Chapter III: The Philosophic Group

The Philosophic Group of oriental tales is in number far smaller and in literary value far more considerable than the Moralistic. Here, again, Addison was the guide, using several oriental stories to illustrate philosophical ideas and composing one famous oriental tale, or rather sketch, _The Vision of Mirza_.[130] The _Vision_ is so familiar and so accessible that any detailed account of it would be superfluous. Mirza, from the topmost pinnacle of the high hills of Bagdad, beholds multitudes passing over the bridge of life, which spans a part of the great tide of eternity. Sooner or later all fall from the bridge and are borne out into the thick mist toward either the islands of the blest or the dark clouds beyond the rock of adamant. By means of this vision, Mirza realizes the vicissitudes of life, the certainty of death, the consolation of faith, and the mystery enveloping man’s existence. It is Addison’s way of saying “From the great deep to the great deep he goes.”[131]. The form of the _Vision_ is simplicity and clearness itself. The language, lucid and direct, displays Addison’s characteristic restraint in the use of oriental ornament and imagery. The literary value of _The Vision of Mirza_ as an oriental tale lies less in the specific detail of oriental colouring than in the general impression of beauty and of awe. “But instead of the rolling tide, the arched bridge, and the happy islands, I saw nothing but the long hollow valley of Bagdat, with oxen, sheep, and camels, grazing upon the sides of it,”—a serene English valley, orientalized only by the name _Bagdat_ and the presence of the camels. And yet, if the oriental elements were cut away from _The Vision of Mirza_, the picturesque attributes of the central metaphor, the bridge of human life, would go, for they are drawn from the Mahometan tradition of the bridge “Al Sirát,” laid across hell, “finer than a hair and sharper than the edge of a sword,” over which the souls of men pass,—the good to the Mahometan paradise, the wicked to hell, which is encircled by a wall of adamant. Moreover, the quiet, cumulative force of one slight stroke of oriental imagery after another produces a sense of remoteness and stimulates the imagination, especially when the phrases echo Biblical cadences and thus attain an added solemnity. “‘Surely,’ said I, ‘man is but a shadow and life a dream....’ ‘The valley that thou seest,’ said he, ‘is the vale of misery, and the tide of water that thou seest, is part of the great tide of eternity....’ ‘I wished for the wings of an eagle that I might fly away to those happy seats; but the genius told me there was no passage to them except through the gates of death.’”

The other philosophic oriental tales in the Addisonian periodicals illustrate various themes: the transitoriness of life, the subjectivity of time, personal identity, and so on. Frequent phrases suggest that in oriental thought and imagery what appealed most forcibly to Addison’s reverent nature was “likeness to those beautiful metaphors in scripture.”[132] One brief story is told by him to illustrate the figure “where life is termed a pilgrimage, and those who pass through it are called strangers and sojourners upon earth,” and to conclude an essay on the value of contemplating the transitoriness of human life. A dervish mistakes a palace for an inn, and when the king asks an explanation, replies by a series of questions leading up to an admirable climax. “‘Sir,’ says the Dervish, ‘give me leave to ask your Majesty a question or two. Who were the persons that lodged in this house when it was first built?’ The King replied, his ancestors. ‘And who,’ says the Dervish, ‘was the last person that lodged here?’ The King replied, his father. ‘And who is it,’ says the Dervish, ‘that lodges here at present?’ The King told him that it was he himself. ‘And who,’ says the Dervish, ‘will be here after you?’ The King answered, the young Prince, his son. ‘Ah, Sir,’ said the Dervish, ‘a house that changes its inhabitants so often and receives such a perpetual succession of guests, is not a Palace, but a Caravansary.’”[133] The oriental colouring here is slightly stronger than in _The Vision of Mirza_. The dervish, “traveling through Tartary,” arrived “at the town of Balk, ... laid down his wallet and spread his carpet in order to repose himself upon it, after the manner of Eastern nations.” The notion of the subjectivity of time as set forth by Locke is exemplified in the account of Mahomet’s journey to the seven heavens in the twinkling of an eye,[134] as well as by the adventures of the Sultan of Egypt.[134] The latter story, drawn from the _Turkish Tales_, is interestingly told, though shorn of most of its picturesque details. From the _Persian Tales_ an unknown contributor to the _Spectator_ takes the story of _Fadlallah and Zemroude_, and introduces it by a quotation from “Mr. Locke” on personal identity and by these remarks: “I was mightily pleased by a story in some measure applicable to this piece of philosophy, which I read the other day in the _Persian Tales_, as they are lately very well translated by Mr. Philips ... these stories are writ after the Eastern manner, but somewhat more correct.”[135] The writer chastens the style of his quotation still further by eliminating many of the imaginative elements for the sake of the “piece of philosophy.” The idea of perpetual suspense is illustrated by reference not only to the mediæval ass between two bundles of hay but also to Mahomet’s coffin suspended in midair by magnets.[136] The misery and ingratitude of humanity is shown by a vision.[137] The conception of the development of philosophy and virtue in a man on a desert island, guided by “the pure light and universal benevolence of nature,”[138] is given as a quotation from an Arabian author. It calls to mind Mrs. Behn’s _Oroonoko_ and his successor, the “natural man” of the eighteenth century. In all these narratives or fragments of narratives the tone is speculative rather than directly didactic, but all except _Fadlallah and Zemroude_ are used to point a moral. With one exception, all the philosophical and moral ideas in the twenty-nine oriental tales found in these early periodicals, from the opening number of the _Tatler_, in 1709, to the last issue of the _Freeholder_, in 1716, are either noticeably English in character or else universal ideas, common to English and oriental thought. The one exception[139] is the doctrine of transmigration of souls, which has been attributed to oriental philosophy. Yet this doctrine is Pythagorean as well as oriental, and the ultimate source, though possibly oriental, is unknown. In general the philosophizing in the periodicals is along the lines of universal thought, expressed in a thoroughly English and Addisonian manner.

