Journal of A Voyage to Lisbon

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THE JOURNAL OF A VOYAGE TO LISBON

by Henry Fielding

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION TO SEVERAL WORKS
PREFACE
DEDICATION TO THE PUBLIC

INTRODUCTION TO THE VOYAGE TO LISBON
THE VOYAGE

INTRODUCTION TO SEVERAL WORKS

When it was determined to extend the present edition of Fielding,
not merely by the addition of Jonathan Wild to the three
universally popular novels, but by two volumes of Miscellanies,
there could be no doubt about at least one of the contents of
these latter. The Journal of a Voyage to Lisbon, if it does not
rank in my estimation anywhere near to Jonathan Wild as an
example of our author's genius, is an invaluable and delightful
document for his character and memory. It is indeed, as has been
pointed out in the General Introduction to this series, our main
source of indisputable information as to Fielding dans son
naturel, and its value, so far as it goes, is of the very
highest. The gentle and unaffected stoicism which the author
displays under a disease which he knew well was probably, if not
certainly, mortal, and which, whether mortal or not, must cause
him much actual pain and discomfort of a kind more intolerable
than pain itself; his affectionate care for his family; even
little personal touches, less admirable, but hardly less pleasant
than these, showing an Englishman's dislike to be "done" and an
Englishman's determination to be treated with proper respect, are
scarcely less noticeable and important on the biographical side
than the unimpaired brilliancy of his satiric and yet kindly
observation of life and character is on the side of literature.

There is, as is now well known since Mr. Dobson's separate
edition of the Voyage, a little bibliographical problem about the
first appearance of this Journal in 1755. The best known issue
of that year is much shorter than the version inserted by Murphy
and reprinted here, the passages omitted being chiefly those
reflecting on the captain, etc., and so likely to seem invidious
in a book published just after the author's death, and for the
benefit, as was expressly announced, of his family. But the
curious thing is that there is ANOTHER edition, of date so early
that some argument is necessary to determine the priority, which
does give these passages and is identical with the later or
standard version. For satisfaction on this point, however, I
must refer readers to Mr. Dobson himself.

There might have been a little, but not much, doubt as to a
companion piece for the Journal; for indeed, after we close this
(with or without its "Fragment on Bolingbroke"), the remainder of
Fielding's work lies on a distinctly lower level of interest. It
is still interesting, or it would not be given here. It still
has--at least that part which here appears seems to its editor to
have--interest intrinsic and "simple of itself." But it is
impossible for anybody who speaks critically to deny that we now
get into the region where work is more interesting because of its
authorship than it would be if its authorship were different or
unknown. To put the same thing in a sharper antithesis, Fielding
is interesting, first of all, because he is the author of Joseph
Andrews, of Tom Jones, of Amelia, of Jonathan Wild, of the
Journal. His plays, his essays, his miscellanies generally are
interesting, first of all, because they were written by Fielding.

