Transcribed form the 1889 George Bell and Sons edition by David Price,
email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
DICKORY CRONKE
THE
DUMB PHILOSOPHER,
OR,
GREAT BRITAIN'S WONDER;
CONTAINING:
I. A faithful and very surprising Account how Dickory Cronke, a Tinner's
son, in the County of Cornwall, was born Dumb, and continued so for Fifty-
eight years; and how, some days before he died, he came to his Speech;
with Memoirs of his Life, and the Manner of his Death.
II. A Declaration of his Faith and Principles in Religion; with a
Collection of Select Meditations, composed in his Retirement.
III. His Prophetical Observations upon the Affairs of Europe, more
particularly of Great Britain, from 1720 to 1729. The whole extracted
from his Original Papers, and confirmed by unquestionable Authority.
TO WHICH IS ANNEXED HIS ELEGY,
WRITTEN BY A YOUNG CORNISH GENTLEMAN, OF
EXETER COLLEGE IN OXFORD.
WITH
AN EPITAPH BY ANOTHER HAND.
"Non quis, sed quid."
LONDON:
Printed for and Sold by THOMAS BICKERTON, at
the Crown, in Paternoster Row. 1719.
PREFACE
The formality of a preface to this little book might have been very well
omitted, if it were not to gratify the curiosity of some inquisitive
people, who, I foresee, will be apt to make objections against the
reality of the narrative.
Indeed the public has too often been imposed upon by fictitious stories,
and some of a very late date, so that I think myself obliged by the usual
respect which is paid to candid and impartial readers, to acquaint them,
by way of introduction, with what they are to expect, and what they may
depend upon, and yet with this caution too, that it is an indication of
ill nature or ill manners, if not both, to pry into a secret that is
industriously concealed.
However, that there may be nothing wanting on my part, I do hereby assure
the reader, that the papers from whence the following sheets were
extracted, are now in town, in the custody of a person of unquestionable
reputation, who, I will be bold to say, will not only be ready, but
proud, to produce them upon a good occasion, and that I think is as much
satisfaction as the nature of this case requires.
As to the performance, it can signify little now to make an apology upon
that account, any farther than this, that if the reader pleases he may
take notice that what he has now before him was collected from a large
bundle of papers, most of which were writ in shorthand, and very
ill-digested. However, this may be relied upon, that though the language
is something altered, and now and then a word thrown in to help the
expression, yet strict care has been taken to speak the author's mind,
and keep as close as possible to the meaning of the original. For the
design, I think there is nothing need be said in vindication of that.
Here is a dumb philosopher introduced to a wicked and degenerate
generation, as a proper emblem of virtue and morality; and if the world
could be persuaded to look upon him with candour and impartiality, and
then to copy after him, the editor has gained his end, and would think
himself sufficiently recompensed for his present trouble.
PART I
Among the many strange and surprising events that help to fill the
accounts of this last century, I know none that merit more an entire
credit, or are more fit to be preserved and handed to posterity than
those I am now going to lay before the public.
Dickory Cronke, the subject of the following narrative, was born at a
little hamlet, near St. Columb, in Cornwall, on the 29th of May, 1660,
being the day and year in which King Charles the Second was restored. His
parents were of mean extraction, but honest, industrious people, and well
beloved in their neighbourhood. His father's chief business was to work
at the tin mines; his mother stayed at home to look after the children,
of which they had several living at the same time. Our Dickory was the
youngest, and being but a sickly child, had always a double portion of
her care and tenderness.
It was upwards of three years before it was discovered that he was born
dumb, the knowledge of which at first gave his mother great uneasiness,
but finding soon after that he had his hearing, and all his other senses
to the greatest perfection, her grief began to abate, and she resolved to
have him brought up as well as their circumstances and his capacity would
permit.
As he grew, notwithstanding his want of speech, he every day gave some
instance of a ready genius, and a genius much superior to the country
children, insomuch that several gentlemen in the neighbourhood took
particular notice of him, and would often call him Restoration Dick, and
give him money, &c.