In the philosophic as in the moralistic tales the most famous of Addison’s successors was Dr. Johnson. As suggested above,[140] the difference in temperament between the two men is clearly reflected in their periodicals. Addison’s lighter touch and buoyant spirit are replaced in the _Rambler_ and the _Idler_ by Johnson’s heavier style and more uniformly serious purpose. And yet the _Rambler_ and its imitators have much in common with the earlier group. The similarity is especially noticeable in those parts of Johnson’s work that are deliberate and conscious imitations. Addison had used the oriental tale among other devices to convey instruction under the guise of amusement; Johnson did likewise. The story of _Ortogrul of Basra_[141] distinctly recalls Addison’s oriental tales. The scene is laid in Bagdad, and the narrative opens with an account of Ortogrul wandering in “the tranquillity of meditation” along the streets. He is taught the value of slow and constant industry by a dream, in which, like Mirza, he beholds a vision from a hilltop. The genius in _Mirza_ is replaced by the father of Ortogrul, who directs the latter’s gaze to an ineffectual torrent and to a slow but sure “rivulet,” and points the moral. For local colour in these tales Johnson is satisfied with vague allusions such as that to the vizier’s return from the divan to spacious apartments in his palace, hung with golden tapestry and carpeted with silk. Dates, places, and oriental customs are likewise indistinct. “In the reign of Zenghis Can,” “Samarcand,” “Arabia,” “the emirs and viziers, the sons of valour and of wisdom, that stand at the corners of the Indian throne, to assist the Councils,”—such brief references suffice for Johnson’s purpose. Like Addison, too, Johnson feels that an oriental tale demands elevated and dignified diction, Biblical imagery, and the abstract, general term instead of the concrete.

But there the likeness ends, for Johnson’s early oriental tales, far more than any of his other writings, are embellished with peculiarly Johnsonian Latin derivatives and resounding antitheses. Sometimes the style gains by these means the added force and dignity purposed by the author. “In the height of my power, I said to defamation, who will hear thee? and to artifice, what canst thou perform?”... “The clouds of sorrow gathered round his head.” But often this attempt at rhetorical ornamentation results in bombast and unintentional humour: “The curls of beauty fell from his head;” “the voracious grave is howling for its prey;” “he practised the smile of universal courtesy;” “a frigorific torpor encroaches upon my veins.” In _Ortogrul_, Johnson goes even to this extreme in describing the rich vizier’s life: “The dishes of Luxury cover his table, the voice of Harmony lulls him in his bowers; he breathes the fragrance of the groves of Java, and sleeps upon the down of the cygnets of Ganges.” Grandiloquence of this sort takes the place of detail in description. When Johnson wishes to depict an Eastern princess, he portrays her “sitting on a throne, attired in the robe of royalty, and shining with the jewels of Golconda; command sparkled in her eyes and dignity towered on her forehead.” Such a description is eminently in keeping with Johnson’s didactic purpose. Didactic in the _Rambler_ Johnson always is. “Instruction,” in Boswell’s words, “is the predominant purpose of the _Rambler_,”[142]—instruction, whether directly inculcating morality, as in the moralistic tales, or indirectly setting forth some philosophic idea connected with human conduct, as in the six so-called philosophic tales. Yet, even in the latter group, Johnson’s speculation is always concerned with questions of vital interest to mankind, and hence in the deepest sense moral questions. In all of his fiction, moralistic teachings are present, whether explicit or implicit, although less prominent than the philosophic ideas.