Yet of these works, the Journey from this World to the Next
(which, by a grim trick of fortune, might have served as a title
for the more interesting Voyage with which we have yoked it)
stands clearly first both in scale and merit. It is indeed very
unequal, and as the author was to leave it unfinished, it is a
pity that he did not leave it unfinished much sooner than he
actually did. The first ten chapters, if of a kind of satire
which has now grown rather obsolete for the nonce, are of a good
kind and good in their kind; the history of the metempsychoses of
Julian is of a less good kind, and less good in that kind. The
date of composition of the piece is not known, but it appeared in
the Miscellanies of 1743, and may represent almost any period of
its author's development prior to that year. Its form was a very
common form at the time, and continued to be so. I do not know
that it is necessary to assign any very special origin to it,
though Lucian, its chief practitioner, was evidently and almost
avowedly a favorite study of Fielding's. The Spanish romancers,
whether borrowing it from Lucian or not, had been fond of it;
their French followers, of whom the chief were Fontenelle and Le
Sage, had carried it northwards; the English essayists had almost
from the beginning continued the process of acclimatization.
Fielding therefore found it ready to his hand, though the present
condition of this example would lead us to suppose that he did
not find his hand quite ready to it. Still, in the actual
"journey," there are touches enough of the master--not yet quite
in his stage of mastery. It seemed particularly desirable not to
close the series without some representation of the work to which
Fielding gave the prime of his manhood, and from which, had he
not, fortunately for English literature, been driven decidedly
against his will, we had had in all probability no Joseph
Andrews, and pretty certainly no Tom Jones. Fielding's
periodical and dramatic work has been comparatively seldom
reprinted, and has never yet been reprinted as a whole. The
dramas indeed are open to two objections--the first, that they
are not very "proper;" the second, and much more serious, that
they do not redeem this want of propriety by the possession of
any remarkable literary merit. Three (or two and part of a
third) seemed to escape this double censure--the first two acts
of the Author's Farce (practically a piece to themselves, for the
Puppet Show which follows is almost entirely independent); the
famous burlesque of Tom Thumb, which stands between the Rehearsal
and the Critic, but nearer to the former; and Pasquin, the
maturest example of Fielding's satiric work in drama. These
accordingly have been selected; the rest I have read, and he who
likes may read. I have read many worse things than even the
worst of them, but not often worse things by so good a writer as
Henry Fielding. The next question concerned the selection of
writings more miscellaneous still, so as to give in little a
complete idea of Fielding's various powers and experiments. Two
difficulties beset this part of the task--want of space and the
absence of anything so markedly good as absolutely to insist on
inclusion. The Essay on Conversation, however, seemed pretty
peremptorily to challenge a place. It is in a style which
Fielding was very slow to abandon, which indeed has left strong
traces even on his great novels; and if its mannerism is not now
very attractive, the separate traits in it are often sharp and
well-drawn. The book would not have been complete without a
specimen or two of Fielding's journalism. The Champion, his
first attempt of this kind, has not been drawn upon in
consequence of the extreme difficulty of fixing with absolute
certainty on Fielding's part in it. I do not know whether
political prejudice interferes, more than I have usually found it
interfere, with my judgment of the two Hanoverian-partisan papers
of the '45 time. But they certainly seem to me to fail in
redeeming their dose of rancor and misrepresentation by any
sufficient evidence of genius such as, to my taste, saves not
only the party journalism in verse and prose of Swift and Canning
and Praed on one side, but that of Wolcot and Moore and Sydney
Smith on the other. Even the often-quoted journal of events in
London under the Chevalier is overwrought and tedious. The best
thing in the True Patriot seems to me to be Parson Adams' letter
describing his adventure with a young "bowe" of his day; and this
I select, together with one or two numbers of the Covent Garden
Journal. I have not found in this latter anything more
characteristic than Murphy's selection, though Mr. Dobson, with
his unfailing kindness, lent me an original and unusually
complete set of the Journal itself.

It is to the same kindness that I owe the opportunity of
presenting the reader with something indisputably Fielding's and
very characteristic of him, which Murphy did not print, and which
has not, so far as I know, ever appeared either in a collection
or a selection of Fielding's work. After the success of David
Simple, Fielding gave his sister, for whom he had already written
a preface to that novel, another preface for a set of Familiar
Letters between the characters of David Simple and others. This
preface Murphy reprinted; but he either did not notice, or did
not choose to attend to, a note towards the end of the book
attributing certain of the letters to the author of the preface,
the attribution being accompanied by an agreeably warm and
sisterly denunciation of those who ascribed to Fielding matter
unworthy of him. From these the letter which I have chosen,
describing a row on the Thames, seems to me not only
characteristic, but, like all this miscellaneous work,
interesting no less for its weakness than for its strength. In
hardly any other instance known to me can we trace so clearly the
influence of a suitable medium and form on the genius of the
artist. There are some writers--Dryden is perhaps the greatest
of them--to whom form and medium seem almost indifferent, their
all-round craftsmanship being such that they can turn any kind
and every style to their purpose. There are others, of whom I
think our present author is the chief, who are never really at
home but in one kind. In Fielding's case that kind was narrative
of a peculiar sort, half-sentimental, half-satirical, and almost
wholly sympathetic--narrative which has the singular gift of
portraying the liveliest character and yet of admitting the
widest disgression and soliloquy.

