Vampyre' and Other Writings

by Polidori, John William; Bishop, Franklin Charles;

  To thieve from the person a few shillings is a crime, which by our laws nothing can expiate but the death of the guilty. Yet to set fire to a field of rip corn is but a misdemeanour entailing some petty punishment. Can this be justice, can this be equity?

  Examining the punishment of death, what is the result? Can we pretend that it improves the man? The question seems ridiculous because from the form whose every motion, gesture, glance of the eye, seem to breathe a divinity, we change him into a corpse; the sparkling lustre of whose eye is gone, the graceful motion of whose limbs is changed into rigidity, and which at last gradually becomes fit but for the food of worms. In what other view can they pretend it improves man? For they cannot suppose they improve his morals by hanging him. But if a different course had been followed, then we might have hoped to see the man improved, his heart might have opened to nobler sentiments, his mind might have been rendered capable of feeling the value of virtue.

  Let us consult the criminal records of every country, and every line will contradict those who maintain that by the dread of death, men are hindered from pursuing the path that leads to crime. That the dread of death does not even deter men from the commission even of the smaller crimes, have we not every day demonstrated to us? Does not every day bring to our newspapers and increase of crimes? It has been found that the numbers of executions every year increase; that the populace of great towns are become now so accustomed to the sight of death that they attend the execution of a felon, as a farce at which they laugh or applaud. Need we wonder that when we daily see so many go with a firm tread and an unchanging eye to execution, that man should lose all fear of it? Man, we think, does not naturally fear death, – having the certainty of death always before his eyes; seeing his friends, his relatives, drop one after another into the grave; forgetting, neglecting, nay, laughing at every religious feeling, as man in these cases generally does, he grows gradually accustomed to the thoughts of death, at last divests it of all its terrors; and hence alone will not fear to increase the chance one in a hundred of his dying within a certain time, by stealing, to gain some important end. What serves to preach to men on eternity? They have no religious feeling, and they are not capable of imagining any other state than the present for the future. Conscious that eternity has already begun its reign, that they are under the wings of that monster, whose extremities are hid in the interminable abyss of night, capable from the degradation of their minds, of imagining no different state from the present, they will not grieve to part from their friends, for they must know, that the few years they may survive, will be but as the passing of a cloud before the firmament, and that when it has flitted from their gaze, their friends, if friends they can have, will be joined to them for an immortality.

  If it is our wish to make vice shrink and virtue flourish, let us show we pay some attention to honesty; let us not punish various degrees of vice with equal infliction, let us appreciate what little virtue there is even in the wretch amenable to our laws.

  Has not the experience of ages shown us the insufficiency of capital punishments? Does not Asia, Europe, Africa, American, every people, every nation, nay every village of this sublunary world, demonstrate the insufficiency of this punishment?

  from An Essay Upon the Source of

  Positive Pleasure

  (1818)

  To the Reader

  In September last I met with an accident which confined me to my bed. As I was in danger of death, I naturally revolved many speculative subjects in my mind. Amongst others, it happened that I took up that of Pleasure. I fell asleep while it still occupied my mind, and seemed to be conveyed, by unknown means, to a place, where many of the friends of my past life were assembled to discuss the same subject. One amongst them maintained that positive pleasure could not exist independently of the imagination. When I awoke, a confused remembrance of the chain of arguments, my friend had gone through, remaining with me, I thought them, to say the least, so specious, that I attempted to write them down, by what my own ingenuity supplied; the result is this Essay, which yet preserves the form of a speech. That these are the sentiments of another person I hope none will attempt to deny; for if the opinion of a certain philosopher be true, that sleep is for the convenience of souls having converse with dead or distant friends, there is not the slightest improbability in my statement. Nor can it be supposed that the experience of so young a man as myself would enable him to assert so many things in utter contradiction to all that has hitherto been felt and believed on this subject. I therefore trust that I shall not be made responsible for every sentiment in the book, so as to have it supposed, that any herein inserted are my own private opinions.

  J.W.P.

  Norwich, May 28, 1818

  What would we say of a chemist, who in forming a certain salt, should attempt it, not by making the ingredients analysis had shown him to be its component parts, but by mixing every thing in his laboratory till blundering chance threw the salt into his hands? This is, however, the conduct pursued by almost all, in the search of pleasure – not knowing, and generally not enquiring, whence it arises, they seek what they know of but by name, and then complain of their stars and of providence when they do not find it: – whereas if it were known where to seek it, and what excites it, they would find that providence has thrown some flowers upon this desert of life, which, though not ever enduring, still may be obtained at little cost, and renewed with little fatigue.