Frequently pompous in diction and artificial in manner, these stories, nevertheless, do not lack a certain impressive simplicity in their presentation of various aspects of Johnson’s earnest philosophy of life. His convictions of the vanity of accumulating riches, expecting gratitude, seeking happiness, desiring fame, forming a definite plan for one’s life, are all found here and are all variations on his favourite theme: the vanity of human wishes. But, even in these short stories, Johnson reveals two other equally characteristic aspects of his philosophy: religious faith, and brave insistence on duty. _Nouradin the Merchant and his son Almamoulin_, which forms the whole of the _Rambler_, No. 120, is prefaced by quotations on virtue, and teaches the vanity of gathering riches. _Morad the son of Hanuth and his son Abonzaid_[143] sets forth the vanity of labours that wish to be rewarded by gratitude, and concludes that the only satisfactory aim of life is to please God. _Seged, Lord of Ethiopia, and his efforts to be happy_,[144] is obviously an earlier draft of _Rasselas_.[145] Seged, having fulfilled all his duties as king, determined to retire for ten days from the cares of state, in order to be happy for that short interval. He commanded “the house of pleasure built in an island of the Lake Dambia, to be prepared,” and endeavoured to gratify every desire. But the first day there were so many pleasures to choose from that the day slipped by without a choice; and the other days were marred by accidents, a bad dream, tyranny, envy among those whom he sought to please, by the memory of a defeat, and finally by the death of his daughter. Hence the king concluded: “Let no man ever presume to say, ‘This day shall be a day of happiness.’” The narrative is better than in the other tales; it possesses more unity and more interest. The oriental setting is slight, the descriptions are vague, and emphasis is thrown upon the unadorned theme. The strength of the story lies in the force of this theme and the sympathetic account of Seged’s successive feelings. It is interesting to find Johnson meditating on these questions seven years before writing _Rasselas_. Two other tales, published after _Rasselas_, treat of similar ideas. _Gelalledin_[146] is like a part of the story of Imlac in _Rasselas_. Gelalledin, the learned youth, refused a professor’s chair in hopes of returning to his native city “to dazzle and instruct,” but when he returned, was unnoticed and ignored. _Omar, Son of Hassan_,[147] the good and wise servant of the caliph, tells the plan he made in youth for his life: ten years study; ten years travel; marriage, and retirement from court. But he “trifled away the years of improvement,” and each part of his plan was frustrated. Terrestrial happiness is short, and it is vanity to plan life according to one’s wishes,—surely an echo of the theme of _Rasselas_.

The imitators of Johnson apparently found it easier to write moralistic than philosophic tales. At least this is true of the editor of the _Adventurer_, who was so voluminous a moralist. Only one of his stories, _Almet the Dervise_,[148] can be called philosophic, and even here the author moralizes throughout. The title given the essay is _The Value of Life fixed by Hope and Fear and therefore dependent upon the Will: an Eastern story_. Almet is taught by an angel, who shows him in a vision a fair landscape and an “austere” scene and comments on them. Like Johnson, Hawkesworth employs oriental colouring sparingly. He exerts his imagination upon the picture of the dervish Almet watching the sacred lamp in the sepulcher of the prophet and, after the angel has vanished, finding himself at the temple porch in the serene twilight. One other imitation of Johnson’s philosophic tales is Goldsmith’s _Asem, an Eastern Tale: or a vindication of the wisdom of Providence in the moral government of the world_.[149] Asem is taught by the customary vision and Genius. Goldsmith’s fancy, not content with the conventional introduction, pictures the Genius walking over the lake and guiding Asem to a beautiful country beneath its depths. The lucid style and the occasional satire, characteristic of the author, serve to distinguish this sketch from those of his predecessors.

We have spoken of the development of the philosophic oriental tale from Addison’s _Vision of Mirza_ on through Johnson’s work in the _Rambler_ and the _Idler_ to Hawkesworth’s and Goldsmith’s imitations. There remain to be considered the translations from Voltaire, especially _Zadig_, and the most important philosophical oriental tale of the period, Johnson’s _Rasselas_. But before examining these books, which carry on the philosophizing tendency to its culmination, it may be well to mention two works, somewhat apart from the general current, yet warranting a brief digression.