Until comparatively late in his too short life, when he found
this special path of his (and it is impossible to say whether the
actual finding was in the case of Jonathan or in the case of
Joseph), he did but flounder and slip. When he had found it, and
was content to walk in it, he strode with as sure and steady a
step as any other, even the greatest, of those who carry and hand
on the torch of literature through the ages. But it is
impossible to derive full satisfaction from his feats in this
part of the race without some notion of his performances
elsewhere; and I believe that such a notion will be supplied to
the readers of his novels by the following volumes, in a very
large number of cases, for the first time.

THE JOURNAL OF A VOYAGE TO LISBON

DEDICATION TO THE PUBLIC

Your candor is desired on the perusal of the following sheets, as
they are the product of a genius that has long been your delight
and entertainment. It must be acknowledged that a lamp almost
burnt out does not give so steady and uniform a light as when it
blazes in its full vigor; but yet it is well known that by its
wavering, as if struggling against its own dissolution, it
sometimes darts a ray as bright as ever. In like manner, a
strong and lively genius will, in its last struggles, sometimes
mount aloft, and throw forth the most striking marks of its
original luster.

Wherever these are to be found, do you, the genuine patrons of
extraordinary capacities, be as liberal in your applauses of him
who is now no more as you were of him whilst he was yet amongst
you. And, on the other hand, if in this little work there should
appear any traces of a weakened and decayed life, let your own
imaginations place before your eyes a true picture in that of a
hand trembling in almost its latest hour, of a body emaciated
with pains, yet struggling for your entertainment; and let this
affecting picture open each tender heart, and call forth a
melting tear, to blot out whatever failings may be found in a
work begun in pain, and finished almost at the same period with
life. It was thought proper by the friends of the deceased that
this little piece should come into your hands as it came from the
hands of the author, it being judged that you would be better
pleased to have an opportunity of observing the faintest traces
of a genius you have long admired, than have it patched by a
different hand, by which means the marks of its true author might
have been effaced. That the success of the last written, though
first published, volume of the author's posthumous pieces may be
attended with some convenience to those innocents he hath left
behind, will no doubt be a motive to encourage its circulation
through the kingdom, which will engage every future genius to
exert itself for your pleasure. The principles and spirit which
breathe in every line of the small fragment begun in answer to
Lord Bolingbroke will unquestionably be a sufficient apology for
its publication, although vital strength was wanting to finish a
work so happily begun and so well designed. PREFACE THERE would
not, perhaps, be a more pleasant or profitable study, among those
which have their principal end in amusement, than that of travels
or voyages, if they were wrote as they might be and ought to be,
with a joint view to the entertainment and information of
mankind. If the conversation of travelers be so eagerly sought
after as it is, we may believe their books will be still more
agreeable company, as they will in general be more instructive
and more entertaining. But when I say the conversation of
travelers is usually so welcome, I must be understood to mean
that only of such as have had good sense enough to apply their
peregrinations to a proper use, so as to acquire from them a real
and valuable knowledge of men and things, both which are best
known by comparison. If the customs and manners of men were
everywhere the same, there would be no office so dull as that of
a traveler, for the difference of hills, valleys, rivers, in
short, the various views of which we may see the face of the
earth, would scarce afford him a pleasure worthy of his labor;
and surely it would give him very little opportunity of
communicating any kind of entertainment or improvement to others.

To make a traveler an agreeable companion to a man of sense, it
is necessary, not only that he should have seen much, but that he
should have overlooked much of what he hath seen. Nature is not,
any more than a great genius, always admirable in her
productions, and therefore the traveler, who may be called her
commentator, should not expect to find everywhere subjects worthy
of his notice. It is certain, indeed, that one may be guilty of
omission, as well as of the opposite extreme; but a fault on that
side will be more easily pardoned, as it is better to be hungry
than surfeited; and to miss your dessert at the table of a man
whose gardens abound with the choicest fruits, than to have your
taste affronted with every sort of trash that can be picked up at
the green-stall or the wheel-barrow. If we should carry on the
analogy between the traveler and the commentator, it is
impossible to keep one's eye a moment off from the laborious
much-read doctor Zachary Gray, of whose redundant notes on
Hudibras I shall only say that it is, I am confident, the single
book extant in which above five hundred authors are quoted, not
one of which could be found in the collection of the late doctor Mead.

