THE PROGRESS OF ERROR.

THE PROGRESS OF ERROR . Si quid loquar audiendum . HOR. LIB. 4. OD. 2. SING muse ( if such a theme , so dark , so long , May find a muse to grace it with a song ) By what unseen and unsuspected arts The serpent error twines round human hearts , Tell where she lurks , beneath what flow'ry shades , That not a glimpse of genuin light pervades , The pois'nous , black , insinuating worm , Successfully conceals her loathsome form . Take , if ye can , ye careless and supine ! Counsel and caution from a voice like mine ; Truths that the theorist could never reach , And observation taught me , I would teach . Not all whose eloquence the fancy fills , Musical as the chime of tinkling rills , Weak to perform , though mighty to pretend , Can trace her mazy windings to their end , Discern the fraud beneath the specious lure , Prevent the danger , or prescribe the cure . The clear harangue , and cold as it is clear , Falls soporific on the listless ear , Like quicksilver , the rhet'ric they display , Shines as it runs , but grasp'd at slips away . Plac'd for his trial on this bustling stage , From thoughtless youth to ruminating age , Free in his will to chuse or to refuse , Man may improve the crisis , or abuse . Else , on the fatalists unrighteous plan , Say , to what bar amenable were man ? With nought in charge , he could betray no trust , And if he fell , would fall because he must ; If love reward him , or if vengeance strike , His recompence in both , unjust alike . Divine authority within his breast Brings every thought , word , action to the test , Warns him or prompts , approves him or restrains , As reason , or as passion , takes the reins . Heav'n from above , and conscience from within , Cry in his startled ear , abstain from sin . The world around solicits his desire , And kindles in his soul a treach'rous fire , While all his purposes and steps to guard , Peace follows virtue as its sure reward , And pleasure brings as surely in her train , Remorse and sorrow and vindictive pain . Man thus endued with an elective voice , Must be supplied with objects of his choice . Where'er he turns , enjoyment and delight , Or present , or in prospect , meet his sight ; These open on the spot their honey'd store , Those call him loudly to pursuit of more . His unexhausted mine , the sordid vice Avarice shows , and virtue is the price . Here , various motives his ambition raise , Pow'r , pomp , and splendor , and the thirst of praise ; There beauty woes him with expanded arms , E'en Bacchanalian madness has its charms , Nor these alone , whose pleasures less refin'd , Might well alarm the most unguarded mind , Seek to supplant his unexperienced youth , Or lead him devious from the path of truth , Hourly allurements on his passions press , Safe in themselves , but dang'rous in th' excess . Hark ! how it floats upon the dewy air , O what a dying , dying close was there ! 'Tis harmony from yon sequester'd bow'r , Sweet harmony that sooths the midnight hour ; Long e'er the charioteer of day had run His morning course , th' enchantment was begun , And he shall gild yon mountains height again , E'er yet the pleasing toil becomes a pain . Is this the rugged path , the steep ascent That virtue points to ? Can a life thus spent Lead to the bliss she promises the wise , Detach the soul from earth , and speed her to the skies ? Ye devotees to your ador'd employ , Enthusiasts , drunk with an unreal joy , Love makes the music of the blest above , Heav'ns harmony is universal love ; And earthly sounds , though sweet and well combin'd , And lenient as soft opiates to the mind , Leave vice and folly unsubdu'd behind . Grey dawn appears , the sportsman and his train Speckle the bosom of the distant plain , 'Tis he , the Nimrod of the neighb'ring lairs , Save that his scent is less acute than their's , For persevering chace , and headlong leaps , True beagle as the staunchest hound he keeps . Charg'd with the folly of his life's mad scene , He takes offence , and wonders what you mean ; The joy , the danger and the toil o'erpays , 'Tis exercise , and health and length of days , Again impetuous to the field he flies , Leaps ev'ry fence but one , there falls and dies ; Like a slain deer , the tumbril brings him home , Unmiss'd but by his dogs and by his groom . Ye clergy , while your orbit is your place , Lights of the world , and stars of human race — But if eccentric yc forsake your sphere , Prodigious , ominous , and view'd with fear . The comets baneful influence is a dream , Your's real , and pernicious in th' extreme . What