One is a pseudo-translation: _The Bonze, or Chinese Anchorite_;[150] the other, a genuine translation from the Arabic, _The Life of Hai Ebn Yokdhan_. The full title of the latter reads:[151] _The Improvement of Human Reason, Exhibited in the Life of Hai Ebn Yokdhan: Written in Arabick above 500 years ago, by Abu Jaafar Ebn Tophail, In which is demonstrated, By what Methods one may, by the meer Light of Nature, attain the Knowledg of things Natural and Supernatural; more particularly the Knowledg of God, and the Affairs of another Life, Illustrated with proper Figures. Newly Translated from the Original Arabick, by Simon Ockley, A. M. Vicar of Swavesey in Cambridgshire. With an Appendix, In which the Possibility of Man’s attaining the True Knowledge of God, and Things necessary to Salvation, without Instruction, is briefly consider’d_. London ... 1708. The bookseller’s preface to the reader summarizes the author’s purpose and outlines the story with sufficient clearness: “The Design of the Author (who was a Mahometan Philosopher) is to shew how Humane Reason may, by Observation and Experience, arrive at the Knowledge of Natural Things, and from thence to Supernatural; particularly the Knowledge of God and a Future State. And in order to [do] this, he supposes a Person brought up by himself, where he was altogether destitute of any Instruction, but what he could get from his own Observation. He lays the scene in some Fortunate Island, situate under the Equinoctial; where he supposes this Philosopher, either to have been bred (according to _Avicen’s_ Hypothesis, who conceiv’d a Possibility of a Man’s being form’d by the Influence of the Planets upon Matter rightly disposed) without either Father or Mother; or else expos’d in his Infancy, and providentially suckled by a Roe. Not that our Author believ’d any such matter, but only having design’d to contrive a convenient place for his Philosopher, so as to leave him to Reason by himself, and make his Observations without any Guide.... Then he shews by what Steps ... he advanc’d ... till at last he perceived the Necessity of acknowledging an Infinite, Eternal, Wise Creator, and also the Immateriality and Immortality of his own Soul, and that its Happiness consisted only in a continued Conjunction with this supream Being.” The bookseller continues with a comment to which the reader will assent: “The Matter of this Book is curious.” One interesting description of the solitary hero’s method of making himself comfortable on the island recalls _Robinson Crusoe_, and as this book appeared only eleven years before _Crusoe_, the passage may possibly have been seen by Defoe. Hai Ebn Yokdhan, by the time he was twenty-one years old, “had made abundance of pretty Contrivances. He made himself both Cloaths and Shoes of the Skins of such Wild Beasts as he had dissected. His thread was made of Hair, and of the Bark of ... Plants.... He made awls of sharp Thorns.... He learn’d the Art of Building from the Observations he made upon the Swallows Nests.... He ... made a Door ... of Canes twisted together ... etc.”[152] One other passage of interest is the account of his mystical trance.[153] He prepared himself by abstinence and by “Imitation of the Heavenly Bodies” in three respects, first in exercising beneficence toward animals and plants, second in keeping himself “clear, bright, and pure” like the light, third in “practising a circular motion” until dizziness weakened his bodily faculties and purified his spirit.[154] By such means and by constant meditation, he at last attained to the sight of perfect vision in the highest sphere. There he beheld the reflection of the divine glory, the perfection of beauty, splendour, and joy; and after that, the successive reflections of the divine essence in the other heavenly spheres. Thus he came to realize the dependence of all created things on the “one, true, necessary, self-existent” First Cause: and saw that this world followed “the Divine World as a Shadow does the Body.” The story concludes with an account of the friendship formed by the philosopher with a holy man who came to the island, and of their “serving God ... till they died.” In addition to the slight resemblance to _Robinson Crusoe_ noted above, the book possesses interest as a link between the work of seventeenth-century orientalists like Dr. Pococke[155] and the oriental tales of our period; and also as an example of the exaltation of the “natural man” found earlier in _Oroonoko_ and later in the works of Rousseau.

_The Bonze_ is more curious but less valuable. It is an odd medley of moralistic and philosophic rhapsodies on all sorts of subjects,—the Trinity, Lucifer, Adam’s fall,—combined with sentimental and coarse love-tales concerning the Chinese prince Zangola’s transmigrations, and recounted in a vision to the sage Confuciango. The style is so atrocious as to be amusing, _e.g._ the “gay pomposity” of the peacock’s “beauteous tail,” “horrific scenes,” “old dreadful tygers” [_sic_], the “elegance of heaven,” and “the hideous tenebrosity of hell.” “Elegance” of every kind is frequent. “Never before was my heart susceptible of such elegant feelings.” “Methought mortality fell from me like the catterpiller’s [_sic_] form, when he becomes invested with elegance, and shaking his golden wings, disdaining earth, he flies exulting towards heaven.” But when the writer goes so far as to describe “a sunrise, orientally decorated,” one is irresistibly reminded of Fielding’s cheerful parodies of flamboyant preambles in, for example, the opening paragraph of Chap. II., Book IV., of _Tom Jones_: “A short hint of what we can do in the sublime, and a description of Miss Sophia Western.” _The Bonze_ in extravagance thus occupies a unique, if insignificant, place among the philosophic tales. Like them it discusses questions such as the origin of evil and the search for happiness, attempts but little local colour, and regards the East as “romantic” and “barbaric,”—words at that time almost synonymous. “He received me in as kind a manner as it is possible for a mere barbarian.” “There was a romantic palace in the free taste of China, which, tied to no partial rules, admitted all the beauties of architecture.” The attitude of the writer is one of apologetic admiration of objects and ideas so foreign to eighteenth-century standards. But _The Bonze_, despite its aim to “mingle instruction with delight in hope to gain the smile of approbation,” stands at one side in any general view of the philosophic oriental tale, and serves to bring into greater prominence the real value of such works as Voltaire’s _Zadig_ and Johnson’s _Rasselas_.