As there are few things which a traveler is to record, there are
fewer on which he is to offer his observations: this is the
office of the reader; and it is so pleasant a one, that he seldom
chooses to have it taken from him, under the pretense of lending
him assistance. Some occasions, indeed, there are, when proper
observations are pertinent, and others when they are necessary;
but good sense alone must point them out. I shall lay down only
one general rule; which I believe to be of universal truth
between relator and hearer, as it is between author and reader;
this is, that the latter never forgive any observation of the
former which doth not convey some knowledge that they are
sensible they could not possibly have attained of themselves.

But all his pains in collecting knowledge, all his judgment in
selecting, and all his art in communicating it, will not suffice,
unless he can make himself, in some degree, an agreeable as well
as an instructive companion. The highest instruction we can
derive from the tedious tale of a dull fellow scarce ever pays us
for our attention. There is nothing, I think, half so valuable
as knowledge, and yet there is nothing which men will give
themselves so little trouble to attain; unless it be, perhaps,
that lowest degree of it which is the object of curiosity, and
which hath therefore that active passion constantly employed in
its service. This, indeed, it is in the power of every traveler
to gratify; but it is the leading principle in weak minds only.

To render his relation agreeable to the man of sense, it is
therefore necessary that the voyager should possess several
eminent and rare talents; so rare indeed, that it is almost
wonderful to see them ever united in the same person. And if all
these talents must concur in the relator, they are certainly in a
more eminent degree necessary to the writer; for here the
narration admits of higher ornaments of style, and every fact and
sentiment offers itself to the fullest and most deliberate
examination. It would appear, therefore, I think, somewhat
strange if such writers as these should be found extremely
common; since nature hath been a most parsimonious distributor of
her richest talents, and hath seldom bestowed many on the same
person. But, on the other hand, why there should scarce exist a
single writer of this kind worthy our regard; and, whilst there
is no other branch of history (for this is history) which hath
not exercised the greatest pens, why this alone should be
overlooked by all men of great genius and erudition, and
delivered up to the Goths and Vandals as their lawful property,
is altogether as difficult to determine. And yet that this is
the case, with some very few exceptions, is most manifest. Of
these I shall willingly admit Burnet and Addison; if the former
was not, perhaps, to be considered as a political essayist, and
the latter as a commentator on the classics, rather than as a
writer of travels; which last title, perhaps, they would both of
them have been least ambitious to affect. Indeed, if these two
and two or three more should be removed from the mass, there
would remain such a heap of dullness behind, that the appellation
of voyage-writer would not appear very desirable. I am not here
unapprised that old Homer himself is by some considered as a
voyage-writer; and, indeed, the beginning of his Odyssey may be
urged to countenance that opinion, which I shall not controvert.
But, whatever species of writing the Odyssey is of, it is surely
at the head of that species, as much as the Iliad is of another;
and so far the excellent Longinus would allow, I believe, at this day.

But, in reality, the Odyssey, the Telemachus, and all of that
kind, are to the voyage-writing I here intend, what romance is to
true history, the former being the confounder and corrupter of
the latter. I am far from supposing that Homer, Hesiod, and the
other ancient poets and mythologists, had any settled design to
pervert and confuse the records of antiquity; but it is certain
they have effected it; and for my part I must confess I should
have honored and loved Homer more had he written a true history
of his own times in humble prose, than those noble poems that
have so justly collected the praise of all ages; for, though I
read these with more admiration and astonishment, I still read
Herodotus, Thucydides, and Xenophon with more amusement and more
satisfaction. The original poets were not, however, without
excuse. They found the limits of nature too straight for the
immensity of their genius, which they had not room to exert
without extending fact by fiction: and that especially at a time
when the manners of men were too simple to afford that variety
which they have since offered in vain to the choice of the
meanest writers. In doing this they are again excusable for the
manner in which they have done it.

