at this point we determine on adverting shortly, or rather reverting, to a certain tract of hofrath heuschrecke’s, entitled institute for the repression of population; which lies, dishonorably enough (with torn leaves, and a perceptible smell of aloetic drugs), stuffed into the bag pisces. not indeed for the sake of the tract itself, which we admire little; but of the marginal notes, evidently in teufelsdrockh’s hand, which rather copiously fringe it. a few of these may be in their right place here.
into the hofrath’s institute, with its extraordinary schemes, and machinery of corresponding boards and the like, we shall not so much as glance. enough for us to understand that heuschrecke is a disciple of malthus; and so zealous for the doctrine, that his zeal almost literally eats him up. a deadly fear of population possesses the hofrath; something like a fixed idea; undoubtedly akin to the more diluted forms of madness. nowhere, in that quarter of his intellectual world, is there light; nothing but a grim shadow of hunger; open mouths opening wider and wider; a world to terminate by the frightfullest consummation: by its too dense inhabitants, famished into delirium, universally eating one another. to make air for himself in which strangulation, choking enough to a benevolent heart, the hofrath founds, or proposes to found, this institute of his, as the best he can do. it is only with our professor’s comments thereon that we concern ourselves.
first, then, remark that teufelsdrockh, as a speculative radical, has his own notions about human dignity; that the zahdarm palaces and courtesies have not made him forgetful of the futteral cottages. on the blank cover of heuschrecke’s tract we find the following indistinctly engrossed:—
“two men i honor, and no third. first, the toilworn craftsman that with earth-made implement laboriously conquers the earth, and makes her man’s. venerable to me is the hard hand; crooked, coarse; wherein notwithstanding lies a cunning virtue, indefeasibly royal, as of the sceptre of this planet. venerable too is the rugged face, all weather-tanned, besoiled, with its rude intelligence; for it is the face of a man living manlike. oh, but the more venerable for thy rudeness, and even because we must pity as well as love thee! hardly-entreated brother! for us was thy back so bent, for us were thy straight limbs and fingers so deformed: thou wert our conscript, on whom the lot fell, and fighting our battles wert so marred. for in thee too lay a god-created form, but it was not to be unfolded; encrusted must it stand with the thick adhesions and defacements of labor: and thy body, like thy soul, was not to know freedom. yet toil on, toil on: thou art in thy duty, be out of it who may; thou toilest for the altogether indispensable, for daily bread.
“a second man i honor, and still more highly: him who is seen toiling for the spiritually indispensable; not daily bread, but the bread of life. is not he too in his duty; endeavoring towards inward harmony; revealing this, by act or by word, through all his outward endeavors, be they high or low? highest of all, when his outward and his inward endeavor are one: when we can name him artist; not earthly craftsman only, but inspired thinker, who with heaven-made implement conquers heaven for us! if the poor and humble toil that we have food, must not the high and glorious toil for him in return, that he have light, have guidance, freedom, immortality? — these two, in all their degrees, i honor: all else is chaff and dust, which let the wind blow whither it listeth.
“unspeakably touching is it, however, when i find both dignities united; and he that must toil outwardly for the lowest of man’s wants, is also toiling inwardly for the highest. sublimer in this world know i nothing than a peasant saint, could such now anywhere be met with. such a one will take thee back to nazareth itself; thou wilt see the splendor of heaven spring forth from the humblest depths of earth, like a light shining in great darkness.”
and again: “it is not because of his toils that i lament for the poor: we must all toil, or steal (howsoever we name our stealing), which is worse; no faithful workman finds his task a pastime. the poor is hungry and athirst; but for him also there is food and drink: he is heavy-laden and weary; but for him also the heavens send sleep, and of the deepest; in his smoky cribs, a clear dewy heaven of rest envelops him; and fitful glitterings of cloud-skirted dreams. but what i do mourn over is, that the lamp of his soul should go out; that no ray of heavenly, or even of earthly knowledge, should visit him; but only, in the haggard darkness, like two spectres, fear and indignation bear him company. alas, while the body stands so broad and brawny, must the soul lie blinded, dwarfed, stupefied, almost annihilated! alas, was this too a breath of god; bestowed in heaven, but on earth never to be unfolded! — that there should one man die ignorant who had capacity for knowledge, this i call a tragedy, were it to happen more than twenty times in the minute, as by some computations it does. the miserable fraction of science which our united mankind, in a wide universe of nescience, has acquired, why is not this, with all diligence, imparted to all?”
quite in an opposite strain is the following: “the old spartans had a wiser method; and went out and hunted down their helots, and speared and spitted them, when they grew too numerous. with our improved fashions of hunting, herr hofrath, now after the invention of fire-arms, and standing armies, how much easier were such a hunt! perhaps in the most thickly peopled country, some three days annually might suffice to shoot all the able-bodied paupers that had accumulated within the year. let governments think of this. the expense were trifling: nay the very carcasses would pay it. have them salted and barrelled; could not you victual therewith, if not army and navy, yet richly such infirm paupers, in workhouses and elsewhere, as enlightened charity, dreading no evil of them, might see good to keep alive?”
“and yet,” writes he farther on, “there must be something wrong. a full-formed horse will, in any market, bring from twenty to as high as two hundred friedrichs d’or: such is his worth to the world. a full-formed man is not only worth nothing to the world, but the world could afford him a round sum would he simply engage to go and hang himself. nevertheless, which of the two was the more cunningly devised article, even as an engine? good heavens! a white european man, standing on his two legs, with his two five-fingered hands at his shackle-bones, and miraculous head on his shoulders, is worth, i should say, from fifty to a hundred horses!”
“true, thou gold–hofrath,” cries the professor elsewhere: “too crowded indeed! meanwhile, what portion of this inconsiderable terraqueous globe have ye actually tilled and delved, till it will grow no more? how thick stands your population in the pampas and savannas of america; round ancient carthage, and in the interior of africa; on both slopes of the altaic chain, in the central platform of asia; in spain, greece, turkey, crim tartary, the curragh of kildare? one man, in one year, as i have understood it, if you lend him earth, will feed himself and nine others. alas, where now are the hengsts and alarics of our still-glowing, still-expanding europe; who, when their home is grown too narrow, will enlist, and, like fire-pillars, guide onwards those superfluous masses of indomitable living valor; equipped, not now with the battle-axe and war-chariot, but with the steam engine and ploughshare? where are they? — preserving their game!”