then — are appetites and lusts laid down , With the same ease the man puts on his gown ? Will av'rice and concupiscence give place , Charm'd by the sounds , your rev'rence , or your grace ? No . But his own engagement binds him fast , Or if it does not , brands him to the last What atheists call him , a designing knave , A mere church juggler , hypocrite and slave . Oh laugh , or mourn with me , the rueful jest , A cassock'd huntsman , and a fiddling priest ; He from Italian songsters takes his cue , Set Paul to music , he shall quote him too . He takes the field , the master of the pack Cries , well done Saint — and claps him on the back . Is this the path of sanctity ? Is this To stand a way-mark in the road to bliss ? Himself a wand'rer from the narrow way , His silly sheep , what wonder if they stray ? Go , cast your orders at your Bishop's feet , Send your dishonour'd gown to Monmouth Street , The sacred function , in your hands is made , Sad sacrilege ! No function but a trade . Occiduus is a pastor of renown , When he has pray'd and preach'd the sabbath down , With wire and catgut he concludes the day , Quav'ring and semiquav'ring care away . The full concerto swells upon your ear ; All elbows shake . Look in , and you would swear The Babylonian tyrant with a nod Had summon'd them to serve his golden God . So well that thought th' employment seems to suit , Psalt'ry and sackbut , dulcimer , and flute . Oh fie ! 'Tis evangelical and pure , Observe each face , how sober and demure , Extasy sets her stamp on ev'ry mien , Chins fall'n , and not an eye-ball to be seen . Still I insist , though music heretofore Has charm'd me much , not ev'n Occiduus more , Love , joy and peace make harmony , more meet For sabbath evenings , and perhaps as sweet . Will not the sickliest sheep of ev'ry flock , Resort to this example as a rock , There stand and justify the foul abuse Of sabbath hours , with plausible excuse ? If apostolic gravity be free To play the fool on Sundays , why not we ? If he , the tinkling harpsichord regards As inoffensive , what offence in cards ? Strike up the fiddles , let us all be gay , Laymen have leave to dance , if parsons play . Oh Italy ! Thy sabbaths will be soon Our sabbaths , clos'd with mumm'ry and buffoon . Preaching and pranks will share the motley scene , Our's parcell'd out , as thine have ever been , God's worship and the mountebank between . What says the prophet ? Let that day be blest With holiness and consecrated rest . Pastime and bus'ness both it should exclude , And bar the door the moment they intrude , Nobly distinguish'd above all the six , By deeds in which the world must never mix . Hear him again . He calls it a delight , A day of luxury , observ'd aright , When the glad soul is made heav'ns welcome guest , Sits banquetting , and God provides the feast . But triflers are engag'd and cannot come ; Their answer to the call is — Not at home . Oh the dear pleasures of the velvet plain , The painted tablets , dealt and dealt again . Cards with what rapture , and the polish'd die , The yawning chasm of indolence supply ! Then to the dance , and make the sober moon Witness of joys that shun the sight of noon . Blame cynic , if you can , quadrille or ball , The snug close party , or the splendid hall , Where night down-stooping from her ebon throne , Views constellations brighter than her own . 'Tis innocent , and harmless and refin'd , The balm of care , elysium of the mind . Innocent ! Oh if venerable time Slain at the foot of pleasure , be no crime , Then with his silver beard and magic wand , Let Comus rise Archbishop of the land , Let him your rubric and your feasts prescribe , Grand metropolitan of all the tribe . Of manners rough , and coarse athletic cast , The rank debauch suits Clodio's filthy taste . Rufillus , exquisitely form'd by rule , Not of the moral , but the dancing school , Wonders at Clodio's follies , in a tone As tragical , as others at his own . He cannot drink five bottles , bilk the score , Then kill a constable , and drink five more ; But he can draw a pattern , make a tart , And has the ladies etiquette by heart . Go fool , and arm in arm with Clodio , plead Your cause , before a bar you little dread ; But know , the law that bids the drunkard die , Is far too just to pass the trifler by . Both baby featur'd and of infant size , View'd from a distance , and with heedless eyes , Folly and innocence are so alike , The diff'rence , though essential , fails to strike . Yet folly ever has a vacant stare , A simp'ring count'nance , and a trifling air ; But