The same mistakes may likewise be observedin Scarron, the Arabian Nights, the History of Marianne and le PaisanParvenu, and perhaps some few other writers of this class, whom I havenot read, or do not at present recollect; for I would by no means bethought to comprehend those persons of surprizing genius, the authors ofimmense romances, or the modern novel and Atalantis writers; who,without any assistance from nature or history, record persons who neverwere, or will be, and facts which never did, nor possibly can, happen;whose heroes are of their own creation, and their brains the chaoswhence all their materials are selected. Not that such writers deserveno honour; so far otherwise, that perhaps they merit the highest; forwhat can be nobler than to be as an example of the wonderful extent ofhuman genius? One may apply to them what Balzac says of Aristotle, thatthey are a second nature (for they have no communication with the first;by which, authors of an inferior class, who cannot stand alone, areobliged to support themselves as with crutches); but these of whom I amnow speaking seem to be possessed of those stilts, which the excellentVoltaire tells us, in his letters, "carry the genius far off, but withan regular pace." Indeed, far out of the sight of the reader,
Beyond the realm of Chaos and old Night.
But to return to the former class, who are contented to copy nature,instead of forming originals from the confused heap of matter in theirown brains, is not such a book as that which records the achievements ofthe renowned Don Quixote more worthy the name of a history than evenMariana's: for, whereas the latter is confined to a particular period oftime, and to a particular nation, the former is the history of the worldin general, at least that part which is polished by laws, arts, andsciences; and of that from the time it was first polished to this day;nay, and forwards as long as it shall so remain?
I shall now proceed to apply these observations to the work before us;for indeed I have set them down principally to obviate someconstructions which the good nature of mankind, who are always forwardto see their friends' virtues recorded, may put to particular parts. Iquestion not but several of my readers will know the lawyer in thestage-coach the moment they hear his voice. It is likewise odds but thewit and the prude meet with some of their acquaintance, as well as allthe rest of my characters. To prevent, therefore, any such maliciousapplications, I declare here, once for all, I describe not men, butmanners; not an individual, but a species. Perhaps it will be answered,Are not the characters then taken from life? To which I answer in theaffirmative; nay, I believe I might aver that I have writ little morethan I have seen. The lawyer is not only alive, but hath been so thesefour thousand years; and I hope G-- will indulge his life as many yet tocome. He hath not indeed confined himself to one profession, onereligion, or one country; but when the first mean selfish creatureappeared on the human stage, who made self the centre of the wholecreation, would give himself no pain, incur no danger, advance no money,to assist or preserve his fellow-creatures; then was our lawyer born;and, whilst such a person as I have described exists on earth, so longshall he remain upon it. It is, therefore, doing him little honour toimagine he endeavours to mimick some little obscure fellow, because hehappens to resemble him in one particular feature, or perhaps in hisprofession; whereas his appearance in the world is calculated for muchmore general and noble purposes; not to expose one pitiful wretch to thesmall and contemptible circle of his acquaintance; but to hold the glassto thousands in their closets, that they may contemplate theirdeformity, and endeavour to reduce it, and thus by suffering privatemortification may avoid public shame. This places the boundary between,and distinguishes the satirist from the libeller: for the formerprivately corrects the fault for the benefit of the person, like aparent; the latter publickly exposes the person himself, as an exampleto others, like an executioner.
There are besides little circumstances to be considered; as the draperyof a picture, which though fashion varies at different times, theresemblance of the countenance is not by those means diminished. Thus Ibelieve we may venture to say Mrs Tow-wouse is coeval with our lawyer:and, though perhaps, during the changes which so long an existence musthave passed through, she may in her turn have stood behind the bar at aninn, I will not scruple to affirm she hath likewise in the revolution ofages sat on a throne. In short, where extreme turbulency of temper,avarice, and an insensibility of human misery, with a degree ofhypocrisy, have united in a female composition, Mrs Tow-wouse was thatwoman; and where a good inclination, eclipsed by a poverty of spirit andunderstanding, hath glimmered forth in a man, that man hath been noother than her sneaking husband.
I shall detain my reader no longer than to give him one caution more ofan opposite kind: for, as in most of our particular characters we meannot to lash individuals, but all of the like sort, so, in our generaldescriptions, we mean not universals, but would be understood with manyexceptions: for instance, in our description of high people, we cannotbe intended to include such as, whilst they are an honour to their highrank, by a well-guided condescension make their superiority as easy aspossible to those whom fortune chiefly hath placed below them. Of thisnumber I could name a peer no less elevated by nature than by fortune;who, whilst he wears the noblest ensigns of honour on his person, bearsthe truest stamp of dignity on his mind, adorned with greatness,enriched with knowledge, and embellished with genius. I have seen thisman relieve with generos
ity, while he hath conversed with freedom, andbe to the same person a patron and a companion. I could name a commoner,raised higher above the multitude by superior talents than is in thepower of his prince to exalt him, whose behaviour to those he hathobliged is more amiable than the obligation itself; and who is so greata master of affability, that, if he could divest himself of an inherentgreatness in his manner, would often make the lowest of his acquaintanceforget who was the master of that palace in which they are socourteously entertained. These are pictures which must be, I believe,known: I declare they are taken from the life, and not intended toexceed it. By those high people, therefore, whom I have described, Imean a set of wretches, who, while they are a disgrace to theirancestors, whose honours and fortunes they inherit (or perhaps a greaterto their mother, for such degeneracy is scarce credible), have theinsolence to treat those with disregard who are at least equal to thefounders of their own splendor. It is, I fancy, impossible to conceive aspectacle more worthy of our indignation, than that of a fellow, who isnot only a blot in the escutcheon of a great family, but a scandal tothe human species, maintaining a supercilious behaviour to men who arean honour to their nature and a disgrace to their fortune.
And now, reader, taking these hints along with you, you may, if youplease, proceed to the sequel of this our true history.
Joseph Andrews, Vol. 2 Page 6