When he came to be eight years of age, his mother agreed with a person in
the next village, to teach him to read and write, both which, in a very
short time, he acquired to such perfection, especially the latter, that
he not only taught his own brothers and sisters, but likewise several
young men and women in the neighbourhood, which often brought him in
small sums, which he always laid out in such necessaries as he stood most
in need of.
In this state he continued till he was about twenty, and then he began to
reflect how scandalous it was for a young man of his age and
circumstances to live idle at home, and so resolves to go with his father
to the mines, to try if he could get something towards the support of
himself and the family; but being of a tender constitution, and often
sick, he soon perceived that sort of business was too hard for him, so
was forced to return home and continue in his former station; upon which
he grew exceeding melancholy, which his mother observing, she comforted
him in the best manner she could, telling him that if it should please
God to take her away, she had something left in store for him, which
would preserve him against public want.
This kind assurance from a mother whom he so dearly loved gave him some,
though not an entire satisfaction; however, he resolves to acquiesce
under it till Providence should order something for him more to his
content and advantage, which, in a short time happened according to his
wish. The manner was thus:--
One Mr. Owen Parry, a Welsh gentleman of good repute, coming from Bristol
to Padstow, a little seaport in the county of Cornwall, near the place
where Dickory dwelt, and hearing much of this dumb man's perfections,
would needs have him sent for; and finding, by his significant gestures
and all outward appearances that he much exceeded the character that the
country gave of him, took a mighty liking to him, insomuch that he told
him, if he would go with him into Pembrokeshire, he would be kind to him,
and take care of him as long as he lived.
This kind and unexpected offer was so welcome to poor Dickory, that
without any farther consideration, he got a pen and ink and writ a note,
and in a very handsome and submissive manner returned him thanks for his
favour, assuring him he would do his best to continue and improve it; and
that he would be ready to wait upon him whenever he should be pleased to
command.
To shorten the account as much as possible, all things were concluded to
their mutual satisfaction, and in about a fortnight's time they set
forward for Wales, where Dickory, notwithstanding his dumbness, behaved
himself with so much diligence and affability, that he not only gained
the love of the family where he lived, but of everybody round him.
In this station he continued till the death of his master, which happened
about twenty years afterwards; in all which time, as has been confirmed
by several of the family, he was never observed to be any ways disguised
by drinking, or to be guilty of any of the follies and irregularities
incident to servants in gentlemen's houses. On the contrary, when he had
any spare time, his constant custom was to retire with some good book
into a private place within call, and there employ himself in reading,
and then writing down his observations upon what he read.
After the death of his master, whose loss afflicted him to the last
degree, one Mrs. Mary Mordant, a gentlewoman of great virtue and piety,
and a very good fortune, took him into her service, and carried him with
her, first to Bath, and then to Bristol, where, after a lingering
distemper, which continued for about four years, she died likewise.
Upon the loss of his mistress, Dickory grew again exceeding melancholy
and disconsolate; at length, reflecting that death is but a common debt
which all mortals owe to nature, and must be paid sooner or later, he
became a little better satisfied, and so determines to get together what
he had saved in his service, and then to return to his native country,
and there finish his life in privacy and retirement.
Having been, as has been mentioned, about twenty-four years a servant,
and having, in the interim, received two legacies, viz., one of thirty
pounds, left him by his master, and another of fifteen pounds by his
mistress, and being always very frugal, he had got by him in the whole
upwards of sixty pounds. This, thinks he, with prudent management, will
be enough to support me as long as I live, and so I'll e'en lay aside all
thoughts of future business, and make the best of my way to Cornwall, and
there find out some safe and solitary retreat, where I may have liberty
to meditate and make my melancholy observations upon the several
occurrences of human life.
This resolution prevailed so far, that no time was let slip to get
everything in readiness to go with the first ship. As to his money, he
always kept that locked up by him, unless he sometimes lent it to a
friend without interest, for he had a mortal hatred to all sorts of usury
or extortion. His books, of which he had a considerable quantity, and
some of them very good ones, together with his other equipage, he got
packed up, that nothing might be wanting against the first opportunity.