innocence , sedate , serene , erect , Delights us , by engaging our respect . Man , nature's guest by invitation sweet , Receives from her , both appetite and treat , But if he play the glutton and exceed , His benefactress blushes at the deed . For nature , nice , as lib'ral to dispense , Made nothing but a brute the slave of sense . Daniel ate pulse by choice , example rare ! Heav'n bless'd the youth , and made him fresh and fair . Gorgonius sits abdominous and wan , Like a fatsquab upon a Chinese fan . He snuffs far off th' anticipated joy , Turtle and ven'son all his thoughts employ , Prepares for meals , as jockeys take a sweat , Oh nauseous ! an emetic for a whet — Will providence o'erlook the wasted good ? Temperance were no virtue if he cou'd . That pleasures , therefore , or what such we call , Are hurtful , is a truth confess'd by all . And some that seem to threaten virtue less , Still hurtful , in th' abuse , or by th' excess . Is man then only for his torment plac'd , The center of delights he may not taste ? Like fabled Tantalus condemn'd to hear The precious stream still purling in his ear , Lip-deep in what he longs for , and yet curst With prohibition and perpetual thirst ? No , wrangler — destitute of shame and sense , The precept that injoins him abstinence , Forbids him none but the licentious joy , Whose fruit , though fair , tempts only to destroy . Remorse , the fatal egg by pleasure laid In every bosom where her nest is made , Hatch'd by the beams of truth denies him rest , And proves a raging scorpion in his breast . No pleasure ? Are domestic comforts dead ? Are all the nameless sweets of friendship fled ? Has time worn out , or fashion put to shame Good sense , good health , good conscience , and good fame ? All these belong to virtue , and all prove That virtue has a title to your love . Have you no touch of pity , that the poor Stand starved at your inhospitable door ? Or if yourself too scantily supplied Need help , let honest industry provide . Earn , if you want , if you abound , impart , These both are pleasures to the feeling heart . No pleasure ? Has some sickly eastern waste Sent us a wind to parch us at a blast ? Can British paradise no scenes afford To please her sated and indiff'rent lord ? Are sweet philosophy's enjoyments run Quite to the lees ? And has religion none ? Brutes capable , should tell you 'tis a lye , And judge you from the kennel and the sty . Delights like these , ye sensual and profane , Ye are bid , begg'd , besought to entertain ; Call'd to these crystal streams , do ye turn off Obscene , to swill and swallow at a trough ? Envy the beast then , on whom heav'n bestows Your pleasures , with no curses in the close . Pleasure admitted in undue degree , Enslaves the will , nor leaves the judgment free . 'Tis not alone the grapes enticing juice , Unnerves the moral pow'rs , and marrs their use , Ambition , av'rice , and the lust of fame , And woman , lovely woman , does the same . The heart , surrender'd to the ruling pow'r Of some ungovern'd passion ev'ry hour , Finds by degrees , the truths that once bore sway , And all their deep impression wear away . So coin grows smooth , in traffic current pass'd , 'Till Caesar's image is effac'd at last . The breach , though small at first , soon op'ning wide , In rushes folly with a full moon tide . Then welcome errors of whatever size , To justify it by a thousand lies . As creeping ivy clings to wood or stone , And hides the ruin that it feeds upon , So sophistry , cleaves close to , and protects Sin's rotten trunk , concealing its defects . Mortals whose pleasures are their only care , First wish to be impos'd on , and then are . And lest the fulsome artifice should fail , Themselves will hide its coarseness with a veil . Not more industrious are the just and true To give to virtue what is virtue's due , The praise of wisdom , comeliness and worth , And call her charms to public notice forth , Than vice's mean and disingenuous race , To hide the shocking features of her face . Her form with dress and lotion they repair , Then kiss their idol and pronounce her fair . The sacred implement I now employ Might prove a mischief or at best a toy , A trifle if it move but to amuse , But if to wrong the judgment and abuse , Worse than a poignard in the basest hand , It stabs at once the morals of a land . Ye writers of what none with safety reads , Footing it in the dance that fancy leads , Ye novellists who marr what ye would mend , Sniv'ling and driv'ling folly without end , Whose corresponding misses fill the ream With sentimental