Sir, replied Arabella, I shall never think that any narrative, which is not confuted by its own absurdity, is without one argument at least on its side. There is a love of truth in the human mind, if not naturally implanted, so easily obtained from reason and experience, that I should expect it universally to prevail where there is no strong temptation to deceit; we hate to be deceived, we therefore hate those that deceive us; we desire not to be hated, and therefore know that we are not to deceive. Show me an equal motive to falsehood, or confess that every relation has some right to credit.
This may be allowed, madam, said the doctor, when we claim to be credited; but that seems not to be the hope or intention of these writers.
Surely, sir, replied Arabella, you must mistake their design; he that writes without intention to be credited, must write to little purpose; for what pleasure or advantage can arise from facts that never happened? What examples can be afforded by the patience of those who never suffered, or the chastity of those who were never solicited? The great end of history is to show how much human nature can endure or perform. When we hear a story in common life that raises our wonder or compassion, the first confutation stills our emotions; and however we were touched before, we then chase it from the memory with contempt as a trifle, or with indignation as an imposture. Prove, therefore, that the books which I have hitherto read as copies of life, and models of conduct, are empty fictions, and from this hour I deliver them to moths and mould; and from this time consider their authors as wretches who cheated me of those hours I ought to have dedicated to application and improvement, and betrayed me to a waste of those years in which I might have laid up knowledge for my future life.
Shakespeare, said the doctor, calls just resentment the child of integrity; and therefore I do not wonder, that what vehemence the gentleness of your ladyship's temper allows should be exerted upon this occasion. Yet though I cannot forgive these authors for having destroyed so much valuable time, yet I cannot think them intentionally culpable, because I cannot believe they expected to be credited. Truth is not always injured by fiction. An admirable writer[1] of our own time, has found the way to convey the most solid instructions, the noblest sentiments, and the most exalted piety, in the pleasing dress of a novel[2], and, to use the words of the greatest genius[3] in the present age, "has taught the passions to move at the command of virtue." The fables of Æsop, though never I suppose believed, yet have been long considered as lectures of moral and domestic wisdom, so well adapted to the faculties of man that they have been received by all civilized nations; and the Arabs themselves have honoured his translator with the appellation of Locman the Wise.
The fables of Æsop, said Arabella, are among those of which the absurdity discovers itself, and the truth is comprised in the application; but what can be said of those tales which are told with the solemn air of historical truth, and if false convey no instruction?
That they cannot be defended, madam, said the doctor, it is my purpose to prove; and if to evince their falsehood be sufficient to procure their banishment from your ladyship's closet, their day of grace is near an end. How is any oral, or written testimony, confuted or confirmed?
By comparing it, says the lady, with the testimony of others, or with the natural effects, and standing evidence of the facts related, and sometimes by comparing it with itself.
If then your ladyship will abide by this last, returned he, and compare these books with ancient histories, you will not only find innumerable names, of which no mention was ever made before, but persons who lived in different ages, engaged as the friends or rivals of each other. You will perceive that your authors have parcelled out the world at discretion, erected palaces, and established monarchies wherever the conveniency of their narrative required them, and set kings and queens over imaginary nations. Nor have they considered themselves as invested with less authority over the works of nature, than the institutions of men; for they have distributed mountains and deserts, gulphs and rocks, wherever they wanted them; and whenever the course of their story required an expedient, raised a gloomy forest, or overflowed the regions with a rapid stream.
I suppose, said Arabella, you have no intention to deceive me; and since, if what you have asserted be true, the cause is undefensible, I shall trouble you no longer to argue on this topic, but desire now to hear why, supposing them fictions, and intended to be received as fictions, you censure them as absurd?
The only excellence of falsehood, answered he, is its resemblance to truth; as therefore any narrative is more liable to be confuted by its inconsistency with known facts, it is at a greater distance from the perfection of fiction; for there can be no difficulty in framing a tale, if we are left at liberty to invert all history and nature for our own conveniency. When a crime is to be concealed, it is easy to cover it with an imaginary wood. When virtue is to be rewarded, a nation with a new name may, without any expense of invention, raise her to the throne. When Ariosto was told of the magnificence of his palaces, he answered, that the cost of poetical architecture was very little; and still less is the cost of building without art, than without materials. But their historical failures may be easily passed over, when we consider their physical or philosophical absurdities; to bring men together from different countries does not shock with every inherent or demonstrable absurdity, and therefore when we read only for amusement, such improprieties may be borne: but who can forbear to throw away the story that gives to one man the strength of thousands; that puts life or death in a smile or a frown; that recounts labours and sufferings to which the powers of humanity are utterly unequal; that disfigures the whole appearance of the world, and represents every thing in a form different from that which experience has shown? It is the fault of the best fictions, that they teach young minds to expect strange adventures and sudden vicissitudes, and therefore encourage them often to trust to chance. A long life may be passed without a single occurrence that can cause much surprise, or produce any unexpected consequence of great importance; the order of the world is so established, that all human affairs proceed in a regular method, and very little opportunity is left for sallies or hazards, for assault or rescue; but the brave and the coward, the sprightly and the dull, suffer themselves to be carried alike down the stream of custom.