  I have therefore chosen PLEASURE as the subject of debate. But even supposing we gain the knowledge of its nature, when we consider the weakness of our minds, which cause us with childish impatience to snatch at every object that passes by us, the fickleness of our wishes, irritability of our nature, and morbid sensibility to the slightest shadow of pain, I fear we shall not be very sanguine in putting an end to the universal cry against fate, whom we accuse of having so unequally divided the light and shade of this moving picture.

  It is, however, my intention to give my opinion upon the Source of Positive Pleasure, in hopes of coming, by our united endeavours, to a sure path in the search of this feeling. But the plans individuals may form are untried: we see disappointments so constantly attend every attempt which hopes to gain something new, when founded upon the reasoning of one individual only, that we are rather content to repeat the same unvarying round of amusements (though each time that they are repeated greatly diminishes the quantum of pleasure reaped from them) than waste our short span, on what, though it may vest the colours of the rainbow, like it, may never be grasped. I shall not therefore be disappointed if I persuade no one, for I can be conscious but of the feeling of my own individual self. – I am liable to error; I do not therefore give my opinion on Pleasure as a certain one; – it may be, that I alone have felt disappointment in every pursuit – a vapid nullity in every object. Others may have found that positive absolute Pleasure existed in the search of virtue – others that it dwelt with vice. I have found it in neither. – The first excites indignation and contempt of the human race, and the second of self. In starting this theory I am led by my own experience and by my own observations; but many may be convinced by a life of even longer duration, that Pleasure does exist as a positive active feeling. To these I will bow with envy, and listen with hopes of instruction.

  I have chosen this subject as one I deem of the greatest importance. For pain is so predominant, that any means by which it may be encroached upon, and Pleasure increased, would be a blessing to the human race. Pain pursues us from our birth to the grave. We come into the world weeping, and pass from the bed of sickness to our tomb. Many philosophers have considered the avoiding of pain as the great motive for action: – amongst others, Locke, who asserted that the search of Pleasure was the avoidance of pain.

  Pain and Pleasure are simple ideas, says Burke and I think that all who reflect without having a system to defend will agree with him. All that can be added to this is useless; for we cannot understand the nature of the soul, and cannot therefore expl
ain what is a simple feeling.

  Pleasure, in the common acceptance of the term, should be considered in two views, as a relative sensation, and as a positive feeling. Those feelings which arise from the body purely, are merely a discontinuance of pain, or relative pleasures; and secondly, that all positive pleasure depends upon that action of the mind which combines images of past or future objects together, either alone, or with those actually passing; so that in fact, there is no positive active pleasure depending upon an uncombined stimulus, and that we must not look for positive pleasure from the senses, or reason, except inasmuch as they may afterwards cause the imagination to act.

  Eating is one of those animal gratifications most commonly sought for by Epicures, yet on what does this depend, but upon the want of materials to supply the losses by the constant friction of our living machine? This want is intimated to us by the pain called hunger, which is so violent that it causes any danger to appear trifling, so that it may be gratified. It is not because there is a positive pleasure in the taste that we sit down to our meals; but because we either have that pain upon us, or that we know by experience that it will come on if we do not take a proper nutriment.

  The sight gives no pleasure independently of its exciting the imagination. But if the sight were perfect we should see every thing in its decaying and decayed state; we should see the reptile instruments of destruction upon every leaf, the effects of the weather and time upon every blade of grass, constant decay, and irreparable destruction.

  If there is one arrived at an age, when he can look back upon childhood and manhood; let him excite in his mind the pleasant feelings of memory: – what pictures he raises up! The boy, educated in a town, will remember, in his old age, the lime-shaded play-ground, and the hoary antique church. He will paint in more vivid colours than the painter’s pallet will afford, the mellowing tints of eve, which threw a rosy glow upon the steeple’s top, and softened the harsh tints of his own manufacturing town. He does not bring to his remembrance, how the plain before the school often received him, harassed by the pedantic rule of his pedagogue, to give him up to the more tormenting tyranny of an infant Hercules. He may tell you of a college life, where, in the heyday of youth, with all the openness and rashness, attendant upon that age – wrapped in alternate study and pleasure, he quizzed, or received kindness from professors, staid up whole nights to drink wine, or the more intoxicating draught of poetry. He will tell you of his companions – of the one who held the secrets of his breast, who was, as it were, part of his own head, part of his own heart, – so completely were all his projects open to his discussion, his feelings exposed to his sympathy. But he will not tell you of the profession he was studying, being one he abhorred; of the hankering he had after history, poetry, and literature, while he was obliged to study mathematics, medicine, or theology. He will not tell you how he was forced either to sacrifice his reputation, and meet disgrace before his companions, or to forego the bliss of touching that more than heavenly lyre – poetry; which gives not insensate sounds, but, with its harmonious notes, breathes into vivid flames the irritable sparks of enthusiasm and hope.