In a few days he heard of a vessel bound to Padstow, the very port he
wished to go to, being within four or five miles of the place where he
was born. When he came thither, which was in less than a week, his first
business was to inquire after the state of his family. It was some time
before he could get any information of them, until an old man that knew
his father and mother, and remembered they had a son was born dumb,
recollected him, and after a great deal of difficulty, made him
understand that all his family except his youngest sister were dead, and
that she was a widow, and lived at a little town called St. Helen's,
about ten miles farther in the country.
This doleful news, we must imagine, must be extremely shocking, and add a
new sting to his former affliction; and here it was that he began to
exercise the philosopher, and to demonstrate himself both a wise and a
good man. All these things, thinks he, are the will of Providence, and
must not be disputed; and so he bore up under them with an entire
resignation, resolving that, as soon as he could find a place where he
might deposit his trunk and boxes with safety, he would go to St. Helen's
in quest of his sister.
How his sister and he met, and how transported they were to see each
other after so long an interval, I think is not very material. It is
enough for the present purpose that Dickory soon recollected his sister,
and she him; and after a great many endearing tokens of love and
tenderness, he wrote to her, telling her that he believed Providence had
bestowed on him as much as would support him as long as he lived, and
that if she thought proper he would come and spend the remainder of his
days with her.
The good woman no sooner read his proposal than she accepted it, adding,
withal, that she could wish her entertainment was better; but if he would
accept of it as it was, she would do her best to make everything easy,
and that he should be welcome upon his own terms, to stay with her as
long as he pleased.
This affair being so happily settled to his full satisfaction, he returns
to Padstow to fetch the things he had left behind him, and the next day
came back to St. Helen's, where, according to his own proposal, he
continued to the day of his death, which happened upon the 29th of May,
1718, about the same hour in which he was born.
Having thus given a short detail of the several periods of his life,
extracted chiefly from the papers which he left behind him, I come in the
next place to make a few observations how he managed himself and spent
his time toward the latter part of it.
His constant practice, both winter and summer, was to rise and set with
the sun; and if the weather would permit, he never failed to walk in some
unfrequented place, for three hours, both morning and evening, and there
it is supposed he composed the following meditations. The chief part of
his sustenance was milk, with a little bread boiled in it, of which in
the morning, after his walk, he would eat the quantity of a pint, and
sometimes more. Dinners he never eat any; and at night he would only
have a pretty large piece of bread, and drink a draught of good spring
water; and after this method he lived during the whole time he was at St.
Helen's. It is observed of him that he never slept out of a bed, nor
never lay awake in one; which I take to be an argument, not only of a
strong and healthful constitution, but of a mind composed and calm, and
entirely free from the ordinary disturbances of human life. He never
gave the least signs of complaint or dissatisfaction at anything, unless
it was when he heard the tinners swear, or saw them drunk; and then, too,
he would get out of the way as soon as he had let them see, by some
significant signs, how scandalous and ridiculous they made themselves;
and against the next time he met them, would be sure to have a paper
ready written, wherein he would represent the folly of drunkenness, and
the dangerous consequences that generally attended it.
Idleness was his utter aversion, and if at any time he had finished the
business of the day, and was grown weary of reading and writing, in which
he daily spent six hours at least, he would certainly find something
either within doors or without, to employ himself.
Much might be said both with regard to the wise and regular management,
and the prudent methods he took to spend his time well towards the
declension of his life; but, as his history may perhaps be shortly
published at large by a better hand, I shall only observe in the general,
that he was a person of great wisdom and sagacity. He understood nature
beyond the ordinary capacity, and, if he had had a competency of learning
suitable to his genius, neither this nor the former ages would have
produced a better philosopher or a greater man.