frippery and dream , Caught in a delicate soft silken net By some lewd Earl , or rake-hell Baronet ; Ye pimps , who under virtue's fair pretence , Steal to the closet of young innocence , And teach her unexperienc'd yet and green , To scribble as you scribble at fifteen ; Who kindling a combustion of desire , With some cold moral think to quench the fire , Though all your engineering proves in vain , The dribbling stream ne'er puts it out again ; Oh that a verse had pow'r , and could command Far , far away , these flesh-flies of the land , Who fasten without mercy on the fair , And suck , and leave a craving maggot there . Howe'er disguis'd th' inflammatory tale , And covered with a fine-spun specious veil , Such writers and such readers owe the gust And relish of their pleasure all to lust . But the muse eagle-pinion'd has in view A quarry more important still than you , Down down the wind she swims and sails away , Now stoops upon it and now grasps the prey . Petronius ! all the muses weep for thee , But ev'ry tear shall scald thy memory . The graces too , while virtue at their shrine Lay bleeding under that soft hand of thine , Felt each a mortal stab in her own breast , Abhorr'd the sacrifice , and curs'd the priest . Thou polish'd and high finish'd foe to truth , Gray beard corruptor of our list'ning youth , To purge and skim away the filth of vice , That so refin'd it might the more entice , Then pour it on the morals of thy son To taint his heart , was worthy of thine own . Now while the poison all high life pervades , Write if thou can'st one letter from the shades , One , and one only , charg'd with deep regret , That thy worst part , thy principles live yet ; One sad epistle thence , may cure mankind , Of the plague spread by bundles left behind . 'Tis granted , and no plainer truth appears , Our most important are our earliest years , The mind impressible and soft , with ease Imbibes and copies what she hears and sees , And through life's labyrinth holds fast the clue That education gives her , false or true . Plants rais'd with tenderness are seldom strong , Man's coltish disposition asks the thong , And without discipline the fav'rite child , Like a neglected forrester runs wild . But we , as if good qualities would grow Spontaneous , take but little pains to sow , We give some latin and a smatch of greek , Teach him to fence and figure twice a week , And having done we think , the best we can , Praise his proficiency and dub him man . From school to Cam or Isis , and thence home , And thence with all convenient speed to Rome , With rev'rend tutor clad in habit lay , To teaze for cash and quarrel with all day , With memorandum-book for ev'ry town , Aud ev'ry post , and where the chaise broke down : His stock , a few French phrases got by heart , With much to learn , but nothing to impart , The youth obedient to his sire's commands , Sets off a wand'rer into foreign lands : Surpriz'd at all they meet , the goslin pair With aukward gait , stretch'd neck , and silly stare , Discover huge cathedrals built with stone , And steeples tow'ring high much like our own , But show peculiar light by many a grin At Popish practices observ'd within . E'er long some bowing , smirking , smart Abbé Remarks two loit'rers that have lost their way , And being always primed with politesse For men of their appearance and andress , With much compassion undertakes the task , To tell them more than they have wit to ask . Points to inscriptions wheresoe'er they tread , Such as when legible were never read , But being canker'd now , and half worn out , Craze antiquarian brains with endless doubt : Some headless hero or some Caesar shows , Defective only in his Roman nose ; Exhibits elevations , drawings , plans , Models of Herculanean pots and pans , And sells them medals , which if neither rare Nor antient , will be so , preserv'd with care . Strange the recital ! from whatever cause His great improvement and new lights he draws , The 'Squire once bashful is shame-fac'd no more , But teems with pow'rs he never felt before : Whether encreas'd momentum , and the force With which from clime to clime he sped his course , As axles sometimes kindle as they go , Chaf'd him and brought dull nature to a glow ; Or whether clearer skies and softer air That make Italian flow'rs so sweet and fair , Fresh'ning his lazy spirits as he ran , Unfolded genially and spread the man , Returning he proclaims by many a grace , By shrugs and strange contortions of his face , How much a dunce that has been sent to roam , Excels a dunce that has been kept