PRIOR.
Happiness having been defined, by certain acute wits the art of being adroitly deceived, perhaps, therefore, no order in society merits congratulation more, than that cajoled cluster of “good easy men,” whom knaves call dupes. Amadis de Gaul, or any other knight errant of old romance, must have cordially cursed the malignant enchanter, who, by the touch of a tallisman, caused the gorgeous castle to dwindle to a cot, or the wrinkles of a witch to mar the brow of a peerless damsel. The Dupe, whom the unreflecting “million” too often deride for being gulled, would have equal reason to upbraid that impertinent and pretended friend, who, in the game of human artifice, should stand behind his chair, and incessantly tell him, that he was cheated. Although I cannot agree with that eccentric orator, who harangued in praise of ignorance; although I cannot print paradoxes, like Rousseau’s, pronouncing the arts and sciences useless, and barbarism a blessing; yet I would fervently implore those gamesome genii, who delight in the mockery of mortals, that they would never unbind from my eyes that fillet which conceals from their view the foibles of the friend I respect, and the frailties of the woman I love. In life’s pilgrimage, curiosity must be sparingly indulged: and, lest dejection invade, we should not scarcely see, still less contemplate, the deformities of Zaara, or The Desart. One of the most amiable weaknesses, as the world calls them, in my uncle Toby’s character, as delineated by Sterne, was that you might cheat him ten times a day, if nine times were not sufficient for your purpose. Ælian, a narrative Greek, records the case of an insane Athenian, who, living in a maritime town, fancied that all the vessels which arrived in the haven were his own. Horace mentions likewise, a nobleman of Argos, a literary enthusiast, a “child of fancy,” who, even in the vacant pit, fancied that he witnessed the representation of sublime tragedies, and “hearkened even to extacy.” Now how unfortunate an officer would uncle Toby have been, had Corporal Trim hinted at the duplicity of Bridget, widow Wadman, or any of the Shandy family; and how unfortunate were the frantic Athenian and the illustrious Argive, from whose minds the “dear deceit” was expelled by the officious friend, and the operative hellebore.
I have read somewhere, I believe in Sir Thomas More’s works, that the world is undone by looking at things at a distance. One would suppose that so wise a Chancellor would have philosophised better than this, and have maintained the reverse of the proposition. Happy would it have been had his practice militated with his principles. If he had surveyed the Romish superstition, and the caprice of the eighth Henry at a distance, if he had kneeled to the saints without questioning their right to be worshipped, and obeyed the king without asking wherefore; the “rays of royal indignation,” would not have confused the Chancellor, and he would not have paid with his head the price of too near an examination.
The inimitable Butler, in whose Hudibras we always find much of the good sense and truth of poetry, acknowledges that,
Doubtless the pleasure is as great
Of being cheated, as to cheat.
But he might have said more, and affirmed that the satisfaction is greater, and that the dupe is happier, than the knave. It is better to be the gulled spectator of a puppet show, than the master juggler, who comprehends the whole trick. How foolishly conducts that curious impertinent, who swears that the glittering crown of the theatrical monarch is nothing but tinsel, and rallies behind the scenes to view the actors in an undress. For the naked skeleton, even of delight to adopt a happy phrase of Dr. Johnson’s, is loathsome; and those inquisitive beings, who wish to survey every object stripped of its trappings, resemble children who dash their gilded toys to pieces to know what is inside.
In every age inquisitiveness has caused many, eager to take a peep, to go on their way sorrowing. If our grand parent Eve had been content with innocent ignorance, and not hankered after those cursed crab apples which have “set the children’s teeth on edge,” we should all be “jolly fellows;” each, after rising from the feast of life, would have no reckoning but his own to discharge. But since the habit of tearing off the veil from every object has grown inveterate, how many misshapen monsters have exhibited to the curious eye, most naked and nauseous disproportion. How many noble, how many ecclesiastical heads, recent from the guillotine, have gasped on the ground because Tom Paine railed at the mob for their servility to the ruling powers, and taught them the “Rights of Man.” If happy ignorance had been our hereditary queen, no persecution, civil or religious, would have urged non-conforming victims to the stake or the scaffold. The bells on St. Bartholomew’s night would not have tolled, Luther would not have defaced so many paintings, nor have mutilated so many statues of the Romish Church. Calvin’s proselytes would have been a visionary band, feeble and insignificant as the madcap shakers. Mother Church would never have quarrelled with her daughters for precedency. Lawn sleeves would not have been rent by one side, nor grey coats singed threadbare by the other; but all the members of the great family would have sung what ditties they pleased, and perhaps amicably joined in a general chorus of
“SINCE WE ARE MET, LET’S MERRY, MERRY BE,
WITH A TINKER, OR A TAILOR.”