Harper's New Monthly Magazine, No. IX.—February, 1851.—Vol. II.
- -
- 100%
- +
THE TRAVELER; OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY
BY OLIVER GOLDSMITHRemote, unfriended, melancholy, slow —Or by the lazy Scheldt or wandering Po,Or onward where the rude Carinthian boorAgainst the houseless stranger shuts the door,Or where Campania's plain forsaken liesA weary waste expanding to the skies —Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,My heart, untravel'd, fondly turns to thee;Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain,And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend,And round his dwelling guardian saints attend:Bless'd be that spot, where cheerful guests retireTo pause from toil, and trim their evening fire;Bless'd that abode, where want and pain repair,And every stranger finds a ready chair;Bless'd be those feasts, with simple plenty crown'dWhere all the ruddy family aroundLaugh at the jests or pranks that never fail,Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale,Or press the bashful stranger to his food,And learn the luxury of doing good.But me, not destin'd such delights to share,My prime of life in wandering spent and care —Impell'd with steps unceasing to pursueSome fleeting good that mocks me with the view,That like the circle bounding earth and skiesAllures from far, yet, as I follow, flies —My fortune leads to traverse realms alone,And find no spot of all the world my own.Even now, where Alpine solitudes ascend,I sit me down a pensive hour to spend;And placed on high, above the storm's career,Look downward where an hundred realms appear —Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide,The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride.When thus Creation's charms around combine,Amid the store should thankless pride repine?Say, should the philosophic mind disdainThat good which makes each humbler bosom vain?Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can,These little things are great to little man;And wiser he whose sympathetic mindExults in all the good of all mankind.Ye glittering towns with wealth and splendor crown'd,Ye fields where summer spreads profusion round.Ye lakes whose vessels catch the busy gale,Ye bending swains that dress the flowery vale —For me your tributary stores combine;Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine!As some lone miser, visiting his store,Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er —Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill,Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still —Thus to my breast alternate passions rise,Pleas'd with each good that Heaven to man supplies,Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,To see the hoard of human bliss so small;And oft I wish, amid the scene, to findSome spot to real happiness consign'd,Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest,May gather bliss to see my fellows bless'd.But where to find that happiest spot below,Who can direct, when all pretend to know?The shuddering tenant of the frigid zoneBoldly proclaims that happiest spot his own,Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,And his long nights of revelry and ease,The naked negro, panting at the line,Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine,Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave,And thanks his gods for all the good they gave.Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam,His first, best country ever is at home;And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare,And estimate the blessings which they share,Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom findAn equal portion dealt to all mankind —As different good, by art or nature givenTo different nations, makes their blessings even.Nature, a mother kind alike to all,Still grants her bliss at labor's earnest call:With food as well the peasant is suppliedOn Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side;And, though the rocky-crested summits frown,These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down,From art, more various are the blessings sent —Wealth, commerce, honor, liberty, content;Yet these each other's power so strong contestThat either seems destructive of the rest:Where wealth and freedom reign contentment fails,And honor sinks where commerce long prevails.Hence every state, to one lov'd blessing prone,Conforms and models life to that alone;Each to the favorite happiness attends,And spurns the plan that aims at other ends —Till, carried to excess in each domain,This favorite good begets peculiar pain.But let us try these truths with closer eyes,And trace them through the prospect as it lies:Here, for a while my proper cares resigned,Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind;Like yon neglected shrub, at random cast,That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast.Far to the right, where Apennine ascends,Bright as the summer, Italy extends;Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side,Woods over woods in gay theatric pride,While oft some temple's mouldering tops betweenWith venerable grandeur mark the scene.Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast,The sons of Italy were surely bless'd.Whatever fruits in different climes were found,That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground —Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear,Whose bright succession decks the varied year —Whatever sweets salute the northern skyWith vernal lives, that blossom but to die —These, here disporting, own the kindred soil,Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil;While sea-born gales their gelid wings expandTo winnow fragrance round the smiling land.But small the bliss that sense alone bestows,And sensual bliss is all the nation knows;In florid beauty groves and fields appear —Man seems the only growth that dwindles here!Contrasted faults through all his manners reign:Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, vain;Though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet untrue —And even in penance planning sins anew.All evils here contaminate the mind,That opulence departed leaves behind;For wealth was theirs – nor far remov'd the dateWhen commerce proudly flourish'd through the stateAt her command the palace learn'd to rise,Again the long fallen column sought the skies,The canvas glow'd beyond even nature warm,The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form;Till, more unsteady than the southern gale,Commerce on other shores display'd her sail,While naught remain'd of all that riches gave,But towns unmann'd and lords without a slave —And late the nation found, with fruitless skill,Its former strength was but plethoric ill.Yet, still the loss of wealth is here suppliedBy arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride:From these the feeble heart and long fallen mindAn easy compensation seem to find.Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd,The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade;Processions form'd for piety and love —A mistress or a saint in every grove:By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd,The sports of children satisfy the child.Each nobler aim, repress'd by long control,Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul;While low delights, succeeding fast behind,In happier meanness occupy the mind.As in those domes, where Cæsars once bore swayDefac'd by time and tottering in decay,There in the ruin, heedless of the dead,The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed;And, wondering man could want the larger pile,Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile.My soul, turn from them, turn we to surveyWhere rougher climes a nobler race display —Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansions tread,And force a churlish soil for scanty bread.No product here the barren hills affordBut man and steel, the soldier and his sword,No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array,But winter lingering chills the lap of May;No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast,But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest.Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm,Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm.Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts though small,He sees his little lot, the lot of all;Sees no contiguous palace rear its head,To shame the meanness of his humble shed —No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal,To make him loathe his vegetable meal —But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil,Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil,Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose,Breasts the keen air, and carols as he goes;With patient angle trolls the finny deep,Or drives his venturous plowshare to the steep,Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way,And drags the struggling savage into day.At night returning, every labor sped,He sits him down the monarch of a shed;Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveysHis children's looks, that brighten at the blaze —While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard,Displays her cleanly platter on the board:And haply too some pilgrim, thither led,With many a tale repays the nightly bed.Thus every good his native wilds impartImprints the patriot passion on his heart;And even those ills, that round his mansion riseEnhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies:Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms,And dear that hill which lifts him to the stormsAnd as a child, when scaring sounds molest,Clings close and closer to the mother's breast —So the loud torrent and the whirlwind's roarBut bind him to his native mountains more.Such are the charms to barren states assign'd —Their wants but few, their wishes all confin'd;Yet let them only share the praises due,If few their wants, their pleasures are but few:For every want that stimulates the breastBecomes a source of pleasure when redress'd.Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies,That first excites desire, and then supplies.Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy,To fill the languid pause with finer joy;Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame,Catch every nerve and vibrate through the frame:Their level life is but a smouldering fire,Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong desire,Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheerOn some high festival of once a year,In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire,Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire.But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow —Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low;For, as refinement stops, from sire to sonUnalter'd, unimprov'd the manners run —And love's and friendship's finely pointed dartFall blunted from each indurated heart.Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breastMay sit, like falcons cowering on the nest;But all the gentler morals, such as playThrough life's more cultur'd walks, and charm the way —These, far dispers'd, on timorous pinions fly,To sport and flutter in a kinder sky.To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign,I turn; and France displays her bright domain.Gay, sprightly land of mirth and social ease,Pleas'd with thyself, whom all the world can please;How often have I led thy sportive choir,With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire,Where shading elms along the margin grew,And, freshen'd from the wave, the zephyr flew!And haply, though my harsh touch, faltering still,But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill —Yet would the village praise my wondrous power,And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour.Alike all ages: dames of ancient daysHave led their children through the mirthful maze;And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore,Has frisk'd beneath the burden of three-score.So bless'd a life these thoughtless realms display;Thus idly busy rolls their world away.Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear,For honor forms the social temper here:Honor, that praise which real merit gains,Or even imaginary worth obtains,Here passes current – paid from hand to hand,It shifts, in splendid traffic, round the land;From courts to camps, to cottages it strays,And all are taught an avarice of praise —They please, are pleas'd, they give to get esteem.Till, seeming bless'd, they grow to what they seem.But while this softer art their bliss supplies,It gives their follies also room to rise;For praise, too dearly lov'd, or warmly sought,Enfeebles all internal strength of thought —And the weak soul, within itself unbless'd,Leans for all pleasure on another's breast.Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art,Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart;Here vanity assumes her pert grimace,And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace;Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer,To boast one splendid banquet once a year:The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws,Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause.To men of other minds my fancy flies,Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies.Methinks her patient sons before me stand,Where the broad ocean leans against the land;And, sedulous to stop the coming tide,Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride.Onward, methinks, and diligently slow,The firm, connected bulwark seems to grow,Spreads its long arms amid the watery roar,Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore —While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile,Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile;The slow canal, the yellow-blossom'd vale,The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail,The crowded mart, the cultivated plain —A new creation rescued from his reign.Thus, while around the wave-subjected soilImpels the native to repeated toil,Industrious habits in each bosom reign,And industry begets a love of gain.Hence all the good from opulence that springs,With all those ills superfluous treasure brings,Are here display'd. Their much lov'd wealth impartsConvenience, plenty, elegance, and arts;But view them closer, craft and fraud appear —Even liberty itself is barter'd here.At gold's superior charms all freedom flies;The needy sell it, and the rich man buys:A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves,Here wretches seek dishonorable graves;And, calmly bent, to servitude conform,Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm.Heavens! how unlike their Belgic sires of old —Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold,War in each breast, and freedom on each brow;How much unlike the sons of Britain now!Fir'd at the sound, my genius spreads her wing.And flies where Britain courts the western spring;Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride,And brighter streams than fam'd Hydaspes glide.There, all around, the gentlest breezes stray;There gentle music melts on every spray;Creation's mildest charms are there combin'd:Extremes are only in the master's mind.Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her stateWith daring aims irregularly great.Pride in their port, defiance in their eye,I see the lords of human kind pass by,Intent on high designs – a thoughtful band,By forms unfashion'd, fresh from Nature's hand,Fierce in their native hardiness of soul,True to imagin'd right, above control;While even the peasant boasts these rights to scanAnd learns to venerate himself as man.Thine, freedom, thine the blessings pictur'd here.Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear;Too bless'd indeed were such without alloy,But, foster'd even by freedom, ills annoy.That independence Britons prize too highKeeps man from man, and breaks the social tie:The self-dependent lordlings stand alone —All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown.Here, by the bonds of nature feebly held,Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd,Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar,Repress'd ambition struggles round her shore —Till, overwrought, the general system feelsIts motions stopp'd, or frenzy fire the wheels.Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay,As duty, love, and honor fail to sway,Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law,Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe.Hence all obedience bows to these alone,And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown;Till time may come when, stripp'd of all her charms,The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms —Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame,Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for fame —One sink of level avarice shall lie,And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonor'd die.Yet think not, thus when freedom's ills I state,I mean to flatter kings or court the great.Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire,Far from my bosom drive the low desire!And thou, fair freedom, taught alike to feelThe rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel —Thou transitory flower, alike undoneBy proud contempt or favor's fostering sun —Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure!I only would repress them to secure;For just experience tells, in every soil,That those who think must govern those that toil —And all that freedom's highest aims can reachIs but to lay proportion'd loads on each.Hence, should one order disproportion'd grow,Its double weight must ruin all below.Oh, then, how blind to all that truth requires,Who think it freedom when a part aspires!Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms,Except when fast approaching danger warms;But, when contending chiefs blockade the throne,Contracting regal power to stretch their own —When I behold a factious band agreeTo call it freedom when themselves are free —Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw,Law grinds the poor, and rich men rule the law —The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam,Pillag'd from slaves to purchase slaves at home —Fear, pity, justice, indignation start,Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart:Till half a patriot, half a coward grown,I fly from petty tyrants to the throne.Yes, brother! curse with me that baleful hourWhen first ambition struck at regal power;And thus, polluting honor in its source,Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force.Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore,Her useful sons exchang'd for useless ore?Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste,Like flaring tapers brightening as they waste?Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain,Lead stern depopulation in her train —And over fields where scatter'd hamlets rose,In barren, solitary pomp repose?Have we not seen, at pleasure's lordly call,The smiling, long frequented village fall?Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay'd,The modest matron, and the blushing maid,Forc'd from their homes, a melancholy train,To traverse climes beyond the western main —Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around,And Níagara stuns with thundering sound?Even now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim straysThrough tangled forests, and through dangerous ways,Where beasts with man divided empire claim,And the brown Indian marks with murderous aim —There, while above the giddy tempest flies,And all around distressful yells arise —The pensive exile, bending with his woe,To stop too fearful and too faint to go.Casts a long look where England's glories shineAnd bids his bosom sympathize with mine.Vain, very vain, my weary search to findThat bliss which only centres in the mind.Why have I stray'd from pleasure and repose,To seek a good each government bestows?In every government, though terrors reign,Though tyrant-kings or tyrant-laws restrain,How small, of all that human hearts endure,That part which laws or kings can cause or cure?Still to ourselves in every place consign'd,Our own felicity we make or find.With secret course, which no loud storms annoy,Glides the smooth current of domestic joy;The lifted ax, the agonizing wheel,Zeck's iron crown, and Damiens' bed of steel —To men remote from power but rarely known —Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own.[From Mayhew's Comic Almanac.]AN INVITATION TO THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS
(BY A GENTLEMAN WITH A SLIGHT IMPEDIMENT IN HIS SPEECH.)I have found out a gig-gig-gift for my fuf-fuf – fair,I have found where the rattle-snakes bub-bub – breed.Won't you c-c-c-come, and I'll show you the bub-bub – bear,And the lions and tit-tit – tigers at fuf-fuf-fuf – feed.I know where c-c-c-co – cockatoo's songMakes mum-mum-mum – melody through the sweet vale;Where the m – monkeys gig-gig – grin all the day long,Or gracefully swing by the tit-tit-tit-tit – tail.You shall pip-pip – play, dear, some did-did – delicate joke,With the bub-bub – bear on the tit-tit – top of his pip-pip-pip – pole;But observe, 'tis for-for-for – bidden to pip-pip – pokeAt the bub-bub – bear with your pip-pip – pink pip-pip-pip-pip – parasol.You shall see the huge elephant pip-pip-pip – play;You shall gig-gig-gaze on the stit-tit – ately racoon,And then, did-did – dear, together we'll stray,To the cage of the bub-bub – blue fuf-fuf-fac'd bab-bab-bab – boon.You wish'd (I r-r-r – remember it well,And I l-l-l-lov'd you the m-m-more for the wish)To witness the bub-bub-bub – beautiful pip-pip – pel-ican swallow the l-l-live l-l-l-little fuf-fuf – fish.Then c-c-ome, did-did-dearest, n-n-n-never say "nun-nun-nun-nun – nay;"I'll tit-tit-treat you, my love, to a "bub-bub-bub – buss,"'Tis but thrup-pip-pip-pip – pence a pip-pip – piece all the way,To see the hip-pip-pip – (I beg your pardon) —To see the hip-pip-pip-pip – (ahem!)The hip-pip-pip-pip – pop-pop-pop-pop – (I mean)The hip-po-po-po – (dear me, love, you know)The hippo-pot-pot-pot – ('pon my word I'm quite ashamed of myself).The hip-pip-pop – the hip-po-pot.To see the Hippop – potamus.DEATH OF HOWARD THE PHILANTHROPIST. 1
On the 5th of July, 1789, Howard quitted England to return no more. Arriving at Amsterdam on the 7th, he proceeded by slow stages through Germany and Prussia into the empire of the Czar, which he entered at Riga. He was destined never more to quit the soil of Russia. The tremendous destruction of human life to which the military system of that country gives rise, had not then, as it has since, become a recognized fact in Western Europe; and the unconceived and inconceivable miseries to which Howard found recruits and soldiers exposed in Moscow, induced him to devote his attention to them and to their cause. In these investigations horrors turned up of which he had never dreamed, and impressed him still more profoundly with a sense of the hollowness of the Russian pretense of civilization. In the forced marches of recruits to the armies over horrid roads, being ill-clothed and worse fed, he found that thousands fell sick by the way, dropped at the roadside, and were either left there to die of starvation, or transferred to miserable hospitals, where fever soon finished what fatigue had begun. This waste of life was quite systematic. An hospital for the reception of the poor wretches had recently been erected at Krementschuk, a town on the Dnieper, which contained at that time 400 patients in its unwholesome wards. Thither Howard repaired to prosecute his new inquiries. The rooms he found much too full; many of the soldiers were dreadfully ill of the scurvy, yet they were all dieted alike, on sour bread and still sourer quas, alternated with a sort of water-gruel, which, if not eaten one day, was served up again the next. From this place, Howard went down the Dnieper to Cherson, where he examined all the prisons and hospitals, and made various excursions in the neighborhood for the same purpose. The hospitals were worthy of the evil which they were designed to alleviate. Our countryman thus sums up his observations upon them: "The primary objects in all hospitals seem here neglected – namely, cleanliness, air, diet, separation, and attention. These are such essentials, that humanity and good policy equally demand that no expense should be spared to procure them. Care in this respect, I am persuaded, would save many more lives than the parade of medicines in the adjoining apothecary's shop."
