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  “Sir,” said Mr Milestone, “you will have the goodness to make a distinction between the picturesque and the beautiful.”

  “Will I?” said Sir Patrick, “och! but I won’t. For what is beautiful? That what pleases the eye. And what pleases the eye? Tints variously broken and blended. Now, tints variously broken and blended constitute the picturesque.”

  “Allow me,” said Mr Gall. “I distinguish the picturesque and the beautiful, and I add to them, in the laying out of grounds, a third and distinct character, which I call unexpectedness.”

  “Pray, sir,” said Mr Milestone, “by what name do you distinguish this character, when a person walks round the grounds for the second time?”9

  Mr Gall bit his lips, and inwardly vowed to revenge himself on Milestone, by cutting up his next publication.

  A long controversy now ensued concerning the picturesque and the beautiful, highly edifying to Squire Headlong.

  The three philosophers stopped, as they wound round a projecting point of rock, to contemplate a little boat which was gliding over the tranquil surface of the lake below.

  “The blessings of civilisation,” said Mr Foster, “extend themselves to the meanest individuals of the community. That boatman, singing as he sails along, is, I have no doubt, a very happy, and, comparatively to the men of his class some centuries back, a very enlightened and intelligent man.”

  “As a partisan of the system of the moral perfectibility of the human race,” said Mr Escot, — who was always for considering things on a large scale, and whose thoughts immediately wandered from the lake to the ocean, from the little boat to a ship of the line,— “you will probably be able to point out to me the degree of improvement that you suppose to have taken place in the character of a sailor, from the days when Jason sailed through the Cyanean Symplegades, or Noah moored his ark on the summit of Ararat.”

  “If you talk to me,” said Mr Foster, “of mythological personages, of course I cannot meet you on fair grounds.”

  “We will begin, if you please, then,” said Mr Escot, “no further back than the battle of Salamis; and I will ask you if you think the mariners of England are, in any one respect, morally or intellectually, superior to those who then preserved the liberties of Greece, under the direction of Themistocles?”

  “I will venture to assert,” said Mr Foster, “that considered merely as sailors, which is the only fair mode of judging them, they are as far superior to the Athenians, as the structure of our ships is superior to that of theirs. Would not one English seventy-four, think you, have been sufficient to have sunk, burned, and put to flight, all the Persian and Grecian vessels in that memorable bay? Contemplate the progress of naval architecture, and the slow, but immense succession of concatenated intelligence, by which it has gradually attained its present stage of perfectibility. In this, as in all other branches of art and science, every generation possesses all the knowledge of the preceding, and adds to it its own discoveries in a progression to which there seems no limit. The skill requisite to direct these immense machines is proportionate to their magnitude and complicated mechanism; and, therefore, the English sailor, considered merely as a sailor, is vastly superior to the ancient Greek.”

  “You make a distinction, of course,” said Mr Escot, “between scientific and moral perfectibility?”

  “I conceive,” said Mr Foster, “that men are virtuous in proportion as they are enlightened; and that, as every generation increases in knowledge, it also increases in virtue.”