Ut speciosa dehine miracula promant.

They are not, indeed, so properly said to turn reality into
fiction, as fiction into reality. Their paintings are so bold,
their colors so strong, that everything they touch seems to exist
in the very manner they represent it; their portraits are so
just, and their landscapes so beautiful, that we acknowledge the
strokes of nature in both, without inquiring whether Nature
herself, or her journeyman the poet, formed the first pattern of
the piece. But other writers (I will put Pliny at their head)
have no such pretensions to indulgence; they lie for lying sake,
or in order insolently to impose the most monstrous
improbabilities and absurdities upon their readers on their own
authority; treating them as some fathers treat children, and as
other fathers do laymen, exacting their belief of whatever they
relate, on no other foundation than their own authority, without
ever taking the pains or adapting their lies to human credulity,
and of calculating them for the meridian of a common
understanding; but, with as much weakness as wickedness, and with
more impudence often than either, they assert facts contrary to
the honor of God, to the visible order of the creation, to the
known laws of nature, to the histories of former ages, and to the
experience of our own, and which no man can at once understand
and believe. If it should be objected (and it can nowhere be
objected better than where I now write,[12] as there is nowhere
more pomp of bigotry) that whole nations have been firm believers
in such most absurd suppositions, I reply, the fact is not true.
They have known nothing of the matter, and have believed they
knew not what. It is, indeed, with me no matter of doubt but
that the pope and his clergy might teach any of those Christian
heterodoxies, the tenets of which are the most diametrically
opposite to their own; nay, all the doctrines of Zoroaster,
Confucius, and Mahomet, not only with certain and immediate
success, but without one Catholic in a thousand knowing he had
changed his religion.

[12] At Lisbon.

What motive a man can have to sit down, and to draw forth a list
of stupid, senseless, incredible lies upon paper, would be
difficult to determine, did not Vanity present herself so
immediately as the adequate cause. The vanity of knowing more
than other men is, perhaps, besides hunger, the only inducement
to writing, at least to publishing, at all. Why then should not
the voyage-writer be inflamed with the glory of having seen what
no man ever did or will see but himself? This is the true source
of the wonderful in the discourse and writings, and sometimes, I
believe, in the actions of men. There is another fault, of a
kind directly opposite to this, to which these writers are
sometimes liable, when, instead of filling their pages with
monsters which nobody hath ever seen, and with adventures which
never have, nor could possibly have, happened to them, waste
their time and paper with recording things and facts of so common
a kind, that they challenge no other right of being remembered
than as they had the honor of having happened to the author, to
whom nothing seems trivial that in any manner happens to himself.

Of such consequence do his own actions appear to one of this
kind, that he would probably think himself guilty of infidelity
should he omit the minutest thing in the detail of his journal.
That the fact is true is sufficient to give it a place there,
without any consideration whether it is capable of pleasing or
surprising, of diverting or informing, the reader. I have seen a
play (if I mistake not it is one of Mrs. Behn's or of Mrs.
Centlivre's) where this vice in a voyage-writer is finely
ridiculed. An ignorant pedant, to whose government, for I know
not what reason, the conduct of a young nobleman in his travels
is committed, and who is sent abroad to show my lord the world,
of which he knows nothing himself, before his departure from a
town, calls for his Journal to record the goodness of the wine
and tobacco, with other articles of the same importance, which
are to furnish the materials of a voyage at his return home. The
humor, it is true, is here carried very far; and yet, perhaps,
very little beyond what is to be found in writers who profess no
intention of dealing in humor at all. Of one or other, or both
of these kinds, are, I conceive, all that vast pile of books
which pass under the names of voyages, travels, adventures,
lives, memoirs, histories, etc., some of which a single traveler
sends into the world in many volumes, and others are, by
judicious booksellers, collected into vast bodies in folio, and
inscribed with their own names, as if they were indeed their own
travels: thus unjustly attributing to themselves the merit of others.

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