at home . Accomplishments have taken virtue's place , And wisdom falls before exterior grace ; We slight the precious kernel of the stone , And toil to polish its rough coat alone . A just deportment , manners grac'd with ease Elegant phrase , and figure form'd to please , Are qualities that seem to comprehend Whatever parents , guardians , schools intend ; Hence an unfurnish'd and a listless mind , Though busy , trifling ; empty , though refin'd , Hence all that interferes , and dares to clash With indolence and luxury , is trash ; While learning , once the man's exclusive pride , Seems verging fast towards the female side . Learning itself receiv'd into a mind By nature weak , or viciously inclin'd , Serves but to lead philosophers astray Where children would with ease discern the way . And of all arts sagacious dupes invent To cheat themselves and gain the world's assent The worst is scripture warp'd from it's intent . The carriage bowls along and all are pleas'd If Tom be sober , and the wheels well greas'd , But if the rogue have gone a cup too far , Left out his linch-pin or forgot his tar , It suffers interruption and delay , And meets with hindrance in the smoothest way . When some hypothesis absurd and vain Has fill'd with all its fumes a critic's brain , The text that sorts not with his darling whim , Though plain to others , is obscure to him . The will made subject to a lawless force , All is irregular , and out of course , And judgment drunk , and bribed to lose his way , Winks hard , and talks of darkness at noon day . A critic on the sacred book , should be Candid and learn'd , dispassionate and free ; Free from the wayward bias bigots feel , From fancy's influence , and intemp'rate zeal . But above all ( or let the wretch refrain , Nor touch the page he cannot but profane ) Free from the domineering pow'r of lust , A lewd interpreter is never just . How shall I speak thee , or thy pow'r address , Thou God of our idolatry , the press ? By thee , religion , liberty and laws Exert their influence , and advance their cause , By thee , worse plagues than Pharaoh's land befel , Diffus'd , make earth the vestibule of hell : Thou fountain , at which drink the good and wise , Thou ever-bubbling spring of endless lies , Like Eden's dread probationary tree , Knowledge of good and evil is from thee . No wild enthusiast ever yet could rest , Till half mankind were like himself possess'd . Philosophers , who darken and put out Eternal truth by everlasting doubt , Church quacks , with passions under no command , Who fill the world with doctrines contraband , Discov'rers of they know not what , confin'd Within no bounds , the blind that lead the blind , To streams of popular opinion drawn , Deposit in those shallows , all their spawn . The wriggling fry soon fill the creeks around , Pois'ning the waters where their swarms abound ; Scorn'd by the nobler tenants of the flood , Minnows and gudgeons gorge th' unwholesome food . The propagated myriads spread so fast , E'en Leuwenhoek himself would stand aghast , Employ'd to calculate th' enormous sum , And own his crab-computing pow'rs o'ercome . Is this Hyperbole ? The world well known , Your sober thoughts will hardly find it one . Fresh confidence the speculatist takes From ev'ry hare-brain'd proselyte he makes , And therefore prints . Himself but half-deceiv'd , 'Till others have the soothing tale believ'd . Hence comment after comment , spun as fine As bloated spiders draw the flimsy line . Hence the same word that bids our lusts obey , Is misapplied to sanctify their sway . If stubborn Greek refuse to be his friend , Hebrew or Syriac shall be forc'd to bend ; If languages and copies all cry , No — Somebody prov'd it centuries ago . Like trout pursued , the critic in despair Darts to the mud and finds his safety there . Women , whom custom has forbid to fly The scholar's pitch ( the scholar best knows why ) With all the simple and unletter'd poor , Admire his learning , and almost adore . Whoever errs , the priest can ne'er be wrong , With such fine words familiar to his tongue . Ye ladies ! ( for , indiff'rent in your cause , I should deserve to forfeit all applause ) Whatever shocks , or gives the least offence To virtue , delicacy , truth or sense , ( Try the criterion , 'tis a faithful guide ) Nor has , nor can have scripture on its side . None but an author knows an author's cares , Or fancy's fondness for the child she bears . Committed once into the public arms , The baby seems to smile with added charms . Like something precious ventur'd far from shore , 'Tis