The Author’s Epistle to Peter Giles

I am almost ashamed, my dearest Peter Giles, to send you this book of the Utopian commonwealth, after almost a year’s delay, whereas no doubt you looked for it within six weeks: for as you know I had no occasion for using my invention, or for taking pains to put things into any method, because I had nothing to do but to repeat exactly those things that I heard Raphael relate in your presence; so neither was there any occasion given for a studied eloquence: since as he delivered things to us of the sudden, and in a careless style, so he being, as you know, a greater master of the Greek than of the Latin, the plainer my words are, they will resemble his simplicity the more, and will be by consequence the nearer to the truth; and that is all that I think lies on me, and it is indeed the only thing in which I thought myself concerned. I confess I had very little left on me in this matter, for otherwise the inventing and ordering of such a scheme would have put a man of an ordinary pitch, either of capacity or of learning, to some pains, and have cost him some time; but if it had been necessary that this relation should have been made not only truly but eloquently, it could never have been performed by me, even after all the pains and time that I could have bestowed upon it. My part in it was so very small that it could not give me much trouble, all that belonged to me being only to give a true and full account of the things that I had heard: but although this required so very little of my time, yet even that little was long denied me by my other affairs, which press much upon me: for while in pleadings and hearings, and in judging or composing of causes, in waiting on some men upon business, and on others out of respect, the greatest part of the day is spent on other men’s affairs, the remainder of it must be given to my family at home: so that I can reserve no part of it to myself, that is, to my study. I must talk with my wife, and chat with my children, and I have somewhat to say to my servants; for all these things I reckon as a part of business, except a man will resolve to be a stranger at home: and with whomsoever either nature, chance, or choice has engaged a man in any commerce, he must endeavour to make himself as acceptable to those about him as he possibly can, using still such a temper in it that he may not spoil them by an excessive gentleness, so that his servants may not become his masters. In such things as I have named to you do days, months, and years slip away; what is then left for writing? And yet I have said nothing of that time that must go for sleep, or for meat, in which many do waste almost as much of their time as in sleep, which consumes very near the half of our life; and indeed all the time which I can gain to myself is that which I steal from my sleep and my meals; and because that is not much, I have made but a slow progress; yet because it is somewhat, I have at last got to an end of my Utopia, which I now send to you, and expect that after you have read it you will let me know if you can put me in mind of anything that has escaped me; for though I would think myself very happy if I had but as much invention and learning as I know I have memory, which makes me generally depend much upon it, yet I do not rely so entirely on it as to think I can forget nothing.

My servant John Clement has started some things that shake me. You know he was present with us, as I think he ought to be at every conversation that may be of use to him, for I promise myself great matters from the progress he has so early made in the Greek and Roman learning. As far as my memory serves me, the bridge over Anider at Amaurot was five hundred paces broad, according to Raphael’s account; but John assures me he spoke only of three hundred paces; therefore I pray you recollect what you can remember of this, for if you agree with him I will believe that I have been mistaken; but if you remember nothing of it, I will not alter what I have written, because it is according to the best of my remembrance: for as I will take care that there may be nothing falsely set down, so if there is anything doubtful, though I may perhaps tell a lie, yet I am sure I will not make one; for I would rather pass for a good man than for a wise man. But it will be easy to correct this mistake if you can either meet with Raphael himself or know how to write to him.

I have another difficulty that presses me more, and makes your writing to him the more necessary. I know not whom I ought to blame for it, whether Raphael, you, or myself; for as we did not think of asking it, so neither did he of telling us, in what part of the new-found world Utopia is situated. This was such an omission that I would gladly redeem it at any rate: I am ashamed that after I have told so many things concerning this island, I cannot let my readers know in what sea it lies. There are some among us that have a mighty desire to go thither, and in particular one pious divine is very earnest on it, not so much out of a vain curiosity of seeing unknown countries, as that he may advance our religion, which is so happily begun to be planted there; and that he may do this regularly, he intends to procure a mission from the Pope, and to be sent thither as their bishop. In such a case as this he makes no scruple of aspiring to that character, and thinks it is rather meritorious to be ambitious of it, when one desires it only for advancing the Christian religion, and not for any honour or advantage that may be had by it, but is acted merely by a pious zeal. Therefore I earnestly beg it of you, if you can possibly meet with Raphael, or if you know how to write to him, that you will be pleased to inform yourself of these things, that there may be no falsehood left in my book, nor any important truth wanting. And perhaps it will not be unfit to let him see the book itself: for as no man can correct any errors that may be in it so well as he, so by reading it he will be able to give a more perfect judgment of it than he can do upon any discourse concerning it; and you will be likewise able to discover whether this undertaking of mine is acceptable to him or not; for if he intends to write a relation of his travels, perhaps he will not be pleased that I should prevent him in that part that belongs to the Utopian commonwealth; since if I should do so, his book will not surprise the world with the pleasure which this new discovery will give the age. And I am so little fond of appearing in print upon this occasion, that if he dislikes it I will lay it aside; and even though he should approve of it, I am not positively determined as to the publishing of it. Men’s tastes differ much: some are of so morose a temper, so sour a disposition, and make such absurd judgments of things, that men of cheerful and lively tempers, who indulge their genius, seem much more happy than those who waste their time and strength in order to the publishing some book, that though of itself it might be useful or pleasant, yet instead of being well received will be sure to be either loathed at or censured. Many know nothing of learning, and others despise it; a man that is accustomed to a coarse and harsh style thinks everything is rough that is not barbarous. Our trifling pretenders to learning think all is slight that is not dressed up in words that are worn out of use; some love only old things, and many like nothing but what is their own. Some are so sour that they can allow no jests, and others are so dull that they can endure nothing that is sharp; and some are as much afraid of anything that is quick or lively as a man bit with a mad dog is of water; others are so light and unsettled that their thoughts change as quick as they do their postures; and some, when they meet in taverns, take upon them among their cups to pass censures very freely on all writers, and with a supercilious liberty to condemn everything that they do not like; in which they have the advantage that a bald man has, who can catch hold of another by the hair, while the other cannot return the like upon him. They are safe, as it were, of gunshot, since there is nothing in them considerable enough to be taken hold of. And some are so unthankful that even when they are well pleased with a book, yet they think they owe nothing to the author, and are like those rude guests who, after they have been well entertained at a good dinner, go away when they have glutted their appetites without so much as thanking him that treated them. But who would put himself to the charge of making a feast for men of such nice palates and so different tastes, who are so forgetful of the civilities that are done them? But do you once clear those points with Raphael, and then it will be time enough to consider whether it be fit to publish it or not; for since I have been at the pains to write it, if he consents to the publishing it, I will follow my friends’ advice, and chiefly yours. Farewell, my dear Peter; commend me kindly to your good wife, and love me still as you used to do, for I assure you I love you daily more and more.