While at Cherson, Howard had the profound gratification of reading in the public prints of the capture and fall of the Bastille; and he talked with delight of visiting its ruins and moralizing upon its site, should he be again spared to return to the West. But, however moved by that great event, so important for all Europe, he did not allow it to divert him from his own more especial work; the sufferings of poor Russian soldiers in the hospitals of Cherson, Witowka, and St. Nicholas, had higher claim upon his notice at that moment, than even the great Revolution making in the Faubourg St. Antoine at Paris.
The reader will recall to mind, that, at the time of Howard's residence at Cherson, a desperate war was raging between the Sultan and the Autocrat. The strong fortress of Bender had just fallen into the power of Russia, but as the winter was already too far advanced to allow the army to push forward until spring, the commander of the imperial forces gave permission to such of his officers as chose to go and spend the Christmas with their friends in Cherson. That city was consequently crowded with rank and fashion. All the city was in high spirits. The victories of the imperial troops produced a general state of jubilation. Rejoicing was the order of the day, and dancing and revelry the business of the night. But in the midst of these festivities, a virulent and infectious fever broke out – brought, as Howard believed, by the military from the camp. One of the sufferers from this disorder was a young lady who resided about twenty-four miles from Cherson, but who had been a constant attendant at the recent balls and routs. Her fever very soon assumed an alarming form; and as a last resource her friends waited upon Howard – whose reputation as a leech was still on the increase – and implored him to ride over and see her. At first he refused, on the ground that he was only a physician to the poor; but their importunities increasing, and reports arriving that she was getting worse and worse, he at length acceded to their wish – being also pressed thereto by his intimate friend, Admiral Mordvinoff, chief admiral of the Black Sea fleet – and went with them. He prescribed for the lady's case; and then, leaving word that if she improved they must send to him again, but if she did not, it would be useless, went to make some visits to the sick of an hospital in the neighborhood. The lady gradually improved under the change of treatment, and in a day or two a letter was written to Howard to acquaint him with the circumstance, and requesting him to come again without delay. Very unfortunately this letter miscarried, and was not delivered for eight days – when it was brought to him at Mordvinoff's house. When he noticed the date, Howard was greatly alarmed – for he had become interested in the case of his fair patient, and thought himself in a manner responsible for any mishap which might have befallen her. Although, when the note came to hand, it was a cold, wintry, tempestuous night, with the rain falling in torrents, he did not hesitate for a moment about setting off for her residence. Unfortunately, again, no post-horses could be had at the time; and he was compelled to mount a dray-horse used in the admiral's family for carrying water, whose slow pace protracted the journey until he was saturated with wet and benumbed with cold. He arrived, too, to find his patient dying; yet, not willing to see her expire without a struggle to save her, he administered some medicines to excite perspiration, and remained for some hours at her side to watch the first signs of the effect produced. After a time, he thought the dose was beginning to operate, and, wishing to avoid exposing her to the chance of a fresh cold by uncovering her arms, placed his hand under the coverlet to feel her pulse. On raising it up a little, a most offensive smell escaped from beneath the clothes, and Howard always thought the infection was then communicated to him. Next day she died.