valued for the dangers sake the more . He views it with complacency supreme , Solicits kind attention to his dream , And daily more enamour'd of the cheat , Kneels , and asks heav'n to bless the dear deceit . So one , whose story serves at least to show Men lov'd their own productions long ago , Wooed an unfeeling statue for his wife , Nor rested till the Gods had giv'n it life . If some mere driv'ler suck the sugar'd fib , One that still needs his leading string and bib , And praise his genius , he is soon repaid In praise applied to the same part , his head . For 'tis a rule that holds for ever true , Grant me discernment , and I grant it you . Patient of contradiction as a child , Affable , humble , diffident and mild , Such was Sir Isaac , and such Boyle and Locke , Your blund'rer is as sturdy as a rock . The creature is so sure to kick and bite , A muleteer's the man to set him right . First appetite enlists him truth's sworn foe , Then obstinate self-will confirms him so . Tell him he wanders , that his error leads To fatal ills , that though the path he treads Be flow'ry , and he see no cause of fear , Death and the pains of hell attend him there ; In vain ; the slave of arrogance and pride , He has no hearing on the prudent side . His still refuted quirks he still repeats , New rais'd objections with new quibbles meets , 'Till sinking in the quicksand he defends , He dies disputing , and the contest ends ; But not the mischiefs : they still left behind , Like thistle-seeds are sown by ev'ry wind . Thus men go wrong with an ingenious skill , Bend the strait rule to their own crooked will , And with a clear and shining lamp supplied , First put it out , then take it for a guide . Halting on crutches of unequal size , One leg by truth supported , one by lies , They sidle to the goal with aukward pace , Secure of nothing , but to lose the race . Faults in the life breed errors in the brain , And these , reciprocally , those again . The mind and conduct mutually imprint And stamp their image in each other's mint . Each , sire and dam , of an infernal race , Begetting and conceiving all that's base . None sends his arrow to the mark in view , Whose hand is feeble , or his aim untrue . For though e'er yet the shaft is on the wing , Or when it first forsakes th' elastic string , It err but little from th' intended line , It falls at last , far wide of his design . So he that seeks a mansion in the sky , Must watch his purpose with a stedfast eye , That prize belongs to none but the sincere , The least obliquity is fatal here . With caution taste the sweet Circaean cup , He that sips often , at last drinks it up . Habits are soon assum'd , but when we strive To strip them off , 'tis being flay'd alive . Call'd to the temple of impure delight , He that abstains , and he alone does right . If a wish wander that way , call it home , He cannot long be safe , whose wishes roam . But if you pass the threshold , you are caught , Die then , if pow'r Almighty save you not . There hard'ning by degrees , 'till double steel'd , Take leave of nature's God , and God reveal'd , Then laugh at all you trembl'd at before , And joining the free-thinkers brutal roar , Swallow the two grand nostrums they dispense , That scripture lies , and blasphemy is sense : If clemency revolted by abuse Be damnable , then , damn'd without excuse . Some dream that they can silence when they will The storm of passion , and say , Peace , be still ; But " Thus far and no farther , " when address'd To the wild wave , or wilder human breast , Implies authority that never can , That never ought to be the lot of man . But muse forbear , long flights forebode a fall , Strike on the deep-toned chord the sum of all . Hear the just law , the judgment of the skies ! He that hates truth shall be the dupe of lies . And he that will be cheated to the last , Delusions , strong as hell , shall bind him fast . But if the wand'rer his mistake discern , Judge his own ways , and sigh for a return , Bewilder'd once , must he bewail his loss For ever and for ever ? No — the cross . There and there only ( though the deist rave , And atheist , if earth bear so base a slave ) There and there only , is the pow'r to save . There no delusive hope invites despair , No mock'ry meets you , no deception there . The spells and charms that blinded you before , All vanish there , and fascinate no more . I am no preacher , let this hint suffice , The cross once seen , is death to ev'ry vice : Else he that hung there , suffer'd all his pain , Bled , groan'd and agoniz'd , and died in vain .