After obtruding my late productions on the Public, I retired into the
country, where I might have passed fifteen months in endless apathy, had
I not felt that idleness, if not the root of all evil, is at least the
bane of all good; and that however the spirits may be depressed by
misfortune, or the body harrassed by fatigue, the mind, still active,
will rather create visions, and pursue phantoms, than subjugate itself
to a total oblivion of all the blessings of this life.
Though I had little inclination to be perfectly unemployed, I had as
little to busy myself in those works of Fancy and Fiction, which, under
the title of Novels, cost much time and great application; and in the
composition of which so many of my fair countrywomen eminently excel.
Yet was I determined not to sacrifice the peaceful moments allotted to
me in mental slumbers. I considered that I have seen much; that I have
reflected more; that my reading had not been inconsiderable; and that I
had travelled not without some attention to the men and manners of
various countries; that the recollection of some of these objects might
not only amuse myself, but prove interesting to people less accustomed
to diversity of situation, and, perhaps, less qualified to draw
inferences from what they see.
I concluded then, that without wearying myself so as to deprive my mind
of the repose it required, and at the same time to keep it’s powers in
action, I might devote a part of my time to the recollection and recital
of such of my _Wanderings_ as could not be recounted without some topics
for amusement, and some hints for instruction.
But though I thus draw from the fountain-head of actual observation, in
some cases, and from experience in others, my Reader is not to infer
that my writings will be less entertaining than the _Wanderings of
Fiction_. For I need not tell those who are capable of making
observation, that almost _every_ life is full of adventure; of strange
transitions and wonderful revolutions; and he that adheres to simple
facts, and relates what passes before him, need seldom have recourse to
fiction for subjects even marvellous, and such as may at once instruct
and delight the Reader.
The principal object of a writer, thus circumstanced, is to select with
discretion, and to relate with effect. In this I know not how far I may
have succeeded, because I am ignorant of the extent of my own powers,
and conscious only of my good intentions.
With these sentiments, and impressed with a due sense for the favourable
reception of my former productions, I humbly submit to the candour and
to the protection of the public my _Wanderings of the Imagination_.
* * * * *
* * * *
_FIRST WANDERING._
* * *
During an excursion last Summer, in the county of Kent, when my finances
would not afford me a better conveyance than a stage-coach, I frequently
amused myself, (not, as is usual, with the different countenances and
characters of it’s passengers) but with those incidents on the road;
with which chance not unfrequently furnished me.
As I was admiring the beauty of the hop-grounds, which flourished in
rich luxuriance near the side of the ocean, a sailor caught my
attention. He no sooner perceived the coach, than he ran eagerly towards
it; his countenance was expressive of something between sorrow and
gladness. On his right side was a stump, which he emphatically held
towards us: his left arm he extended towards the sea, which, as his eye
glanced over, appeared to intimate, “This still remains for the service
of my country!”
Perhaps the chearful tar had no such idea as that which I hastily formed
on seeing him; but his smiling countenance indicated something above the
generality of beggars, who, conceiving that their mutilated bodies are
insufficient to excite pity, aim at a distortion of features, and a
story in which the marvellous bears the strongest part, as better
calculated to impose on the genuine feelings of humanity.
The contrasted appearance of this son of Neptune pleased me; but while I
was ruminating in his favour, I was neglectful of the more essential
mode of serving him; and before I could reach the bottom of my pocket,
the coach drove on, and left him to the chance of a more favourable
moment in the hearts of succeeding travellers, who might probably be
actuated by different feelings than mine to relieve his necessities.
I could not, however, help reflecting, that good intentions ought to be
speedily performed; and that to neglect opportunities of benevolence, is
not conformable to the doctrine and practice of him who made the human
heart.
In the county of Kent, and her little Island of Thanet, Nature is gaily,
and luxuriantly dressed. The extremes of affluence, or penury, are
seldom met with; the lands are fertile, and well cultivated; and the
round bodies of the horses bespeak the ease of their employers. Here are
various little plants elsewhere unknown; and the botanist would find his
labours amply rewarded by strictly scrutinizing the soil of Thanet.