  “I wish it were so,” said Mr Escot; “but to me the very reverse appears to be the fact. The progress of knowledge is not general: it is confined to a chosen few of every age. How far these are better than their neighbours, we may examine by and bye. The mass of mankind is composed of beasts of burden, mere clods, and tools of their superiors. By enlarging and complicating your machines, you degrade, not exalt, the human animals you employ to direct them. When the boatswain of a seventy-four pipes all hands to the main tack, and flourishes his rope’s end over the shoulders of the poor fellows who are tugging at the ropes, do you perceive so dignified, so gratifying a picture, as Ulysses exhorting his dear friends, his ΕΡΙΗΡΕΣ ‘ΕΤΑΙΡΟΙ, to ply their oars with energy? You will say, Ulysses was a fabulous character. But the economy of his vessel is drawn from nature. Every man on board has a character and a will of his own. He talks to them, argues with them, convinces them; and they obey him, because they love him, and know the reason of his orders. Now, as I have said before, all singleness of character is lost. We divide men into herds like cattle: an individual man, if you strip him of all that is extraneous to himself, is the most wretched and contemptible creature on the face of the earth. The sciences advance. True. A few years of study puts a modern mathematician in possession of more than Newton knew, and leaves him at leisure to add new discoveries of his own. Agreed. But does this make him a Newton? Does it put him in possession of that range of intellect, that grasp of mind, from which the discoveries of Newton sprang? It is mental power that I look for: if you can demonstrate the increase of that, I will give up the field. Energy — independence — individuality — disinterested virtue — active benevolence — self-oblivion — universal philanthropy — these are the qualities I desire to find, and of which I contend that every succeeding age produces fewer examples. I repeat it; there is scarcely such a thing to be found as a single individual man; a few classes compose the whole frame of society, and when you know one of a class you know the whole of it. Give me the wild man of the woods; the original, unthinking, unscientific, unlogical savage: in him there is at least some good; but, in a civilised, sophisticated, cold-blooded, mechanical, calculating slave of Mammon and the world, there is none — absolutely none. Sir, if I fall into a river, an unsophisticated man will jump in and bring me out; but a philosopher will look on with the utmost calmness, and consider me in the light of a projectile, and, making a calculation of the degree of force with which I have impinged the surface, the resistance of the fluid, the velocity of the current, and the depth of the water in that particular place, he will ascertain with the greatest nicety in what part of the mud at the bottom I may probably be found, at any given distance of time from the moment of my first immersion.”

  Mr Foster was preparing to reply, when the first dinner-bell rang, and he immediately commenced a precipitate return towards the house; followed by his two companions, who both admitted that he was now leading the way to at least a temporary period of physical amelioration: “but, alas!” added Mr Escot, after a moment’s reflection, “Epulæ NOCUERE repostæ!10“

  Chapter V

  The Dinner

  THE SUN WAS now terminating his diurnal course, and the lights were glittering on the festal board. When the ladies had retired, and the Burgundy had taken two or three tours of the table, the following conversation took place: —

  Squire Headlong. Push about the bottle: Mr Escot, it stands with you. No heeltaps. As to skylight, liberty-hall.

  Mr Mac Laurel. Really, Squire Headlong, this is the vara nectar itsel. Ye hae saretainly discovered the tarrestrial paradise, but it flows wi’ a better leecor than milk an’ honey.

  The Reverend Doctor Gaster. Hem! Mr Mac Laurel! there is a degree of profaneness in that observation, which I should not have looked for in so staunch a supporter of church and state. Milk and honey was the pure food of the antediluvian patriarchs, who knew not the use of the grape, happily for them. (Tossing off a bumper of Burgundy.)

  Mr Escot. Happy, indeed! The first inhabitants of the world knew not the use either of wine or animal food; it is, therefore, by no means incredible that they lived to the age of several centuries, free from war, and commerce, and arbitrary government, and every other species of desolating wickedness. But man was then a very different animal to what he now is: he had not the faculty of speech; he was not encumbered with clothes; he lived in the open air; his first step out of which, as Hamlet truly observes, is into his grave. His first dwellings, of c
ourse, were the hollows of trees and rocks. In process of time he began to build: thence grew villages; thence grew cities. Luxury, oppression, poverty, misery, and disease kept pace with the progress of his pretended improvements, till, from a free, strong, healthy, peaceful animal, he has become a weak, distempered, cruel, carnivorous slave.

  The Reverend Doctor Gaster. Your doctrine is orthodox, in so far as you assert that the original man was not encumbered with clothes, and that he lived in the open air; but, as to the faculty of speech, that, it is certain, he had, for the authority of Moses ——

  Mr Escot. Of course, sir, I do not presume to dissent from the very exalted authority of that most enlightened astronomer and profound cosmogonist, who had, moreover, the advantage of being inspired; but when I indulge myself with a ramble in the fields of speculation, and attempt to deduce what is probable and rational from the sources of analysis, experience, and comparison, I confess I am too often apt to lose sight of the doctrines of that great fountain of theological and geological philosophy.

  Squire Headlong. Push about the bottle.