In France, the _Conte Philosophique_, founded by Voltaire, had been one of the most notable imitations of the genuine oriental tale. In 1749, only a year after the first complete French edition appeared, _Zadig_[156] was translated into English. The popularity it attained in England was due in part to the fact that one of its chapters, _The Hermit_, was based on the poem by Thomas Parnell,[157] in part to the fame of Voltaire, and chiefly to the character of the book itself. Abounding in wit, humour, and philosophy,—qualities enhanced by Voltaire’s keen and brilliant style,—_Zadig_ has a permanent value, visible even through the medium of translation. There is a slight but sufficiently firm thread of story,—the love of Zadig for the queen,—and on this are strung Zadig’s separate and vari-coloured adventures. The discovery of the king’s lost palfrey by circumstantial evidence, Zadig’s pretense at worshiping candles to rebuke his idolatrous master, the frustrated attempt of Zadig’s affectionate wife to cut off his nose, his rescue from death by a parrot’s finding his verses, the fantastic scene of the maidens in a meadow searching for a basilisk,—such incidents are cleverly told, and even in the English version show something of the wit of the original French. The main story has a good climax and a happy dénouement. Voltaire’s clever manipulation of oriental colouring apparently contributed not a little to the immediate popularity of both the French and the English versions. By the time _Zadig_ appeared,[158] the European critic of manners and thought in the disguise of an Oriental had become a conventional type in the oriental tale.[159] _Zadig_ is a variant on the theme of the _Lettres Persanes_. Voltaire is a more subtle satirist in that he does not locate his Oriental in Paris, but in Babylon. Hence, like Swift’s satires, Voltaire’s criticisms of European customs, because ostensibly remote and not aimed at Europe, are the more penetrating. “That show of insignificant words which in Babylon they called polite conversation.”... “They would not suffer him to open his mouth in his own vindication. His pocket-book was sufficient evidence against him. So strict were the Babylonish laws.” Zadig is, of course, Voltaire himself, and the other characters with fanciful “oriental” names—Arimanzes, Astarte, Seloc—are said to be Voltaire’s court enemies and friends. Like the similar device in the pastoral, this gave piquancy to the narrative. Voltaire’s twofold aim, to be the entertaining story-teller and the satirical philosopher, is discernible on every page, and his light and facile use of oriental setting is not unlike Goldsmith’s in _The Citizen of the World_. He lays the scene in Babylon or Egypt, the Indies or Memphis, and mentions Siberia and Scythia to add to the sense of remoteness. His characters wear turbans and sandals, travel on the “swiftest dromedaries” and camels, are sold as slaves to an Arab merchant, are threatened with the bowstring and poisoned cup. The “fair coquet” insists that the old and gouty chief Magus shall “dance a saraband” before her, and the beautiful Almona is rescued from the suttee by the ability of Zadig. Besides such references to Eastern customs, there are quotations of proverbs and of Zoroastrian precepts, and various references to religious beliefs and observances, _e.g._ the bridge of death, the angel Azrael, Oromazdes, and temple worship. Chap. XI., _The Evening’s Entertainment_, treats of ideas found also in Voltaire’s _Fragments historiques sur l’Inde_: the worship of one God under the symbol of fire by the ancient Persians; of one supreme Deity under various symbols by the Egyptians, etc. A heated discussion takes place between an Egyptian, an Indian, a Greek, and others as to the superior claims of their respective religions. They are finally brought by Zadig’s sense and tact to acknowledge that, in truth, they all worship the Supreme Creator as behind and above all symbols.[160] By this mockery of oriental fanaticism, Voltaire is actually satirizing European bigotry and unreason. In a similar manner he strikes at the metaphysicians. Zadig “was well instructed in the science of the ancient Chaldeans ... and understood as much of metaphysics as any that have lived after him,—that is to say, he knew very little about it.” And, aiming ostensibly at the mercenary selfishness of the Babylonian courtiers, Voltaire hits the sycophants of the French court. The king ordered Zadig’s fine of four hundred ounces to be restored to him. “Agreeable to his Majesty’s commands, the clerk of the court, the tipstaffs, and the other petty officers, waited on Zadig ... to refund the four hundred ounces of gold; modestly reserving only three hundred and ninety ounces, to defray the fees of the court and other expenses.” The inconsistency of the oriental freebooter who thought it wrong for the rich, but quite right for himself, to get and keep wealth, might easily have found a parallel in France. “I was distracted to see” (he says) “in a wide world which ought to be divided fairly among mankind, that Fate had reserved so small a portion for me.” Other themes illustrated are the misery caused by tyrants; the injustice of the social structure; the fickleness of women who protest too much; and above all the question of the part played in human life by destiny,—the apparent supremacy of Chance, and the real supremacy of a foreknowing and overruling Providence. Zadig’s adventures hinge upon trivial happenings, and hence he doubts Providence, until the angel, disguised as a hermit, teaches him.[161] We have spoken of Voltaire’s facile use of oriental colouring. But in _Zadig_ few figures of speech occur. On one occasion Zadig addresses the judges as “glorious stars of justice,” and “mirrors of equity.” Such figures, however, are rare, a fact the more remarkable since Voltaire considered the immoderate use of metaphor one of the chief characteristics of oriental writing,[162] and another instance of the way in which he subordinated the oriental setting to his serious purpose.

