The Fable of the Bees; Or, Private Vices, Public Benefits

by Bernard Mandeville

Ful. I beg pardon, Sir, for the expression, I never laughed at an opera in my life; but I confess, as to the entertainment itself, that a good play is infinitely more diverting to me; and I prefer any thing that informs my understanding beyond all the recreations which either my eyes or my ears can be regaled with.

Hor. I am sorry to hear a lady of your good sense make such a choice. Have you no taste for music, Madam?

Ful. I named that as part of my diversion.

Cleo. My cousin plays very well upon the harpsichord herself.

Ful. I love to hear good music; but it does not throw me into those raptures, I hear others speak of.

Hor. Nothing certainly can elevate the mind beyond a fine concert: it seems to disengage the soul from the body, and lift it up to heaven. It is in this situation, that we are most capable of receiving extraordinary impressions: when the instruments cease, our temper is subdued, and beautiful action joins with the skilful voice, in setting before us in a transcendent light, the heroic labours we are come to admire, and which the word Opera imports. The powerful harmony between the engaging sounds and speaking gestures invades the heart, and forcibly inspires us with those noble sentiments, which to entertain, the most expressive words can only attempt to persuade us. Few comedies are tolerable, and in the best of them, if the levity of the expressions does not corrupt, the meanness of the subject must debase the manners; at least to persons of quality. In tragedies the style is more sublime; and the subjects generally great; but all violent passions, and even the representations of them, ruffle and discompose the mind: besides, when men endeavour to express things strongly, and they are acted to the life, it often happens that the images do mischief, because they are too moving, and that the action is faulty for being too natural; and experience teaches us, that in unguarded minds, by those pathetic performances, flames are often raised that are prejudicial to virtue. The playhouses themselves are far from being inviting, much less the companies, at least the greatest part of them that frequent them, some of which are almost of the lowest rank of all. The disgust that persons of the least elegance receive from these people are many; besides, the ill scents, and unseemly sights one meets with, of careless rakes and impudent wenches, that, having paid their money, reckon themselves to be all upon the level with every body there; the oaths, scurrilities, and vile jests one is often obliged to hear, without resenting them; and the odd mixture of high and low that are all partaking of the same diversion, without regard to dress or quality, are all very offensive; and it cannot but be very disagreeable to polite people to be in the same crowd with a variety of persons, some of them below mediocrity, that pay no deference to one another. At the opera, every thing charms and concurs to make happiness complete. The sweetness of voice, in the first place, and the solemn composure of the action, serve to mitigate and allay every passion; it is the gentleness of them, and the calm serenity of the mind, that make us amiable, and bring us the nearest to the perfection of angels; whereas, the violence of the passions, in which the corruption of the heart chiefly consists, dethrones our reason, and renders us more like unto savages. It is incredible, how prone we are to imitation, and how strangely, unknown to ourselves, we are shaped and fashioned after the models and examples that are often set before us. No anger nor jealousy are ever to be seen at an opera, that distort the features; no flames that are noxious, nor is any love represented in them, that is not pure and next to seraphic; and it is impossible for the remembrance to carry any thing away from them, that can sully the imagination. Secondly, the company is of another sort: the place itself is a security to peace, as well as every one’s honour; and it is impossible to name another, where blooming innocence and irresistible beauty stand in so little need of guardians. Here we are sure never to meet with petulancy or ill manners, and to be free from immodest ribaldry, libertine wit, and detestable satire. If you will mind, on the one hand, the richness and splendour of dress, and the quality of the persons that appear in them; the variety of colours, and the lustre of the fair in a spacious theatre, well illuminated and adorned; and on the other, the grave deportment of the assembly, and the consciousness that appears in every countenance, of the respect they owe to each other, you will be forced to confess, that upon earth there cannot be a pastime more agreeable: believe me, Madam, there is no place, where both sexes have such opportunities of imbibing exalted sentiments, and raising themselves above the vulgar, as they have at the opera; and there is no other sort of diversion or assembly, from the frequenting of which, young persons of quality can have equal hopes of forming their manners, and contracting a strong and lasting habit of virtue.

Ful. You have said more in commendation of operas, Horatio, than I ever heard or thought of before; and I think every body who loves that diversion is highly obliged to you. The grand gout, I believe, is a great help in panegyric, especially, where it is an incivility strictly to examine and over-curiously to look into matters.

Cleo. What say you now, Fulvia, of nature and good sense, are they not quite beat out of doors?

Ful. I have heard nothing yet, to make me out of conceit with good sense; though what you insinuated of nature, as if it was not to be imitated in painting, is an opinion, I must confess, which hitherto I more admire at, than I can approve of it.

Hor. I would never recommend any thing, Madam, that is repugnant to good sense; but Cleomenes must have some design in over-acting the part he pretends to have chosen. What he said about painting is very true, whether he spoke it in jest or in earnest; but he talks so diametrically opposite to the opinion which he is known every where to defend of late, that I do not know what to make of him.