I come next to speak of the manner of his death and the consequences
thereof, which are, indeed, very surprising, and, perhaps, not altogether
unworthy a general observation. I shall relate them as briefly as I can,
and leave every one to believe or disbelieve as he thinks proper.
Upon the 26th of May, 1718, according to his usual method, about four in
the afternoon, he went out to take his evening walk; but before he could
reach the place he intended, he was siezed with an apoplectic fit, which
only gave him liberty to sit down under a tree, where, in an instant, he
was deprived of all manner of sense and motion, and so he continued, as
appears by his own confession afterwards, for more than fourteen hours.
His sister, who knew how exact he was in all his methods, finding him
stay a considerable time beyond the usual hour, concludes that some
misfortune must needs have happened to him, or he would certainly have
been at home before. In short, she went immediately to all the places he
was wont to frequent, but nothing could be heard or seen of him till the
next morning, when a young man, as he was going to work, discovered him,
and went home and told his sister that her brother lay in such a place,
under a tree, and, as he believed had been robbed and murdered.
The poor woman, who had all night been under the most dreadful
apprehensions, was now frightened and confounded to the last degree.
However, recollecting herself, and finding there was no remedy, she got
two or three of her neighbours to bear her company, and so hastened with
the young man to the tree, where she found her brother lying in the same
posture that he had described.
The dismal object at first view startled and surprised everybody present,
and filled them full of different notions and conjectures. But some of
the company going nearer to him, and finding that he had lost nothing,
and that there were no marks of any violence to be discovered about him,
they conclude that it must be an apoplectic or some other sudden fit that
had surprised him in his walk, upon which his sister and the rest began
to feel his hands and face, and observing that he was still warm, and
that there were some symptoms of life yet remaining, they conclude that
the best way was to carry him home to bed, which was accordingly done
with the utmost expedition.
When they had got him into the bed, nothing was omitted that they could
think of to bring him to himself, but still he continued utterly
insensible for about six hours. At the sixth hour's end he began to move
a little, and in a very short time was so far recovered, to the great
astonishment of everybody about him, that he was able to look up, and to
make a sign to his sister to bring him a cup of water.
After he had drunk the water he soon perceived that all his faculties
were returned to their former stations, and though his strength was very
much abated by the length and rigour of the fit, yet his intellects were
as strong and vigorous as ever.
His sister observing him to look earnestly upon the company, as if he had
something extraordinary to communicate to them, fetched him a pen and ink
and a sheet of paper, which, after a short pause, he took, and wrote as
follows:--
"Dear sister,
"I have now no need of pen, ink, and paper, to tell you my meaning. I
find the strings that bound up my tongue, and hindered me from
speaking, are unloosed, and I have words to express myself as freely
and distinctly as any other person. From whence this strange and
unexpected event should proceed, I must not pretend to say, any
farther than this, that it is doubtless the hand of Providence that
has done it, and in that I ought to acquiesce. Pray let me be alone
for two or three hours, that I may be at liberty to compose myself,
and put my thoughts in the best order I can before I leave them behind
me."
The poor woman, though extremely startled at what her brother had
written, yet took care to conceal it from the neighbours, who, she knew,
as well as she, must be mightily surprised at a thing so utterly
unexpected. Says she, my brother desires to be alone; I believe he may
have something in his mind that disturbs him. Upon which the neighbours
took their leave and returned home, and his sister shut the door, and
left him alone to his private contemplations.
After the company were withdrawn he fell into a sound sleep, which lasted
from two till six, and his sister, being apprehensive of the return of
his fit, came to the bedside, and, asking softly if he wanted anything,
he turned about to her and spoke to this effect: Dear sister, you see me
not only recovered out of a terrible fit, but likewise that I have the
liberty of speech, a blessing that I have been deprived of almost sixty
years, and I am satisfied you are sincerely joyful to find me in the
state I now am in; but, alas! it is but a mistaken kindness. These are
things but of short duration, and if they were to continue for a hundred
years longer, I can't see how I should be anyways the better.