Besides _Zadig_, several other _contes philosophiques_ by Voltaire were early translated into English. In the majority of them, literary and social satire predominates over philosophical speculation, and therefore these tales may best be classified among the Satiric Group in Chap. IV. But in two, though satire is present, speculation is predominant: _The World as it Goes_, (1754)[163] and _The Good Bramin_ (1763).[164] Both are brief. The latter is a sketch of a good Bramin who had studied much and, in his own estimation, learned nothing. Hence he was unhappy, yet he preferred his condition to that of an old woman, who lived near him, contented because ignorant. In conclusion the author states that he has been unable to find any philosopher who would accept happiness on the terms of being ignorant. All men seem to set a greater value on reason than on happiness. Is not that folly? _The World as it Goes_ is an account of a visit to Persepolis, _i.e._ Paris, by Babouc the Scythian, sent by the genie Ithuriel to observe the inhabitants in order to assist Ithuriel in deciding whether or not to destroy Persepolis. Babouc observed soldiers, church-goers, lawyers, merchants, magi, men of letters, and women. In each group he found both good and bad qualities so mingled that he wavered back and forth in his judgment, and finally grew fond of a city, “the inhabitants of which were polite, affable, and beneficent, though fickle, slanderous, and vain.” When obliged to report to the angel, he presented him with a little statue made of base metals, gold, and jewels. “Wilt thou break,” said he to Ithuriel, “this pretty statue because it is not wholly composed of gold and diamonds?” Ithuriel understood, and resolved to spare the city and to leave “the world as it goes.” “For,” he said, “if all is not well, all is passable.” Except for these _contes_ by Voltaire, no philosophic oriental tales of any importance were translated from the French. The current tended, in fact, the other way. English tales, both moralistic and philosophic, were translated and adapted for use in _Les Mercures de France_.

Of the philosophic oriental tales composed in English, _Rasselas_ (1759),[165] the most important, remains to be discussed. The culmination of the fiction in the _Rambler_ and the _Idler_, this brief sketch may be regarded as the best type of the serious English oriental tale. Written immediately after the death of Johnson’s mother, it expresses the substance of the author’s somber philosophy of life. Though darkened by his immediate grief, the philosophy is essentially the same as that revealed in his conversations and his verse. The theme of the tale can hardly be stated in a better phrase than “The Vanity of Human Wishes.” Rasselas, confined in the Happy Valley all the days of his youth, realizes that the gratification of desire does not confer lasting happiness; and, with his sister Nekayah and two other companions, escapes into the world only to discover unhappiness everywhere. Unable to obtain even his wish to govern a little kingdom beneficently, he resolves to return to Abyssinia. In sight of this conclusion, the princess Nekayah significantly declares: “The choice of life is become less important. I hope hereafter to think only on the choice of eternity.”

The story is broken by continual philosophizing, or rather the philosophizing—to the author more important—is held together by the slender thread of narrative. Serious and leisurely conversations held by Rasselas with his companions turn upon the problems of government; the characteristics of melancholia; the mysterious causes of good and evil; the immortality of the soul; and, most frequently, the impossibility of attaining happiness. One of the chief reasons for discontent is the lack of free choice. “Very few ... live by choice. Every man is placed in his present condition by causes which acted without his foresight and with which he did not always willingly coöperate; and therefore you will rarely meet one who does not think the lot of his neighbours better than his own.” Each endeavour of Rasselas to find a happy man is unsuccessful. “The young men of spirit and gaiety,” whose only business is pleasure, are not happy; shepherds in the much-praised pastoral life and courtiers in gay society are envious and discontented; hermits are at heart unhappy, and so are the sages who trust in empty and eloquent commonplaces on the superiority of reason; men who advise living “according to nature” attain only a false content. “Marriage has many pains, but celibacy has no pleasures;” old age is darkened by loneliness and disappointed hopes; happiness itself is the cause of keenest misery to the man who has loved and lost a friend, and “human life is everywhere a state in which much is to be endured and little to be enjoyed.”

The mitigating circumstance which affords this little enjoyment is the power of man to attain knowledge and to retain integrity. An educated intellect and a quiet conscience go far, in Johnson’s estimation, towards winning serenity and patience. “Knowledge” includes poetry; the poet Imlac is a man of learning, a scholar; and poetry is “considered as the highest learning and regarded with a veneration....” The poet should educate himself by study and by observation until he is able to fulfil his function “as the interpreter of nature and the legislator of mankind, ... presiding over the thoughts and manners of future generations, ... a being superior to time and place.” To Johnson, thoroughly convinced that life ought to be viewed from the moralistic side, knowledge is valuable only when ideas are applied to life, and his philosophizing continually verges towards the dividing line between speculation and conduct. He rebukes those who, while “making the choice of life,” “neglect to live”; those who, like Rasselas, pass “four months in resolving to lose no more time in idle resolves”; he inculcates employment as the best cure for sorrow; perseverance, courage, and honesty as essentials of character; and concludes that “all that virtue can afford is quietness of conscience and a steady prospect of a happier state; this may enable us to endure calamity with patience, but remember that patience must suppose pain.”

This fundamental characteristic of Johnson’s philosophy of life—the sense of the consolation offered to man in the midst of mystery and unhappiness by virtue, by knowledge, and by faith in a future existence—renders interesting a comparison of _Rasselas_ and _Candide_.[166] The two _contes philosophiques_ were published almost simultaneously,[167] and show striking points of similarity and of difference. Johnson’s reverent manner, for instance, is opposed to Voltaire’s habitual mockery; yet Johnson sometimes satirizes shams with savage irony, and Voltaire, underneath his mockery, has an honest reverence for the truth. Both are absolutely independent and fearless in facing intellectual or philosophic problems.

The themes of _Rasselas_ and _Candide_ are strikingly similar. In this enigmatical world, says Voltaire, which is full of unhappiness due to misfortune and crime, optimism is false and futile. Candide spends his sheltered youth in a castle which he is taught to believe blindly is the most magnificent of all castles in the best of all possible worlds,—an environment of ideas as artificial as the Happy Valley is for Rasselas, and affording an equally sharp contrast to the real life outside. For the Happy Valley, if we look for the meaning of Johnson’s allegory, signifies the environment, whether inherited or self-made, of the extreme optimist. Rasselas has the optimistic temperament, hopeful, charitable, saying confidently: “Surely happiness is somewhere to be found.” The other inhabitants of the Happy Valley, who enter it voluntarily and can never leave it, may be likened to optimists like Dr. Pangloss, Candide’s base and foolish tutor, whose blindness is the darker because self-imposed,—none so blind as those who will not see. Gradually the conviction is borne in upon Rasselas that every search for happiness is futile, and his efforts end in a “conclusion in which nothing is concluded.” The disillusionment of Candide, less profound than that of Rasselas, is more bitter because based on intimate and vivid experiences of crime and horrors.

_Rasselas_ is Voltairean not only in general theme but also in several specific ideas. Johnson treats with keen satire the philosopher who “looked round him with a placid air and enjoyed the consciousness of his own beneficence,” after exhorting men to “live according to nature.” Rasselas respectfully asked him to define his terms, whereupon he enlarged as follows: “‘To live according to nature is to act always with due regard to the fitness arising from the relations ... of cause and effects; to concur with the great ... scheme of universal felicity; to coöperate with the general disposition and tendency of the present system of things.’ The prince found that this was one of the sages whom he should understand less as he heard him longer. He therefore bowed and was silent; and the philosopher, supposing him satisfied, and the rest vanquished, rose up and departed with the air of a man that had coöperated with the present system.” The irony of Voltaire finds an echo in Imlac’s words: “learning from the sailors the art of navigation, which I have never practised, and ... forming schemes for my conduct in different situations, in not one of which I have ever been placed.” There is obvious satire too in the account of the eminent mechanist who discoursed learnedly upon the art of flying. But his flying machine refused to fly and he promptly dropped into the lake, from which “the prince drew him to land half dead with terror and vexation.”[168] Johnson’s “wise and happy man,” who talks nobly about fortitude, but who is unable to sustain the loss of his daughter, resembles the philosopher in Voltaire’s sketch, _Les deux Consolés_, who seeks to solace a lady’s grief by eloquence and refuses to be similarly comforted upon the death of his son. Imlac’s encomium upon the busy and cheerful monastic life has been compared with the close of _Candide_. There the hero meets a contentedly ignorant old man whose entire life is employed in cultivating his garden, and who thus escapes from ennui, vice, and want. Candide is profoundly impressed, and brushes aside the grandiloquence of Pangloss with the significant reply: “Cela est bien dit, ... mais il faut cultiver notre jardin.” This is Voltaire’s last word in _Candide_, and, like Johnson’s comment upon the return of Rasselas to Abyssinia, is “a conclusion in which nothing is concluded.” Thus the similarity of incidents and ideas brings us back to the deeper analogy between the themes: the disillusionment of the optimist who has been brought up in unreality.

All this similarity is, however, counterbalanced by an utter dissimilarity of treatment. A consideration of Voltaire’s artistic method throws Johnson’s concept of an oriental tale into bolder relief, with the high lights on those elements that he considered of prime importance. Voltaire enjoyed telling the story for the sake of the story, and delighted in the means he took to make blind optimism ridiculous, wit and keen satire, vivid description and incident, clever characterization,—in short, an artistic use of the concrete. _Candide_ has been called “the wittiest book of the eighteenth century,” and wit is a characteristic as far removed as possible from the seriousness of _Rasselas_. To Johnson the story was a means to an end,—a frame necessary to hold together and enhance the thought,—hence the simpler the frame the better. In _Candide_ the story is interpenetrated with the theme, but not borne down by it. Candide, like Rasselas, is searching for happiness; but unlike Johnson’s hero, he desires not happiness in the abstract,—a philosophical possibility,—but pleasure in the concrete form of his mistress. He travels far and wide, in hopeful anticipation; but when he finds her at last, she is no longer fair or lovable, and his marriage with her is perfunctory and joyless,—a concrete, Voltairean expression of the idea that happiness attained is often no happiness, but vanishes in one’s grasp like the apples of dust.