  Mr Foster. Do you suppose the mere animal life of a wild man, living on acorns, and sleeping on the ground, comparable in felicity to that of a Newton, ranging through unlimited space, and penetrating into the arcana of universal motion — to that of a Locke, unravelling the labyrinth of mind — to that of a Lavoisier, detecting the minutest combinations of matter, and reducing all nature to its elements — to that of a Shakespeare, piercing and developing the springs of passion — or of a Milton, identifying himself, as it were, with the beings of an invisible world?

  Mr Escot. You suppose extreme cases: but, on the score of happiness, what comparison can you make between the tranquil being of the wild man of the woods and the wretched and turbulent existence of Milton, the victim of persecution, poverty, blindness, and neglect? The records of literature demonstrate that Happiness and Intelligence are seldom sisters. Even if it were otherwise, it would prove nothing. The many are always sacrificed to the few. Where one man advances, hundreds retrograde; and the balance is always in favour of universal deterioration.

  Mr Foster. Virtue is independent of external circumstances. The exalted understanding looks into the truth of things, and, in its own peaceful contemplations, rises superior to the world. No philosopher would resign his mental acquisitions for the purchase of any terrestrial good.

  Mr Escot. In other words, no man whatever would resign his identity, which is nothing more than the consciousness of his perceptions, as the price of any acquisition. But every man, without exception, would willingly effect a very material change in his relative situation to other individuals. Unluckily for the rest of your argument, the understanding of literary people is for the most part exalted, as you express it, not so much by the love of truth and virtue, as by arrogance and self-sufficiency; and there is, perhaps, less disinterestedness, less liberality, less general benevolence, and more envy, hatred, and uncharitableness among them, than among any other description of men.

  (The eye of Mr Escot, as he pronounced these words, rested very innocently and unintentionally on Mr Gall.)

  Mr Gall. You allude, sir, I presume, to my review.

  Mr Escot. Pardon me, sir. You will be convinced it is impossible I can allude to your review, when I assure you that I have never read a single page of it.

  Mr Gall, Mr Treacle, Mr Nightshade, and Mr Mac Laurel. Never read our review! ! ! !

  Mr Escot. Never. I look on periodical criticism in general to be a species of shop, where panegyric and defamation are sold, wholesale, retail, and for exportation. I am not inclined to be a purchaser of these commodities, or to encourage a trade which I consider pregnant with mischief.

  Mr Mac Laurel. I can readily conceive, sir, ye wou’d na wullingly encoorage ony dealer in panegeeric: but, frae the manner in which ye speak o’ the first creetics an’ scholars o’ the age, I shou’d think ye wou’d hae a leetle mair predilaction for deefamation.

  Mr Escot. I have no predilection, sir, for defamation. I make a point of speaking the truth on all occasions; and it seldom happens that the truth can be spoken without some stricken deer pronouncing it a libel.

  Mr Nightshade. You are perhaps, sir, an enemy to literature in general?

  Mr Escot. If I were, sir, I should be a better friend to periodical critics.

  Squire Headlong. Buz!

  Mr Treacle. May I simply take the liberty to inquire into the basis of your objection?

  Mr Escot. I conceive that periodical criticism disseminates superficial knowledge, and its perpetual adjunct, vanity; that it checks in the youthful mind the habit of thinking for itself; that it delivers partial opinions, and thereby misleads the judgment; that it is never conducted with a view to the general interests of literature, but to serve the interested ends of individuals, and the miserable purposes of party.

  Mr Mac Laurel. Ye ken, sir, a mon mun leeve.

  Mr Escot. While he can live honourably, naturally, justly, certainly: no longer.

  Mr Mac Laurel. Every mon, sir, leeves according to his ain notions of honour an’ justice: there is a wee defference amang the learned wi’ respact to the defineetion o’ the terms.

  Mr Escot. I believe it is generally admitted that one of the ingredients of justice is disinterestedness.

  Mr Mac Laurel. It is na admetted, sir, amang the pheelosophers of Edinbroo’, that there is ony sic thing as desenterestedness in the warld, or that a mon can care for onything sae much as his ain sel: for ye mun observe, sir, every mon has his ain parteecular feelings of what is gude, an’ beautifu’, an’ consentaneous to his ain indiveedual nature, an’ desires to see every thing aboot him in that parteecular state which is maist conformable to his ain notions o’ the moral an’ poleetical fetness o’ things. Twa men, sir, shall purchase a piece o’ grund atween ’em, and ae mon shall cover his half wi’ a park ——

  Mr Milestone. Beautifully laid out in lawns and clumps, with a belt of trees at the circumference, and an artificial lake in the centre.

  Mr Mac Laurel. Exactly, sir: an’ shall keep it a’ for his ain sel: an’ the other mon shall divide his half into leetle farms of twa or three acres ——

  Mr Escot. Like those of the Roman republic, and build a cottage on each of them, and cover his land with a simple, innocent, and smiling population, who shall owe, not only their happiness, but their existence, to his benevolence.

  Mr Mac Laurel. Exactly, sir: an’ ye will ca’ the first mon selfish, an’ the second desenterested; but the pheelosophical truth is semply this, that the ane is pleased wi’ looking at trees, an’ the other wi’ seeing people happy an’ comfortable. It is aunly a matter of indiveedual feeling. A paisant saves a mon’s life for the same reason that a hero or a footpad cuts his thrapple: an’ a pheelosopher delevers a mon frae a preson, for the same reason that a tailor or a prime meenester puts him into it: because it is conformable to his ain parteecular feelings o’ the moral an’ poleetical fetness o’ things.

  Squire Headlong. Wake the Reverend Doctor. Doctor, the bottle stands with you.

  The Reverend Doctor Gaster. It is an error of which I am seldom guilty.

  Mr Mac Laurel. Noo, ye ken, sir, every mon is the centre of his ain system, an’ endaivours as much as possible to adapt every thing aroond him to his ain parteecular views.

  Mr Escot. Thus, sir, I presume, it suits the particular views of a poet, at one time to take the part of the people against their oppressors, and at another, to take the part of the oppressors, against the people.

  Mr Mac Laurel. Ye mun alloo, sir, that poetry is a sort of ware or commodity, that is brought into the public market wi’ a’ other descreptions of merchandise, an’ that a mon is pairfectly justified in getting the best price he can for his article. Noo, there are three reasons for taking the part o’ the people; the first is, when general leeberty an’ public happiness are conformable to your ain parteecular feelings o’ the moral an’ poleetical fetness o’ things: the second is
, when they happen to be, as it were, in a state of exceetabeelity, an’ ye think ye can get a gude price for your commodity, by flingin’ in a leetle seasoning o’ pheelanthropy an’ republican speerit; the third is, when ye think ye can bully the menestry into gieing ye a place or a pansion to hau’d your din, an’ in that case, ye point an attack against them within the pale o’ the law; an’ if they tak nae heed o’ ye, ye open a stronger fire; an’ the less heed they tak, the mair ye bawl; an’ the mair factious ye grow, always within the pale o’ the law, till they send a plenipotentiary to treat wi’ ye for yoursel, an’ then the mair popular ye happen to be, the better price ye fetch.

  Squire Headlong. Off with your heeltaps.

  Mr Cranium. I perfectly agree with Mr Mac Laurel in his definition of self-love and disinterestedness: every man’s actions are determined by his peculiar views, and those views are determined by the organisation of his skull. A man in whom the organ of benevolence is not developed, cannot be benevolent: he in whom it is so, cannot be otherwise. The organ of self-love is prodigiously developed in the greater number of subjects that have fallen under my observation.

  Mr Escot. Much less I presume, among savage than civilised men, who, constant only to the love of self, and consistent only in their aim to deceive, are always actuated by the hope of personal advantage, or by the dread of personal punishment.

  Mr Cranium. Very probably.

  Mr Escot. You have, of course, found very copious specimens of the organs of hypocrisy, destruction, and avarice.

  Mr Cranium. Secretiveness, destructiveness, and covetiveness. You may add, if you please, that of constructiveness.

  Mr Escot. Meaning, I presume, the organ of building; which I contend to be not a natural organ of the featherless biped.

  Mr Cranium. Pardon me: it is here. (As he said these words, he produced a skull from his pocket, and placed it on the table to the great surprise of the company.) — This was the skull of Sir Christopher Wren. You observe this protuberance — (The skull was handed round the table.)