  Indeed, I know of no pleasures of memory, if they do not arise from the power the mind has of exciting pictures of the past, in which we leave out the bad, vest the moderate with the shading hues of Rembrandt, and colour the beautiful with the richest colours of Rubens. If indeed we were to raise up true pictures of the past, and were without a veil or colouring-glass to look upon our own actions, our friends’ proofs of friendship, and our varying fortunes, we should look with disgust at the scenes of meanness, perfidy, and disappointed hope, which have formed the drama of our life.

  Nor is the present more fruitful in active positive pleasure. I see, sitting around me, many buoyant with youth, and strong with hope. I see some around me, calm, for the hurricane of youth has subsided to the breath of maturer age, yet rest upon hope as their prop, and envy not those who have yet to go through that fiery ordeal, youthful manhood. Pleasure is their object; but where do they seek it? They have sought the pleasures of the past in imagination, and the present only receives its pleasing colouring from the same inexhaustible source. For Pleasure is never present except when the imagination acts. If we seek present pleasure, we take to the bottle, to opium, to dancing, or yield to enthusiasm, the mere ravings of folly; all of which have but one action upon the mind – that of banishing reason, and letting the pictures of the imagination pass rapidly before us.

  Let us examine a few of the sources of our present pleasures. – I mean those which each can command, and which are sought by most.

  Novels: – they give us pleasure by abstracting us from our own plans to the pleasures and pains of others.

  History, – that causes us to excite in our minds visions of the past; which, if they had been painted by a poet instead of an historian, would have been equally true, for ‘a mixture of a lie doth ever add pleasure’.

  Scenery, is another source of pleasure to some: – but what is this pleasure? Does it not generally arise from the colouring the imagination gives it? Do we not people the mountains with fairies and dew-fed spirits? Do we not gaze upon the ocean as the emblem of man, always or ruffled with a breath, or torn by a storm? Do we not gaze upon the setting sun, and image him the emblem of a glorious and great man passed the meridian of his glory, sinking into rest, and though covered by the foul mists of calumny, yet sinking glorious and majestic into quiet, and going to illuminate, perchance, another world?

  Rank in life is the ambition of many; but it is a wish for torment and pain. He who mounts to rank, is obliged by his pride to disown those whom he once loved – whom he once called by the endearing names of brother, father, sister, friend; or else he must expose himself to see them, cut by his acquaintance, and sneered at by his high friends.

  Love, is perhaps the most universal passion that exists, and I should think there is no man, who has passed through life, without at some time or other, feeling its influence. But does not its constancy depend more upon the imagination of the lover than upon the merits of the beloved? Is it not a proof of this, that poets deify their mistress, and make heaven lament as over an inhabitant of its brighter spheres, and the earth grieve as at the misfortunes of a guest, when she is ill or dead? Is it not another proof of it, that lovers discover in the objects of their affection, charms which others cannot see, and seldom remain lovers beyond the honeymoon? After the lover’s passion is over, esteem may take its place, and happy if no worse; but what positive pleasure does that afford? Were we not as well when alone? We had then no cause to fear that our secrets would be betrayed.

  Children are generally considered to be synonymous with blessings: – but what are they except causes of vexation and trouble, tormenting us with their cries when in swaddling-clothes, with their obstinacy and stupidity when breeched, and with their follies and vices when men?

  The love of power is another feeling almost universal; the schoolmaster and the tyrant are but types of each other, and of all mankind. Even Cato is made, by Cicero, to say – ‘What pleasures are to be compared with the gratification of authority?’ But does not all the pleasure here consist in anticipation? Can there be pleasure in attending levees, and bowing, with flattering words upon our lips, to the higher parasite of kings? But imagination can give us all the pleasures of power without our incurring the risk of pains. Fame and immortality: – how futile the one, how undefined the other! And yet fame is sighed for by the hero, immortality speculated upon by the sage.

  A future state and immortality, perhaps the greatest sources of pleasure that man has ever found, depend entirely upon the imagination for their stimulus. The certainty of a future state would be horrible, if while completely ignorant of its nature, we were also without the power of speculating on what it may be. But our imagination acts, and vests it with such brilliant colours that we almost sigh to leave this world of pain, in the hope of realising our visions in the next. But how wretched should we be if w
e were to succeed in realising our own ideas of Paradise! They are but the plans of man, and we should find the same prophet’s curse on man most poignant and terrible. For who could bear a life like ours if it were no longer to be measured by the lapse of minutes, days, or years? – if it were to be absorbed into eternity, where time cannot exist, for no measure could tell its lapse – no events could record its epochs; even death would lay aside his scythe and hour glass as things gone by, and we should have no joy at the death of an enemy, no grief at the decease of a friend, to mark the slipping by of the millions of years that are not even a definite portion of such a state. What would then be the variety of pleasure we can imagine, – eating, drinking, each one and all would produce but the same dullness when absorbed in eternity.