A Satyr against Reason and Mankind by John Wilmot

I'd be a dog, a monkey, or a bear, Or anything but that vain animal, Who is so proud of being rational. The following is just an excerpt from this charmingly bitter poem by John Wilmot. The full text can be pursued with little exertion by clicking on the link which I will beneficently provide: http://andromeda.rutgers.edu/~jlynch/Texts/mankind.html Were I (who to my cost already am One of those strange, prodigious creatures, man) A spirit free to choose, for my own share What case of flesh and blood I pleased to wear, I'd be a dog, a monkey, or a bear, Or anything but that vain animal, Who is so proud of being rational.    The senses are too gross, and he'll contrive A sixth, to contradict the other five, And before certain instinct, will prefer Reason, which fifty times for one does err; Reason, an ignis fatuus of the mind, Which, leaving light of nature, sense, behind, Pathless and dangerous wand'ring ways it takes Through error's fenny bogs and thorny brakes; Whilst the misguided follower climbs with pain Mountains of whimseys, heaped in his own brain; Stumbling from thought to thought, falls headlong down Into doubt's boundless sea where, like to drown, Books bear him up awhile, and make him try To swim with bladders of philosophy; In hopes still to o'ertake th' escaping light; The vapour dances in his dazzling sight Till, spent, it leaves him to eternal night. Then old age and experience, hand in hand, Lead him to death, and make him understand, After a search so painful and so long, That all his life he has been in the wrong. Huddled in dirt the reasoning engine lies, Who was so proud, so witty, and so wise.    Pride drew him in, as cheats their bubbles catch, And made him venture to be made a wretch. His wisdom did his happiness destroy, Aiming to know that world he should enjoy. And wit was his vain, frivolous pretense Of pleasing others at his own expense. For wits are treated just like common whores: First they're enjoyed, and then kicked out of doors. The pleasure past, a threatening doubt remains That frights th' enjoyer with succeeding pains. Women and men of wit are dangerous tools, And ever fatal to admiring fools: Pleasure allures, and when the fops escape, 'Tis not that they're beloved, but fortunate, And therefore what they fear, at heart they hate.

I only discovered this poet a while ago, but I consider myself fortunate in having done so. He was a contemporary of the more famous Andrew Marvell, and was a courtier of Charles II's court during the Restoration. His full title was John Wilmot, 2nd Earl of Rochester. As it happens, he rather impressively died of venereal disease, and a play attributed to his name is called Sodom, or The Quintessence of Debauchery, which I think is a staggeringly good name. What I find so fascinating about him though, and this seeming contradiction is evident in this particular poem, is that he was writing in the Enlightenment era but seems to write in a completely Romantic fashion. Many would attribute the beginnings of the Romantic era to Blake but perhaps John Wilmot is a candidate. I noticed quite soon that Wilmot refers to man as a 'vain animal'. Byron would later refer to man as 'man, vain insect!'

Wilmot espouses so many Romantic shibboleths in this poem that you would be forgiven for thinking it was written 200 years after it was. There is the love of nature, the rejection of reason, and the propulsive device of subtle misanthropy that is so characteristic of writers such as Byron. There are so many quotes I could isolate to aid me in this conclusion, but this is perhaps the most potent:

'His wisdom did his happiness destroy,

Aiming to know that world he should enjoy.'

These are complaints that writers such as Poe would later express. In fact, in Poe's Sonnet to Science, Poe writes (if I remember correctly): 'Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart,/Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?' He then goes on to write about how mythology, fantasy and frivolity are crushed under the weight of reason. This is the sort of point Richard Dawkins faces on a regular basis - people ask him questions such as 'Doesn't religion give people a more palatable view of the world?' and he will reply very astringently with 'You may prefer it, but that doesn't make it true. Besides, science is infinitely more fascinating.' Part of me does agree with this, and science is fascinating, but recourse to fantasy can be salubrious to the troubled soul. Part of me wishes I could be so constructed as to believe simpler explanations of the universe. Diplomatically, I think a synthesis between reason and instinct should be encouraged - it would be terribly dull to live every waking moment in a very matter-of-fact way, but it would be an affront on man's potential and the splendour of nature to spend all of one's allotment in a chrysalis of ignorance. This is one reason I dearly hope religion is not completely eradicated by atheism. Even Christopher Hitchens, an antitheist, admitted this - it is the struggle between reason and fantasy that drives man to the better construction of each. 

I hope that was not too great an excursion. In short, I think this is a very important poem. Apart from this, though, it is impeccably written. 'Reason, an ignis fatuus of the mind,' must be one of my favourite lines of poetry. It is possibly the shortest summary of the Romantic movement I have encountered. I can almost overlook the massive injustices inherent in the aristocratic, feudal nature of the times if the aristocracy were producing writing like this (I'm not sure the composition of the country is too different now, however.) Bertrand Russell makes the point in In Praise of Idleness that most of humanity's philosophical, literary, mental advances have been as a result of the leisure afforded to the wealthy, though this is not a recommendation for an unencumbered minority but an unencumbered majority. The unjust wealth of kings brought hundreds of years of feudal oppression, but it also brought incredible writing, music and architecture that would probably never have been produced under today's capitalism.

Wilmot makes it clear that these chains of reason are of man's own construction, reminding me of Blake's 'Mind-forg'd manacles'. 'Mountains of whimseys, heaped in his own brain' is a great quote that exposes man's departure from nature. The final line of the poem, not included above but equally frandibulous is 'Man differs more from man, than man from beast,' the point being that artificial ideology and such removes us from our natural state. I just adore this poem. Read the full thing and bask in its brilliance.