The scenes of Voltaire’s tale, moreover, are not laid in remote Abyssinia, but chiefly in Europe, with an excursion to “El Dorado” in the New World, an impossible and comfortable Utopia, the memory of which serves to embitter Candide’s distress during his subsequent misfortunes. The Europe of the tale is clearly the Europe of Voltaire’s own day: there are obvious allusions to contemporary events, such as the execution of the innocent English admiral Byng in 1757, an excellent opportunity for Voltaire’s famous gibe at the English: “Dans ce pays-ci il est bon de tuer de temps en temps un amiral pour encourager les autres.” The characters also are more individualized than in _Rasselas_, and scenes like the visit to the blasé Venetian senator Pococurante (Chap. XXV.)[169] are brilliantly depicted. Throughout the entire story one definite incident follows another, good and bad, but never indifferent; until a general effect of rich complexity, of rapid movement—not unlike that of _Gil Blas_—is attained. In the last analysis what more striking contrast to this work of Voltaire, the consummate artist and keen satirist, than _Rasselas_, the profoundly philosophical tale of Johnson the moralist? Voltaire’s keen wit and brilliant mockery is indeed exhilarating after the slow and ponderous progress of Johnson’s thought; but, on the other hand, after the atmosphere of turmoil, excitement, and repulsive crime in _Candide_, the clear and pure air of _Rasselas_ affords a welcome relief. In the remote regions of Johnson’s imaginary Abyssinia and Egypt, events are of minor importance; the quiet, even advance of speculation concerning truth is Johnson’s chief interest. There is no emphasis on any incident that might distract the attention,—in fact the only noticeable events are the flight from the Happy Valley and the adventure of Pekuah. Neither is there any emphasis on description; the Happy Valley is depicted in the most general terms; it might be any valley anywhere. Similarly, in describing the Lady Pekuah in the Arab’s tent, or Rasselas in Cairo, or the pyramids of Egypt,—in each case Johnson abstains from the concrete and prefers the general term. Again, as to time and place he is vague. His scene is laid far from contemporary Europe. “Rasselas was the fourth son of the mighty emperor, in whose dominions the Father of Waters begins his course, whose bounty ... scatters over half the world the harvests of Egypt.” In fact Johnson’s method of orientalizing his tale was extremely simple. “Imlac in _Rasselas_,” he says, “I spelt with a _c_ at the end, because it is less like English, which should always have the Saxon _k_ added to the _c_.”[170] Eastern localities are only occasionally mentioned, and always in a thoroughly Johnsonian manner: “Agra, the capital of Indostan, the city in which the Great Mogul resides;” “Persia, where I saw many remains of ancient magnificence, and observed many new accommodations of life.” But there is no local colour, even in the account of Imlac’s journey with the caravan to the Red Sea, or of the Arab bandits who demanded ransom for the Lady Pekuah, or of the story-telling in the cool of the day. The language, clear and often simple, always dignified and powerful, sometimes pompous, is seldom orientalized by the introduction of figures such as “the frown of power,” “the eye of wisdom,” “the waves of violence,” “the rocks of treachery.” Unobstructed by imagery, it reflects Johnson’s clear and serious thought. The Happy Valley, as a central concept, is as simple as the bridge in _The Vision of Mirza_; indeed, Johnson’s treatment of imaginative elements in general is like Addison’s. Rasselas, like Mirza, is so generalized as to be “Everyman,” lacking the specific traits of a living individual and in so far resembling characters in other oriental tales. Yet the earnestness and dignity of the author raise _Rasselas_ above the average oriental tale. Both theme and treatment compel attention, and like music, may be interpreted by each reader for himself. To a man of Johnson’s temperament, habitually threatened by melancholy, the brighter side of life was invisible; such facts as abiding joy, enduring content, true happiness, were beyond his field of vision. Consequently _Rasselas_ shows only the shadows of the picture, and is, in so far, untrue to life as a whole. But the truth that Johnson saw, he faced unflinchingly and depicted powerfully, and by this truth, so depicted, _Rasselas_ still lives. Emphasis on philosophizing rather than on narrative; creation of a setting faint in colour; intentional vagueness regarding character, time, and place, result in a strong impression of remoteness. The Abyssinia and Cairo of _Rasselas_ are far-away and shadowy places, in which shadowy people move; but the questions raised, the grief expressed, come home to whoever “hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality,” and, like Johnson, perplexed by

“the mystery, ...
the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world,”

has taken refuge in “learning,” “integrity,” and “faith.” These are the realities behind the shadows in _Rasselas_,—realities which gain from the vagueness and remoteness of setting a heightened effect of universality.