I know the world too well to be fond of it, and am fully satisfied that
the difference between a long and a short life is insignificant,
especially when I consider the accidents and company I am to encounter.
Do but look seriously and impartially upon the astonishing notion of time
and eternity, what an immense deal has run out already, and how infinite
it is still in the future; do but seriously and deliberately consider
this, and you will find, upon the whole, that three days and three ages
of life come much to the same measure and reckoning.
As soon as he had ended his discourse upon the vanity and uncertainty of
human life, he looked steadfastly upon her. Sister, says he, I conjure
you not to be disturbed at what I am going to tell you, which you will
undoubtedly find to be true in every particular. I perceive my glass is
run, and I have now no more to do in this world but to take my leave of
it; for to-morrow about this time my speech will be again taken from me,
and, in a short time, my fit will return; and the next day, which I
understand is the day on which I came into this troublesome world, I
shall exchange it for another, where, for the future, I shall for ever be
free from all manner of sin and sufferings.
The good woman would have made him a reply, but he prevented her by
telling her he had no time to hearken to unnecessary complaints or
animadversions. I have a great many things in my mind, says he, that
require a speedy and serious consideration. The time I have to stay is
but short, and I have a great deal of important business to do in it.
Time and death are both in my view, and seem both to call aloud to me to
make no delay. I beg of you, therefore, not to disquiet yourself or me.
What must be, must be. The decrees of Providence are eternal and
unalterable; why, then, should we torment ourselves about that which we
cannot remedy?
I must confess, my dear sister, I owe you many obligations for your
exemplary fondness to me, and do solemnly assure you I shall retain the
sense of them to the last moment. All that I have to request of you is,
that I may be alone for this night. I have it in my thoughts to leave
some short observations behind me, and likewise to discover some things
of great weight which have been revealed to me, which may perhaps be of
some use hereafter to you and your friends. What credit they may meet
with I cannot say, but depend the consequence, according to their
respective periods, will account for them, and vindicate them against the
supposition of falsity and mere suggestion.
Upon this, his sister left him till about four in the morning, when
coming to his bedside to know if he wanted anything, and how he had
rested, he made her this answer; I have been taking a cursory view of my
life, and though I find myself exceedingly deficient in several
particulars, yet I bless God I cannot find I have any just grounds to
suspect my pardon. In short, says he, I have spent this night with more
inward pleasure and true satisfaction than ever I spent a night through
the whole course of my life.
After he had concluded what he had to say upon the satisfaction that
attended an innocent and well-spent life, and observed what a mighty
consolation it was to persons, not only under the apprehension, but even
in the very agonies of death itself, he desired her to bring him his
usual cup of water, and then to help him on with his clothes, that he
might sit up, and so be in a better posture to take his leave of her and
her friends.
When she had taken him up, and placed him at a table where he usually
sat, he desired her to bring him his box of papers, and after he had
collected those he intended should be preserved, he ordered her to bring
a candle, that he might see the rest burnt. The good woman seemed at
first to oppose the burning of his papers, till he told her they were
only useless trifles, some unfinished observations which he had made in
his youthful days, and were not fit to be seen by her, or anybody that
should come after him.
After he had seen his papers burnt, and placed the rest in their proper
order, and had likewise settled all his other affairs, which was only fit
to be done between himself and his sister, he desired her to call two or
three of the most reputable neighbours, not only to be witnesses of his
will, but likewise to hear what he had farther to communicate before the
return of his fit, which he expected very speedily.
His sister, who had beforehand acquainted two or three of her confidants
with all that had happened, was very much rejoiced to hear her brother
make so unexpected a concession; and accordingly, without any delay or
hesitation, went directly into the neighbourhood, and brought home her
two select friends, upon whose secrecy and sincerity she knew she might
depend upon all accounts.
