There is an old man in Wilkie Collins’s novel, “The Moonstone,” the best novel of its kind in the language, who, when in doubt, reads “Robinson Crusoe.” In like manner I, when in doubt, turn to Boswell’s “Life of Johnson,” and there I read that the fine, crusty old doctor was hailed in the Strand one day by a man who half a century before had been at Pembroke College with him. It is not surprising that Johnson did not at first remember his former friend, and he was none too well pleased to be reminded that they were both “old men now.” “We are, sir,” said Dr. Johnson, “but do not let us discourage one another”; and they began to talk over old times and compare notes as to where they stood in the world.
Edwards, his friend, had practiced law and had made money, but had spent or given away much of it. “I shall not die rich,” said he. “But, sir,” said Johnson, “it is better to live rich than to die rich.” And now comes Edwards’s immortal remark, “You are a philosopher, Dr. Johnson. I have tried, too, in my time to be a philosopher; but, I don’t know how, cheerfulness was always breaking in.”
With the word “cheerfulness,” Edwards had demolished the scheme of life of most of our professed philosophers, who have no place in their systems for the attribute that goes furthest toward making life worth while to the average man.
Cheerfulness is a much rarer quality than is generally supposed, especially among the rich. It was not common even before we learned that, in spite of Browning, though God may be in his heaven, nevertheless, all is wrong with the world.
If “most men lead lives of quiet desperation,” as Thoreau says they do, it is, I suspect, because they will not allow cheerfulness to break in upon them when it will. A good disposition is worth a fortune. Give cheerfulness a chance and let the professed philosopher go hang.
But it is high time for me to turn my attention, and yours, if I may, to the particular philosopher through whom I wish to stick my pen, and whom, thus impaled, I wish to present for your edification—say, rather, amusement. His name was William Godwin; he was the husband of Mary Wollstonecraft and the father-in-law of Shelley.