Were I inclined to extend description, I should fully expatiate on the
beauties and manners of this pleasant county; which I saw with pleasure,
and left with regret; but as I intend this to be rather an irregular
journal, than a studied publication, I will bid adieu to it, and all its
delights; and in wishing its inhabitants every enjoyment that can arise
from industry, and benevolence, proceed to give an account of my
* * * * *
_SECOND WANDERING._
I could never account for national prejudice. It is a narrow-minded
opinion, inconsistent with reason and humanity: it extends itself to
counties, towns, and even villages. The Spaniards are proud--the
Italians and Portugueze revengeful--the French barbarous--and England is
supposed to be, by Englishmen, the _only_ spot of Europe which unites
_every_ virtue, untainted by _any_ vice. Born myself an Englishwoman and
the daughter of a Portugueze, I feel a more natural propensity towards
this country, the harbour of my birth and education, than towards
Portugal; although the laws of England have sufficiently operated
against me, to excuse any prejudice I might in common justice form
against it. These laws (the boast of Englishmen) have been exercised
towards myself with severity, but without justice: they have been
strained against a weak woman, and have proved a galling yoke of
slavery, when they should have served as a barrier against injustice and
oppression; and they have fully convinced me, that in this _Christian_
kingdom, as elsewhere, the hydra of despotism rears her head unabashed,
if not swayed by a golden sceptre. Money, and its concomitant,
_interest_, bear all before them. In vain will talents, merit, and even
virtue itself, lay claim to protection; these are weak prerogatives when
opposed to wealth, no matter by what means acquired. The Nabob, who
returns home loaded with the spoils of the East, to obtain which he has
waded through the blood of thousands, becomes respected as a worthy
member of community, as soon as it is known he is a rich one. But should
the same person return to this his native country, poor, friendless, and
forlorn;--should he urge in excuse for his poverty the uprightness of
his heart, which spurned at the idea of acquiring wealth by cruelty and
usurpation, how would he then be received? Where would he find the great
man to patronize him? And where, alas! the sympathetic mind to
commiserate, and the benevolent hand to alleviate his necessities? In
England I fear, he would not; or, if he did, it would be more likely in
the compassionate breast of a stranger, than in that of what custom, and
custom only, calls _an old friend_.
From this dangerous, because most abused of epithets, arises principally
the source of all our misfortunes. We cling to it with eager hope, and
are almost as frequently met by disappointment.
“Disappointment smiles at Hope’s career!”
In all our wayward pilgrimage through life, we console ourselves with
the certainty of reciprocal esteem and disinterested friendship. Youth
and prosperity attach themselves to the specious forms of kindness; but
the flattering illusions last no longer than the objects which attracted
them; and the once-admired favourite of Fortune, no longer in possession
of _more_ than the _desire_ to do good, becomes an alien to the society
of which he was once the _support_ and the _pride_. This, indeed, seems
an argument in favour of misanthropy; whereas it only strongly
inculcates the necessity of limiting our benevolence and our desires,
and submit to the dictates of prudence.
I was particularly led into these reflexions, by a circumstance which
lately occured to me. As I was enjoying my meditations in a retired part
of St. Jame’s Park, at an hour prescribed there by custom and fashion,
a countenance, of which I had a slender recollection, met my eye. The
meanness of his attire was no obstacle to my perceiving that he was a
_gentleman_. He walked a few paces before me, and then sitting down on
the first bench, pensively leaned his head on his hand, and attentively
considered me as I past. I proceeded slowly down the avenue, and took
occasion to observe whether he followed me. He kept his place till my
return, when he looked sorrowfully in my face, and emphatically shook
his head. His meaning was too plain not to be understood: and I answered
it by placing myself on the seat near him.
I believe our looks mutually bespoke a wish, mingled with a sort of
timid fear, about making the first advance; and in this situation we had
probably remained some time longer, had he not as he afterwards told me,
seen something in my face that bore testimony to a feeling heart. With a
tremulous voice, he asked me if he was mistaken in my name, which he
mentioned; and being satisfied that he was right, he added, “No wonder,
Madam, that an interval of twenty-two years, and my present appearance,
should conceal from your remembrance the person of Capt. S----.”
The expression of his countenance, and the tone in which he uttered
these words, were more convincing proofs of his veracity, than I could
discover in the imperfect traces of a form I had once beheld. That form,
which I once saw the repository of every manly grace, was now palsied
and emaciated, and seemed bending towards the earth, as if anxious to
embrace its last asylum. So true is the observation of an accurate
observer of human life: “He that wanders about the world sees new forms
of misery; and if he chances to meet an old friend, meets a face
darkened with troubles.”
I assured him, that I did indeed remember Capt. S----; but that surprize
and sorrow now damped the joy I should have felt on the renewal of our
acquaintance, had I found him in a situation more worthy of him.
I intreated him to believe, that however hardly fortune had dealt by him
(and that she had dealt hardly I could not doubt), there still existed
some few compassionate hearts; and that I was proud to place mine among
the number. He gently pressed my hand to his lips; intreated I would
name an early day for giving him another meeting in the same place; and
telling me he was then going by appointment to see _his old friend_, and
former Colonel, Lord G. he tottered down the avenue, but not till we had
agreed on meeting the following morning at twelve; when he promised to
acquaint me with the success of his visit, from which he already seemed
to derive the most sanguine expectations. My eyes could only follow him
for a few minutes, but my heart ceased not to accompany him throughout
the day; and while I pondered on the vicissitudes of life, and retracing
his former situation, I could not help sorrowfully contrasting it with
his present embarrassments.
(To be continued.)
* * * * *
* * * *
[The EDITORS of the NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE, present their readers,
this week, with the first number of the “FARRAGO,” from the
inimitable pen of Mr. DENNIE, author of “_The Lay Preacher_,”
&c. &c. The pure morality, the elegant and classical style which
is pourtrayed in every paragraph, the Editors flatter themselves
will be acceptable to the lovers and patrons of Literature. The
_Farrago_ originally appeared in “THE TABLET,” a literary paper
published in Boston, which was universally read and admired
throughout the New-England States.]
* * * * *
_THE FARRAGO._
* * *