In her absence he felt several symptoms of the approach of his fit, which
made him a little uneasy, lest it should entirely seize him before he had
perfected his will, but that apprehension was quickly removed by her
speedy return. After she had introduced her friends into his chamber, he
proceeded to express himself in the following manner; Dear sister, you
now see your brother upon the brink of eternity; and as the words of
dying persons are commonly the most regarded, and make deepest
impressions, I cannot suspect but you will suffer the few I am about to
say to have always some place in your thoughts, that they may be ready
for you to make use of upon any occasion.
Do not be fond of anything on this side of eternity, or suffer your
interest to incline you to break your word, quit your modesty, or to do
anything that will not bear the light, and look the world in the face.
For be assured of this; the person that values the virtue of his mind and
the dignity of his reason, is always easy and well fortified both against
death and misfortune, and is perfectly indifferent about the length or
shortness of his life. Such a one is solicitous about nothing but his
own conduct, and for fear he should be deficient in the duties of
religion, and the respective functions of reason and prudence.
Always go the nearest way to work. Now, the nearest way through all the
business of human life, are the paths of religion and honesty, and
keeping those as directly as you can, you avoid all the dangerous
precipices that often lie in the road, and sometimes block up the passage
entirely.
Remember that life was but lent at first, and that the remainder is more
than you have reason to expect, and consequently ought to be managed with
more than ordinary diligence. A wise man spends every day as if it were
his last; his hourglass is always in his hand, and he is never guilty of
sluggishness or insincerity.
He was about to proceed, when a sudden symptom of the return of his fit
put him in mind that it was time to get his will witnessed, which was no
sooner done but he took it up and gave it to his sister, telling her that
though all he had was hers of right, yet he thought it proper, to prevent
even a possibility of a dispute, to write down his mind in the nature of
a will, wherein I have given you, says he, the little that I have left,
except my books and papers, which, as soon as I am dead, I desire may be
delivered to Mr. Anthony Barlow, a near relation of my worthy master, Mr.
Owen Parry.
This Mr. Anthony Barlow was an old contemplative Welsh gentleman, who,
being under some difficulties in his own country, was forced to come into
Cornwall and take sanctuary among the tinners. Dickory, though he kept
himself as retired as possible, happened to meet him one day upon his
walks, and presently remembered that he was the very person that used
frequently to come to visit his master while he lived in Pembrokeshire,
and so went to him, and by signs made him understand who he was.
The old gentleman, though at first surprised at this unexpected
interview, soon recollected that he had formerly seen at Mr. Parry's a
dumb man, whom they used to call the dumb philosopher, so concludes
immediately that consequently this must be he. In short, they soon made
themselves known to each other; and from that time contracted a strict
friendship and a correspondence by letters, which for the future they
mutually managed with the greatest exactness and familiarity.
But to leave this as a matter not much material, and to return to our
narrative. By this time Dickory's speech began to falter, which his
sister observing, put him in mind that he would do well to make some
declaration of his faith and principles of religion, because some
reflections had been made upon him upon the account of his neglect, or
rather his refusal, to appear at any place of public worship.
"Dear sister," says he, "you observe very well, and I wish the
continuance of my speech for a few moments, that I might make an ample
declaration upon that account. But I find that cannot be; my speech
is leaving me so fast that I can only tell you that I have always
lived, and now die, an unworthy member of the ancient catholic and
apostolic church; and as to my faith and principles, I refer you to my
papers, which, I hope, will in some measure vindicate me against the
reflections you mention."
He had hardly finished his discourse to his sister and her two friends,
and given some short directions relating to his burial, but his speech
left him; and what makes the thing the more remarkable, it went away, in
all appearance, without giving him any sort of pain or uneasiness.
When he perceived that his speech was entirely vanished, and that he was
again in his original state of dumbness, he took his pen as formerly and
wrote to his sister, signifying that whereas the sudden loss of his
speech had deprived him of the opportunity to speak to her and her
friends what he intended, he would leave it for them in writing, and so
desired he might not be disturbed till the return of his fit, which he
expected in six hours at farthest. According to his desire they all left
him, and then, with the greatest resignation imaginable, he wrote down
the meditations following: