No impartial reader of Miss Eyley Murphy's letter will hesitate to
pronounce Rory Mullowny an unfortunate man, and his case another example
of the abominable practice of hanging innocent persons, upon
circumstantial evidence.
No. LV.
Poor Eli--as the old man was familiarly called by the Boston sextons of
his time. He was a prime hand, at the shortest notice, in his better days.
He has been long dead--died by inches--his memory first. For a year or
more before his death, he was troubled with some strange hallucinations,
of rather a professional character--among them, an impression, that he had
committed a terrible sin, in putting so many respectable people under
ground, who had never done him any harm. He said to me, more than once,
while attempting to dissipate this film from his mental vision--"Abner,
take my advice, and give up this wicked business, or you'll be served so
yourself, one of these days." I was, upon one occasion, going over one of
our farms, with the old man--the Granary burying-ground--and he flew into
a terrible passion, because no grave had been dug for old Master
Lovell--the father. We tried to remind him, that Master Lovell, many years
before, in 1776, had turned tory, and gone off with the British army; but
poor old Eli was past conviction. He took his last favorite walk, among
the graves on Copp's Hill, one morning in May--he there met a very worthy
man, whom he was so fully persuaded he had buried, twenty years before,
that he hobbled home, in the greatest trepidation, took to his bed, and
never left it, but to verify his own suggestion, that we are all to be
finally buried. During his last, brief illness, his mental wanderings were
very manifest:--"Poor man--poor man"--he would mutter to himself--"I'm
sure I buried him--deep grave, very--estate's been settled--his sons--very
fast young men, took possession--gone long ago--poor weeping
widow--married twice since--what a time there'll be--oh Lord forgive me,
I'll never bury another." He was eighty-two then, and used to say he
longed to die, and get among his old friends, for all, that he had known,
were dead and gone.
A feeling, somewhat akin to this, is apt to gather about us, and grow
stronger, as we march farther forward on our way, the numbers of our
companions gradually lessening, as we go. Our ranks close up--those, with
whom we stood, shoulder to shoulder, are cut down by the great
leveller--and their places are filled by others. As we grow older, and the
friends and companions of our earlier days are removed, we have a desire
to do the next best thing--we cannot supply their places--but there are
individuals--worthy people withal--whose faces have been familiar to our
eyes, for fifty or sixty years--we have passed them, daily, or weekly--we
chance to meet, no matter where--the ice is broken, by a mutual agreement,
that it is very hot, or that it is very cold--very wet, or very dry--an
allusion follows to the great number of years we have known each other, by
name, and this results, frequently, in a relation, which, if it be not
entitled to the sacred name of friendship, is not to be despised by those,
who are deep in the valley:--out of such materials, an old craft, near the
termination of its voyage, may rig up a respectable jury-mast, at least,
and sail on comfortably, to the haven where it would be.
The old standard merchants, who transacted business, on the Long Wharf,
Boston Pier, when I was a boy--are dead--_stelligeri_--almost every one of
them; and, if all, that I have known and heard of them, were fairly told,
it would make a very readable volume, highly honorable to many of their
number, and calculated to operate, as a stimulus, upon the profession, in
every age.
One little narrative spreads itself before my memory, at this moment,
which I received from the only surviving son of the individual, to whom it
especially refers. A merchant, very extensively engaged in commerce, and
located upon the Long Wharf, died February 18, 1806, at the age of 75,
intestate. His eldest son administered upon the estate. This old gentleman
used pleasantly to say, that, for many years, he had fed a very large
number of the Catholics, on the shores of the Mediterranean, during Lent,
referring to his very extensive connection with the fishing business. In
his day, he was certainly well known; and, to the present time, is well
remembered, by some of the "_old ones down along shore_," from the
Gurnet's Nose to Race Point. Among his papers, a package, of very
considerable size, was found, after his death, carefully tied up, and
labelled as follows: "_Notes, due-bills, and accounts against sundry
persons, down along shore. Some of these may be got by suit or severe
dunning. But the people are poor: most of them have had fishermen's luck.
My children will do as they think best. Perhaps they will think with me,
that it is best to burn this package entire._"
"About a month," said my informant, "after our father died, the sons met
together, and, after some general remarks, our elder brother, the
administrator, produced this package, of whose existence we were already
apprized; read the superscription; and asked what course should be taken,
in regard to it. Another brother, a few years younger than the eldest, a
man of strong, impulsive temperament, unable, at the moment, to express
his feeling, by words, while he brushed the tears from his eyes with one
hand, by a spasmodic jerk of the other, towards the fireplace, indicated
his wish to have the package put into the flames. It was suggested, by
another of our number, that it might be well, first, to make a list of the
debtors' names, and of the dates, and amounts, that we might be enabled,
as the intended discharge was for all, to inform such as might offer
payment, that their debts were forgiven. On the following day, we again
assembled--the list had been prepared--and all the notes, due-bills, and
accounts, whose amount, including interest, exceeded thirty-two thousand
dollars, were committed to the flames."
"It was about four months after our father's death," continued my
informant, "in the month of June, that, as I was sitting in my eldest
brother's counting-room, waiting for an opportunity to speak with him,
there came in a hard-favored, little, old man, who looked as if time and
rough weather had been to windward of him, for seventy years. He asked if
my brother was not the executor. He replied, that he was administrator, as
our father died intestate. 'Well,' said the stranger, 'I've come up from
the Cape, to pay a debt I owed the old gentleman.' My brother," continued
my informant, "requested him to take a seat, being, at the moment, engaged
with other persons, at the desk."
"The old man sat down, and, putting on his glasses, drew out a very
ancient, leather pocket-book, and began to count over his money. When he
had done--and there was quite a parcel of bank notes--as he sat, waiting
his turn, slowly twisting his thumbs, with his old gray, meditative eyes
upon the floor, he sighed; and I knew the money, as the phrase runs, _came
hard_--and secretly wished the old man's name might be found, upon the
forgiven list. My brother was soon at leisure, and asked him the common
questions--his name, &c. The original debt was four hundred and forty
dollars--it had stood a long time, and, with the interest, amounted to a
sum, between seven and eight hundred. My brother went to his desk, and,
after examining the forgiven list attentively, a sudden smile lighted up
his countenance, and told me the truth, at a glance--the old man's name
was there! My brother quietly took a chair, by his side, and a
conversation ensued, between them, which I never shall forget.--'Your note
is outlawed,' said my brother; 'it was dated twelve years ago, payable in
two years; there is no witness, and no interest has ever been paid; you
are not bound to pay this note, we cannot recover the amount.' 'Sir,' said
the old man, 'I wish to pay it. It is the only heavy debt I have in the
world. It may be outlawed here, but I have no child, and my old woman and
I hope we have made our peace with God, and wish to do so with man. I
should like to pay it'--and he laid his bank notes before my brother,
requesting him to count them over. 'I cannot take this money,' said my
brother. The old man became alarmed. 'I have cast simple interest, for
twelve years and a little over,' said the old man. 'I will pay you
compound interest, if you say so. The debt ought to have been paid, long
ago, but your father, sir, was very indulgent--he knew I'd been unlucky,
and told me not to worry about it.'
"My brother then set the whole matter plainly before him, and, taking the
bank bills, returned them to the pocket book, telling him, that, although
our father left no formal will, he had recommended to his children, to
destroy certain notes, due-bills, and other evidences of debt, and release
those, who might be legally bound to pay them. For a moment the worthy old
man appeared to be stupefied. After he had collected himself, and wiped a
few tears from his eyes, he stated, that, from the time he had heard of
our father's death, he had raked, and scraped, and pinched and spared, to
get the money together, for the payment of this debt.--'About ten days
ago,' said he, 'I had made up the sum, within twenty dollars. My wife knew
how much the payment of this debt lay upon my spirits, and advised me to
sell a cow, and make up the difference, and get the heavy burden off my
spirits. I did so--and now, what will my old woman say! I must get back to
the Cape, and tell her this good news. She'll probably say over the very
words she said, when she put her hand on my shoulder as we parted--_I have
never yet seen the righteous man forsaken, nor his seed begging bread_.'
After a hearty shake of the hand, and a blessing upon our old father's
memory, he went upon his way rejoicing.
"After a short silence--taking his pencil and making a cast--'there,' said
my brother, 'your part of the amount would be so much--contrive a plan to
convey to me your share of the pleasure, derived from this operation, and
the money is at your service.'"
Such is the simple tale, which I have told, as it was told to me.
No. LVI.
"_Take heed that ye do not your alms before men, to be seen of them;
otherwise ye have no reward of your Father which is in Heaven. Therefore
when thou doest thine alms, do not sound a trumpet before thee, as the
hypocrites do, in the synagogues, and in the streets, that they may have
glory of men. Verily I say unto you, they have their reward. But when thou
doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth. That
thine alms may be in secret: and thy Father, which seeth in secret,
himself shall reward thee openly._"
This ancient word--_alms_--according to its derivative import, comprehends
not only those _oboli_, which are given to the wandering poor, but all
bestowments, great and small, in the blessed cause of charity.
In the present age, how limited the number, whose moral courage and
self-denial enable them to do their alms in secret, and without sounding a
trumpet, as the hypocrites do! How many, impatient of delay, prefer an
immediate reward--_to have glory of men_--rather than a long draft, upon
far futurity, though God himself be the paymaster!
The ability, to plan a magnificent, prospective charity, to provide the
means for its consummation, to preserve inviolate the secret of this high
and holy purpose, except from some confidential friend perhaps, until the
noble and pure-minded benefactor himself is beyond the reach of all human
praise--this is indeed a celestial and a rare accomplishment.
My thoughts have been drawn hitherward, by the public announcement of
certain testamentary donations of the late Theodore Lyman--ten thousand
dollars to the Horticultural Society--ten thousand dollars to the Farm
School--and fifty thousand dollars to the Reform School at Westborough.
The public have been long in doubt, who was the secret patron of that
excellent establishment, upon which he had previously bestowed two and
twenty thousand dollars.--While we readily admit, that, in these
unostentatious and posthumous benefactions, there is every claim upon the
grateful respect of the community--while we delight to cherish a sentiment
of reverence, for the memory of a good man, who would not suffer the sound
of his munificence to go forth, till he had descended to that grave, where
there is no device, nor work, and where his ears must be closed forever to
the world's applause--still there are some, who, doubtless, will marvel at
these magnificent, noiseless, and posthumous appropriations. With a very
small portion of the amounts, bestowed upon these institutions, what glory
might have been had of men, aye, and in his own life time! By distributing
the aggregate into comparatively petty sums--by the exercise of rather
more than ordinary vigilance and cunning, in the selection of fitting
opportunities, what a reputation Mr. Lyman might have obtained! He would
not only have been preceded, by the sound of a trumpet, but every penny
paper would have readily converted itself into a penny trumpet, to spread
the fame of his showy benefactions. His name would have been in every
mouth--aye, and on every omnibus and engine. Add to all this a very small
amount--a few hundred dollars, devoted to the procurement of plaster casts
of himself, to be skilfully distributed, and verily he would have had his
reward.
The Hon. Theodore Lyman is dead, and, today, my grateful and respectful
dealings are with his memory. The practical benevolence of this gentleman
has been well known to me, for years. There are quiet, unobtrusive
charities, which are not likely to figure, in the daily journals, or to be
known by any person, but the parties. For such as these I have
occasionally solicited Mr. Lyman, and never in vain. On the other hand,
there are individuals, whose names are forever before the public, in
connection with some work, to be seen of men; but whose gold and silver,
unless they are likely to glitter, _in transitu_, before the eye of the
community, are parted with, reluctantly, if at all.
This great public benefactor, upon the present occasion, seems to have
said, in the gentle, unobtrusive whisperings of his noble spirit--"A
portion of that, which God has permitted me to gather, I believe it is my
bounden duty to return, into the treasury of the Lord. This will I do. The
secret shall remain, while I live, between God, who gives me this willing
heart, and myself. And, when the world shall, at last, become unavoidably
apprized of the fact, I shall have taken sanctuary in the grave, where the
fulsome applause of the multitude can never reach me."
Between such apostolic charity as this, and certain flashy munificence,
whose authors seem to be forever drawing drafts, at sight, and always
_without grace_, upon the public, for fresh laudation--more votes of
thanks--additional resolutions of all sorts of societies--and a more
copious supply of vapid editorial adulation--between these, I say, there
is all that real difference which exists, between the "gem of purest ray
serene," and the wretched Bristol imitation--between the flower that
blooms and sends abroad its perfume in secret, and that corruption whose
veritable character can never be concealed; and I may be suffered to say,
as truly as Jock Jabos of his professional relations, that one of my
calling may be supposed to know something of corruption, by this time.
----"My ear is pained,
My soul is sick with every day's report"
of _ad captandum_ benefactions. Today, that generous benefactor, Mr.
Pipkin, endows some village Lyceum, which is destined forever to glory in
the euphonious name of Pipkin. Tomorrow our illustrious fellow-citizen,
Mr. Snooks, presents a bell to some village church, and, the very next
week, we are told, that the bell was cracked, while ringing peals in honor
of the munificent Snooks. Even the Tonsons, whose ubiquity is a proverb,
and whose inordinate relish for all sorts of notoriety surpasses their
powers of munificence, are always in, for a pen'worth of this species of
titillating snuff, at small cost.
The Hon. Theodore Lyman was born in Boston, in 1792. His father was
Theodore Lyman, a shrewd, enterprising, and eminently successful merchant
of this city. His mother's maiden name was Lydia Williams. She was a
sister of Samuel Williams, the celebrated London Banker. The subject of
this brief notice received his preparatory education, at Phillips Exeter
Academy, under the charge of the venerable Dr. Abbott. He entered Harvard
University in 1806, and took his degrees in the usual course.
In 1812, Mr. Lyman went to England, upon a visit to his maternal uncle,
Mr. Williams, and, during his absence, travelled on the continent, with
Mr. Edward Everett, visiting Greece, Palestine, &c., and remaining abroad,
until 1816. He was in Paris, when the allied armies entered that city. Of
this event he subsequently published an account, in a work, very
pleasantly written, entitled _Three Weeks in Paris_.
In 1820, or very near that period, Mr. Lyman married Miss Mary Henderson
of New York, a lady of rare personal beauty and accomplishments, who died
in 1836. The issue of this marriage were three daughters and a son, Julia,
Mary, Cora and Theodore. The two last survive. The elder children, Julia
and Mary, in language of beautiful significancy, have "gone before."
Mr. Lyman published an octavo volume, on Italy, and compiled two useful
volumes, on the Diplomacy of the United States with Foreign Nations. In
1834 and 1835, Mr. Lyman was Mayor of the City of Boston. He brought to
that office the manners of a refined and polished gentleman; the
independence of a man of spirit and of honor; a true regard for justice
and the rights of all men; a lofty contempt for all time-serving policy;
talents of a highly respectable order; a mind well stored and well
balanced; and a cordial desire, exemplified in his own personal and
domestic relations, and by his encouraging word and open hand, of
promoting the best interests of the great temperance reform.
To the duties of this office, in which there is something less of glory
than of toil, he devoted himself, during those two years, with great
personal sacrifice and privation to those, whom he loved most. The period
of his mayoralty was, by no means, a period of calm repose. Those years
were scored, by the spirit of misrule, with deep, dark lines of infamy.
Those years are memorable for the Vandal outrage upon the Ursuline
Convent, and the Garrison riot; in which, a portion of the people of
Boston demonstrated the terrible truth, that they were not to be outdone
in fury, even by the most furious abolitionist, who ever converted his
stylus into a harpoon, and his inkhorn into a vial of wrath.
Mr. Lyman, even in comparatively early life, filled the offices of a
Brigadier and Major General of our Militia; and was in our Legislative
Councils.
The temperament of Mr. Lyman was peculiar. Frigid, and even formal, before
the world, he was one of the most warm-hearted men, among the noiseless
paths of charity, and in the closer relations of life. I have sometimes
marvelled, where he bestowed his keen sensibility, while going through the
rough and wearying detail of official duty. In the spring of 1840 we met
accidentally, at the South--in the city of Charleston. He was ill. His
mind was ill at ease. He seemed to me, at that time, a practical
illustration of the truth, that it is not good for man to be alone. Yet he
had been long stricken then, in his domestic relation. His chief anxiety
seemed to be about the health of his little boy. He told me, that he
lingered there on his account. I never knew a more devoted father.
A gentleman, well-known to the community, by his untiring practical
benevolence, to whom I applied for information, has sent me a reply, from
which I must be permitted to extract one passage, for the benefit of the
world--"I have known much of his benevolent acts, having been the
frequent almoner of his bounty, with the injunction, '_Keep it to
yourself_.' He often called, and spent one or two hours, to converse on
temperance, and the poor, and would spend a long winter evening in my
office, to learn of me what my situation enabled me to communicate, and
always left a check for $50 or $100, to give to the Howard, or some other
society. In the severe winter weather, I remarked that he would say,
'_This weather makes one feel for the poor_.' He often sent his man with
provisions to the houses of the destitute, and had a heart to feel for
others' woe."
He has gone! But the memory of this good man shall never go! It shall be
embalmed in the grateful tears of the reformed, from age to age.
Thousands, now unborn, shall be snatched, like brands from the burning,
through the agency of this heavenly charity; and, as they turn from the
walls of this noble institution, in a moral sense, regenerate, they shall
bless the name of their noble benefactor; and thus raise and perpetuate,
to the memory of THEODORE LYMAN, the _monumentum aere perennius_.
No. LVII.
It is scarcely credible, for what peccadilloes, life was forfeited, by the
laws of England, within the memory of men, now living. One hundred and
sixty offences, which may be committed by man, have been declared, by
different acts of parliament, to be felony, without benefit of clergy;
that is, punishable with death. It is truly wonderful, that, in the
eighteenth century, it should have been a capital offence, in England, to
break down the mound of a fish pond--to cut down a cherry tree in an
orchard--or to be seen, for one month, in the company of those, who called
themselves Egyptians.
We constantly refer to the laws of Draco, the Archon of Athens, as a code
of unequalled cruelty; under whose operation, crimes of the highest order,
and the most trifling offences, were punished, with equal severity. Draco
punished murder with death, and he punished idleness with death. The laws
of England punished murder with death, and they punished theft, over the
value of twelve pence, with death. What is the necessity of going back to
the time of Draco, 624 years before Christ, for examples of inhuman, and
absurdly inconsistent legislation?
The Marquis of Beccaria, in his treatise, _De Delitti e Delle Pene_, seems
to have awakened legislators from a trance, in 1764, by propounding the
simple inquiry--_Ought not punishments to be proportioned to crimes, and
how shall that proportion be established?_ A matter, so apparently simple,
seems not to have been thought of before.
Sir Samuel Romilly, Sir James Mackintosh, and Sir Robert Peel are entitled
to great praise, for their efforts to soften and humanize the criminal
code of Great Britain.
The distinction, between grand and petty larceny, was not abolished, until
1827, when, by the act 7th and 8th Geo. IV. chap. 29, theft was made
punishable by transportation, or imprisonment and whipping. By this
statute, robbery from the person, burglary, stealing in a dwelling-house
to the value of L5, stealing cattle, and sheep-stealing are made
punishable with death. So that the punishment was, even then, the same,
for murdering a man, and stealing a sheep, or L5 from a dwelling-house.
Death, by this statute, was also the punishment for arson, for setting
fire to coal mines, and ships; and for riotously demolishing buildings or
machinery.
In the following year, 1828, by the act 9th Geo. IV. ch. 31, death is made
the punishment, for murder, maliciously shooting, cutting and maiming,
administering poison, attempting to drown, suffocate, &c., and for rape
and sodomy. By this act, more than fifty statutes, relative to offences
against the person, are repealed.
The act 11th Geo. IV. and 1st Will. IV. ch. 66, passed in 1830, abolishes
capital punishment, in all cases of forgery, excepting forgery of the
royal seals, exchequer bills, bank notes, wills, bills of exchange,
promissory notes, or money orders, transfers of stock, and powers of
attorney. Death remained the penalty for all these forgeries, in 1830,
and, for all other forgeries, transportation and imprisonment.
Two years after, in 1832, another step was taken. By 2d Will. IV. ch. 34,
capital punishment was abolished, and transportation and imprisonment
substituted, for all offences, relative to the coin. This was a prodigious
stride.
This gave us a great hope, that misguided murderers might finally be
suffered to live in security, at least, from the halter: for no object
had been of greater moment with the British nation, than the coin of the
realm, and the death penalty had often been exacted from those, who had
dared to clip or counterfeit that sacred representative of majesty. The
principle is well established, that men, who fly from one extreme, _in
contraria currunt_. We trusted, therefore, that extremely lenient
legislation would supervene, upon its very opposite.
We had great confidence in a system of "indefatigable teasing," as Butler
calls it. In the same year, 1832, by 2d and 3d Will. IV. ch. 62, capital
punishment was abolished, in cases of stealing from a dwelling-house to
the value of L5, and sheep-stealing; and by the same act, ch. 123, capital
punishment was abolished, in all cases of forgery, excepting in the cases
of wills, and powers of attorney for stock.
In 1833, by 3d and 4th Will. IV. ch. 44, capital punishment was abolished
in case of dwelling-house robbery; repealing so much of the larceny act of
1827.
Our good friends in England next thought it expedient to divest the
process of hanging, of all its postmortuary terrors. I have heard of
condemned persons, who expressed a greater horror, at the thought of being
dissected, than of being hanged. It was deemed proper, therefore, to
relieve the unfortunates, on this tender point. Accordingly, in 1834, by
4th Will. IV. ch. 26, dissecting murderers, and hanging them, in chains,
were abolished.
It had been the law of England, that all persons returning, _sua sponte_,
after transportation, should be hanged. But experience has shown how deep
is the affection, which convicts bear to their former haunts, their native
land. It is a perfect _nostalgia_. This law was therefore repealed, in
1834, by 4th and 5th Will. IV. ch. 67.
In 1835, by 5th and 6th Will. IV. ch. 33, sundry felonies, never before
deemed bailable offences, were made so, notwithstanding the parties
confessed themselves guilty.
Sacrilege and letter-stealing had long been capital offences in England.
In the same year, they were no longer punished with death.
We had great hopes from Victoria. In 1837, 1 Vic. ch. 23, she began, by
abolishing the pillory entirely;--and ch. 84, capital punishment is
abolished, in all cases of forgery;--ch. 85, capital punishment is
inflicted, for administering poison, or doing bodily injury with intent
to mutilate; but other acts, with intent to murder, or maim, or disfigure,
are punished with different degrees of transportation and
imprisonment.--Ch. 86 takes away capital punishment, in burglary, unless
accompanied with violence.--Ch. 87 takes away capital punishment, in case
of robbery, unless attended with cutting or wounding. Ch. 88 leaves the
punishment of death, transportation or imprisonment, to the discretion of
the court, in case of piracy, where murder is attempted. Ch. 89 varies the
laws of arson, making arson a capital offence, in regard to a
dwelling-house, _any person being therein_.--Ch. 91 abolishes capital
punishment in cases of riotous assemblies, seducing from allegiance, and
certain offences against the revenue laws.
It is rather surprising, that there is such a general prejudice throughout
the world, in favor of putting murderers to death. The Bible is an awful
stumbling block, in this respect. We are also reminded that Solon, when he
abolished the code of Draco, retained the punishment of death, in the case
of murder. I have never thought much of Solon, since I became acquainted
with this weak point in his character.
A writer in the Edinburgh Review, vol. 86, p. 217, speaking of death as
the punishment for murder, observes--"The intense desire which now
actuates a portion of the community, to get rid of capital punishment even
for murder, may be taken as an indication of this excessive sensibility.
The propriety of that punishment in the given case, would certainly appear
to be distinctly sanctioned by that book, to which its opponents
professedly appeal--by reason--and by the all but universal practice of
nations. It is the only certain guarantee which society can have for the
security of its members." Here we have it again--"that book"--the Bible.
It cannot be denied that the Bible, or Solon, or Sir Matthew Hale, or
somebody else, is everlastingly in the way of this and other modern,
philanthropic movements. What was Solon, in comparison with David
Crockett--we are sure we are right, and why should we not go ahead?
For my own part, I have never been able to perceive the wisdom of
attempting to conceal any of our prospective movements. Indeed, our future
course must be sufficiently apparent, at a glance. When we have
_agitated_, until capital punishment is abolished, and we have had a
commemorative celebration, with emblematical banners, and an hundred guns
on the Common, nothing will be further from our thoughts, than a
dissolution, sine die. One of our chief arguments in favor of abolishing
capital punishment, is the greater hardship of a life-long imprisonment.
Availing of this argument, we shall be able to show, that we have placed
these unfortunates, in a worse condition than before. A petition will be
presented to the Governor and Council, from five thousand unhappy
murderers, ravishers, house-burners, burglars and highway robbers--such we
think will be the number, in a few years--representing their miserable
condition, and respectfully requesting to be hanged, under the influence
of ether or otherwise, as to the Governor and Council may seem fit. We
shall then _agitate_ anew, and endeavor, through public meetings and the
press, to exhibit the barbarity of refusing their humble request.
This, we well enough know, will not be granted; and the only escape from
the dilemma, will be to suffer them, to go at large, upon their parole of
honor. It will not, of course, be expected, that this parole will be
received from any, who cannot produce a certificate, under the hand of the
warden, that they have committed no murder, rape, arson, burglary, or
highway robbery, during the period of their confinement in the State
Prison.
No. LVIII.
The late Archbishop of Bordeaux, when Bishop of Boston, Dr. Cheverus, told
me, that he had very little influence with his people, in regard to their
extravagance at funerals. It is very hard to persuade them to abate the
tithe of a hair, in the cost of a _birril_.
This post-mortuary profligacy, this pride of death, is confined to no age
or nation of the world. It has prevailed, ever since chaos was licked into
shape, and throughout all Heathendom and Christendom, begetting a childish
and preposterous competition, who should bear off the corpses of their
relations, most showily, and cause them to rot, most expensively.
This amazing folly has often required, and received, the sumptuary curb of
legislation. I have briefly referred, in a former number, to the
restraining edicts of the law-givers of Greece, and the laws of the Twelve
Tables at Rome.
Even here, and among the earlier records of our own country, evidences are
not wanting, that the attention of our worthy ancestors had been attracted
to the subject of funereal extravagance. At a meeting, held in Faneuil
Hall, October 28, 1767, at which the Hon. James Otis was the Moderator,
the following resolution was passed: "_And we further agree strictly to
adhere to the late regulations respecting funerals, and will not use any
gloves but what are manufactured here, nor procure any new garments, upon
such occasions, but what shall be absolutely necessary_." This resolution
was passed, _inter alia similia_, with reference to the Stamp Act of 1765,
and as part of the system of non-importation.
There is probably no place like England--no city like London, for funereal
parade and extravagance. The Church, to use the fox-hunting phrase, must
be _in at the death_; and how truly would a simple funeral, without
pageantry, in some sort--a cold, unceremonious burial, without mutes, and
streamers, and feathers--without bell, book, or candle--flout and
scandalize the gorgeous Church of England! The Church and the State are
connected, so intimately and indissolubly connected, that he, who dies in
the arms of Mother Church, must permit that particular old lady, in the
matter of his funeral, to indulge her ruling passion, for costly forms and
ceremonies.
It is more than forty years, since, with infinite delight, I first read
that effusion--outpouring--splendid little eruption, if you like--of
Walter Scott's, called Llewellyn. Apart from all context, a single stanza
is to my present purpose; I give it from memory, where it has clung, for
forty years:
When a prince to the fate of a peasant has yielded,
The tapestry waves dark, round the dim lighted pall,
With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,
And pages stand mute in the canopied hall.
Through the vault, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming,
In the proudly arched chapel the banners are beaming,
Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming,
Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.
In all this, the nobility ape royalty, the gentry the nobility, the
commonalty the gentry: and there is no estate so low, as not, in this
particular, to account the death of a near relative a perfect
justification of extravagance.
There is scarcely one in a thousand, I believe, who has any just idea of
the amount, annually lavished upon funerals, in Great Britain; or of the
extraordinary fact, that joint stock burial companies exist there, and
declare excellent dividends.
In 1843, at the request of her Majesty's principal Secretary of State, for
the Home Department, Edwin Chadwick, Esquire, drew up "a report on the
results of a special inquiry into the practice of interment, in towns."
Mr. Chadwick states, that, _upon a moderate calculation, the sum annually
expended in funeral expenses, in England and Wales, is five millions of
pounds sterling_, and that four of these millions may be justly set down
as expended on the mere fopperies of death.
Evelyn says, that his mother requested his father, on her death bed, to
bestow upon the poor, whatever he had designed, for the expenses of her
funeral.
Speaking of this abominable misapplication of money, a writer, in the
London Quarterly Review, vol. 73, p. 466, exclaims--"To what does it go?
To silk scarfs and brass nails--feathers for the horses--kid gloves and
gin for the mutes--white satin and black cloth for the worms. And whom
does it benefit? Not those, whose unfeigned sorrow makes them callous, at
the moment, to its show, and almost to its mockery--not the cold
spectator, who sees its dull magnificence give the lie to the preacher's
equality of death--but the lowest of all hypocrites, the hired mourner,
&c." It is calculated by Mr. Chadwick, that L60 to L100 are necessary to
bury an upper tradesman--L250 for a gentleman--L500 to L1500 for a
nobleman.
High profits were obtained, by the joint stock burial companies in
England, in 1843. The sale of graves in one cemetery was at the rate of
L17,000 per acre, and a calculation, made for another, gave L45,375 per
acre, not including fees for monuments, &c. One company, says Mr.
Chadwick, has set forth an estimate, that seven acres, at the rate of ten
coffins, in one grave, would accommodate 1,335,000--one million three
hundred and thirty-five thousand--paupers. The following interrogatory was
put, and repeated by members of the Parliamentary Committee, to the
witnesses: "_Do you think there would be any objection to burying bodies
with a certain quantity of quick lime, sufficient to destroy the coffin
and the whole thing in a given time?_"
In 1843, Mr. J. C. Loudon published, in London, his work on the Managing
of Cemeteries and the Improvement of Churchyards. The cool, philosophic
style, in which Mr. Loudon handles this interesting subject, is rather
remarkable. On page 50, he expatiates, as follows: "_This temporary
cemetery may be merely a field, rented on a twenty-one years' lease, of
such an extent, as to be filled with graves in fourteen years. At the end
of seven years more it may revert to the landlord, and be cultivated,
planted, or laid down in grass, or in any manner that may be thought
proper. Nor does there appear to us any objection to union workhouses
having a portion of their garden ground used as a cemetery, to be restored
to cultivation, after a sufficient time had elapsed._"
This certainly is doing the utilitarian thing, with a vengeance. Quite a
novel rotation of crops--cabbages following corpses. My long experience
assures me, that the rapidity of decomposition depends, upon certain
qualities in the subject and in the soil. Skeletons are sometimes found,
in tolerably perfect condition, after an inhumation of two hundred years.
Perhaps Mr. Loudon, in his eager festination for a crop, may have
determined to bury in quicklime. Paupers and quicklime would make a
capital compost, and scarcely require a top-dressing, of any kind, for
years. What beets! what carrots, for the cockney market! Notwithstanding
the quicklime, I should rather fear an occasional envelopment of some
_unlucky_ relic, in the guise of a _lucky_ bone--a grinder, perhaps. And,
when these vegetables shall again have been converted into animals, and
these animals shall have served their day and generation, they shall again
be converted into cabbages and carrots, as all their predecessors were.
Well, this Mr. Loudon is a practical fellow; and his metastasis is
admirable. Here are thousands of miserable wretches--_nullorum fiilii_,
many of them--they have contributed scarcely anything to the common weal,
while living; now let us put them in the way, with the assistance of a
little quicklime, of doing something for their fellow-beings, after they
are dead. The pauper squashes and cabbages must have been at a premium, in
Leadenhall Market. Imagination is clearly worth something. After all my
reason can accord, in the way of respect, for these utilitarian notions, I
solemnly protest against marrowfats, cultivated in Mr. Loudon's pauper
hotbeds. No doubt they would be larger, and the flavor richer and more
peculiar--nevertheless, Mr. Loudon must excuse me--I say I protest. He
gives an alternative permission, to lay down his mixture of dead bodies
and quicklime to grass, or for the pasture of cows. Even then the milk
would have a suspicious flavor, or _post-mortem_ smell, I apprehend; it
would be the same thing, by second intention, as the surgeons say.
The explanation of Mr. Loudon's monstrous proposition can be found
nowhere, but in his concentrated interest in agriculture, to which he
would have the living and the dead alike contribute. When contemplating
the corpse of a portly pauper, he seems to think of nothing, but the
readiest mode of converting it into cabbages.
I have heard of a cutaneous fellow, who had an irresistible fancy, for
skinning animals--it had become a passion. Nothing came amiss to him. He
sought with avidity, for every four-footed and creeping thing, that died
within five miles of his dwelling, for the pleasure of skinning it. The
insides of his apartments were covered with the expanded skins, not only
of beasts and the lesser vermin, but of birds, serpents and fishes. His
house was an exuvial museum. He had a little son, a mere child, who
assisted his father, on these occasions, in a small way. He had the
misfortune to lose his grandmother--a fine old lady--and the following
brief colloquy occurred, between the father and the child, the day before
she was buried: "I say, father." "What, Peter?" "When are you going to
skin Granny?"
No. LIX.
Last Sabbath morning, I read Cicero's _Dialogus de Amicitia_--simple
Latinity, and very short--27 sections only. It seemed like enjoying the
company of an old friend. It is now just forty-seven years, since I first
read it, at Exeter. I marvel at Montaigne, for not thinking highly of
it--but find some little motive, in the fact, that he had written a tract
upon the subject, himself, which may be found, in his first volume, page
215, London, 1811, and which can no more be compared to the _Dialogus_,
than--to use George Colman's expression--a mummy to Hyperion.
The Dialogus de Amicitia, of a Sabbath morning! Aye, my reverend, orthodox
brother. Not having, in my system, one pulse of sympathy for
disorganization, and liberty parties, I reverence the holy Sabbath, as
much as you do yourself; and, to prevent the _Dialogus_ from hurting me, I
read one sermon before, and another immediately after--Jeremy Taylor's
_Apples of Sodom_; and Flechier's _Sur La Correction Fraternelle_--such
sermons, as, in the concoction, would, perhaps, be very likely to burst
your mental boiler, and which would not suit the appetites of many, modern
congregations, who have ruined their powers of inwardly digesting such
strong meat, by dieting upon theological _fricandises faites avec du
sucre_.
And you was not at meeting then! Right again, my dear brother. I am deaf
as a haddock; though Sir Thomas Browne has annihilated this favorite
standard of comparison, by assuring us, that a haddock has as good ears,
as any other fish in the sea. Mine, however, are quite unscriptural--ears
not to hear. My ear is all in my eye.
Roscius boasted of his power to convey his meaning, by mute gesticulation.
Our modern clergy have so little of this gift, that, with my impracticable
ears, it is all dumb show for me. Now and then, when the wind is fair, I
catch a word or two; and no cross-readings were ever more grotesque and
comical, than my cross-hearings. I am convinced, that I do not always have
the worst of it. When, in reply to an old lady, who once asked me how I
liked the preacher, I told her I heard not a syllable--what a mercy! she
exclaimed. But consider the example! True, there is something in that. Try
the experiment--stop the _meatus auditorius_ with beeswax, and try it, for
half a dozen Sabbaths, even with the knowledge, that you can remove the
impediment at will, which I cannot!
After I had finished the _Dialogus_, I found myself successfully engaged,
in the process of mental exhumation:--up they came, one after another, the
playmates of my childhood, with their tee-totums and merry-andrews--the
companions of my boyhood, with their tops, kites, and marbles--the friends
and associates of my youth, with their skates, bats, and fowling pieces.
It is really quite pleasant to gather a party, upon such short notice, and
with so little effort; and without the trouble of providing wine and
sweetmeats. Upon the very threshold of manhood, how they scatter and
disperse! There is a passage of the Dialogus--the tenth section--which is
so true to life, at the present hour, that one can scarcely realize it was
written, before the birth of Christ:--"Ille (Scipio) quidem nihil
dificilius esse dicebat, quam amicitiam usque ad extremum vitae permanere.
Nam vel ut non idem expediret utrique, incidere saepe; vel ut de republica
non idem sentirent; mutari etiam mores hominum saepe dicebat, alias
adversis rebus, alias aetate ingravescente. Atque earum rerum exemplum ex
similitudine capiebat incuentis aetatis, quod summi puerorum amores saepe
una cum praetexta ponerentur; sin autem ad adolescentiam perduxissent,
dirimi tamen interdum contentione, vel uxoriae conditionis, vel commodi
allicujus, quod idem adipisci uterque non posset. Quod si qui longius in
amicitia provecti essent, tamen saepe labefactari, si in honoris
contentionem incidissent: pestem esse nullam amicitiis, quam in plerisque
pecuniae cupiditatem, in optimis quibusque honoris certamen et gloriae: ex
quo inimicitias maximas saepe inter amicissimos extitisse." Lord Rochester
said, that nothing was ever benefited, by translation, but a bishop. This,
nevertheless, I believe, is a fair translation of the passage--
He (Scipio) said, that nothing was more difficult, than for friendship to
continue to the very end of life: either because its continuance was found
to be inexpedient for one of the parties, or on account of political
differences.
He remarked, that men's humors were apt to be affected, sometimes, by
adverse fortune, and at others, by the heavy listlessness of age. He drew
an example of these things, from a similar condition in youth--the most
vehement attachments, among boys, were commonly laid aside with the
praetexta, or at the age of maturity; or, if continued beyond that period,
they were occasionally interrupted, by some contention about the state or
condition of the wife, or the possessions or advantages of somebody, which
the other party was unable to equal. Indeed, if some there were, whose
friendship was drawn along to a later period, it was very apt to be
weakened, if they became rivals, in the path of fame. The greatest bane of
friendship, among the mass, was the love of money, and among some, of the
better sort, the thirst for glory; by which the bitterest hatred had been
generated, between those, who had been the greatest friends.
Unless it be orthodoxy, nothing has been so variously defined, as
_friendship_. A man who stands by, and sees another murdered, in a duel,
is his _friend_. Mutual endorsers are _friends_. Partisans are the
_friends_ of the candidate. Those gentlemen, who give their time and
talents to eat and drink up some wealthy fool, who would pass for an
Amphytrion, and laugh at the fellow's simplicity, behind his back, are his
_friends_. The patrons of players and buffoons, signors and signorinas,
are their _friends_. The venders of Havana cigars and Bologna sausages
inform their _friends_ and patrons, that they have recently received a
fresh supply. Marat was the _friend_ of the people. Eliphaz, Bildad, and
Zophar were the _friends_ of Job; and he told them rather uncivilly, I
think, that they were miserable comforters. Matthew speaks of a _friend_
of publicans and sinners.
Monsieur Megret, who, as Voltaire relates, the instant Charles XII. was
killed, exclaimed--_Voila la piece finie, allons souper_--see, the play is
over, let us go to supper, was the king's _friend_. William the First,
like other kings, had many _friends_, who, the moment he died, ran away,
and literally left the dead to bury the dead; of which a curious account
may be found, in the Harleian Miscellany, vol. iii. page 160, London,
1809. Friendship flourishes, at Christmas and New Year, for every one, we
are told, in the book of Proverbs, is a _friend_ to him that giveth gifts.
There seems to be no end to this enumeration of _friends_. The name is
legion, to say nothing of the whole society of _Friends_. What then could
Aristotle have meant, when he exclaimed, as Diogenes Laertius says he did,
lib. v. sec. 21, _My friends, there is no such thing as a friend_?
Menander is stated by Plutarch, in his tract, on Brotherly Love, cap. 3,
to have proclaimed that man happy, who had found even _the shadow of a
friend_?
It would be hard to describe the friend, whom Aristotle and Menander had
in mind. Cicero has employed twenty-seven sections, and given us an
imperfect definition after all. Such a friend comes not, within any one of
the categories I have named.
_Friends_, in the common acceptation of that word, may be readily lost and
won. The direction, ascribed to Rochefoucault, seems less revolting, when
applied to such _friends_ as these--_to treat all one's friends, as if,
one day, they might be foes, and all one's foes, as if, one day, they
might be friend_. This cold-blooded axiom is Rochefoucault's, only by
adoption. Aristotle, in his Rhetoric, lib. ii. cap. 13, and Diogenes
Laertius, in his life of Bias, lib. i. sec. 7, ascribe something like this
saying to him. Cicero, in the sixteenth section of the _Dialogus de
Amicitia_, after referring to the opinion--"_ita amare oportere, ut si
aliquando esset ossurus_," and stating Scipio's abhorrence of the
sentiment, expresses his belief, that it never proceeded from so good and
wise a man, as Bias. Aulus Gellius, lib. i. cap. 3, imputes to Chilon, one
of the seven wise men of Greece, substantially, the same sentiment--"_Love
him, as if you were one day to hate him, and hate him, as if you were one
day to love him_." Poor Rochefoucault, who had sins enough to answer for,
is as unjustly held to be author of this infernal sentiment, as was Dr.
Guillotin of the instrument, that bears his ill-fated name.
Boccacio was in the right--_there is a skeleton in every house_. We have,
all of us, our crosses to carry; and should strive to bear them as
gracefully, as comports with the infirmity of human nature; and among the
most severe is the loss of an old friend. Aristotle was mistaken--there is
such a thing as a friend. Some fifty years ago, I began to have a
friend--our professions and pursuits were similar. For some fifty years,
we have cherished a feeling of mutual affection and respect; and, now that
we have retired from the active exercise of our craft, we daily meet
together, and, like a brace of veteran grasshoppers, chirp over days
bygone. I believe I never asked of my friend an unreasonable or unseemly
thing. God knows he never did of me. Thus we have obeyed Cicero's first
law of friendship--_Haec igitur prima lex in amicitia sanciatur, ut neque
rogemus res turpes, nec faciamus, rogati_.
We are most happily adapted to each other. I have always taken pleasure in
regurgitating, from the fourth stomach of the mind, some tale or anecdote,
and chewing over the cud of pleasant fancy. No man ever had a friend with
a more willing ear, or a shorter memory. But for this, which I have always
accounted a Providence, my stock would have been exhausted, long ago.
After lying fallow, for two or three months, every tale is as good as new.
God bless my friend, and compensate the shortness of his memory, by giving
him length of days, and every good thing, in this and a better world.
No. LX.
Much has been said and written, of late, here and elsewhere, on the
subject of _intra mural_ interment--burial within the _walls_ or
_confines_ of cities. This term, though commonly employed by British
writers, is wholly inapplicable, in all those rural cities, which have
recently sprung up among us, and in which there are still many broad acres
of meadow and pasture, plough-land and forest. In these almost nominal
cities, the question must be, in relation to the propriety of burying the
dead, not within the confines, but in the more densely peopled
portions--in the very midst of the living.
I have an opinion, firmly fixed, and long cherished, upon this important
subject; and, considering myself, professionally, an expert, in these
matters, I shall devote the present article to their consideration.
There is no doubt, that a cemetery, from its improper location, or the
mass of putrefying material, which the madness, or folly, or avarice of
its proprietors has accumulated there, or from the indecent and almost
superficial deposition of half-buried corpses, may become, like the burden
of our sins--_intolerable_. It is not less certain, that it may become a
_public nuisance_--not merely in the _popular_ sense--but _legally_, and,
as such, indictable at common law. Neither can there be any doubt, that
the city authorities, without a resort to the process of indictment, and
as conservators of the public health, have full power, to prevent all
future interments in that cemetery. This is true of a cemetery in the
suburbs--_a fortiori_, of a cemetery in the city.
At the present day, it may seem astonishing to many, that any doubt ever
prevailed, in the minds of respectable members of the medical faculty, as
to the unhealthy influences of the effluvia, arising from _animal_
corruption. Orfila, Parant Duchatelet, and other Frenchmen, of high
professional reputation, have maintained, that such effluvia are perfectly
innocuous. It seems to be almost universally agreed, at the present day,
to reject such extraordinary doctrines entirely; although it is admitted,
by the highest authorities, that the exhalations from _vegetable_
corruption are the more pernicious of the two.
So far as the decision of this question concerns the remedy, by legal
process, it is of no absolute importance. The popular impression, that
exhalations, of any kind, cannot constitute a _public nuisance_, in the
technical import of those words, unless those exhalations are injurious to
health, is erroneous. Lord Mansfield held this not to be necessary; and
that it was enough, if the air were so affected, as to be breathed by the
public, with less comfort and pleasure, than before.
Interment, beyond the confines of the city, was enjoined, some eighteen
hundred years ago. It was decreed in Rome, by the twelve tables--_hominem
mortuum in urbe ne sepelito_.
A writer, in the London Quarterly Review, vol. 73, p. 446, has written,
very ably, on this interesting topic. He supplies some facts of
importance, connected with the history of interment. A. D. 381.--The
Theodosian code forbade all interment within the walls of the city, and
even ordered, that all the bodies and monuments, already placed there,
should be carried out.
A. D. 529.--The first clause was confirmed by Justinian. A. D. 563.--The
Council of Brague decreed, that no dead body should be buried, within the
circle of the city walls.
A. D. 586.--The Council of Auxerre decreed, that no one should be buried
in their temples. A. D. 827.--Charlemagne decreed, that no person should
be buried in a church. A. D. 1076.--The Council of Winchester decreed,
that no person should be buried in the churches. A. D. 1552.--Latimer, on
Saint Luke vii. ii., says, "the citizens of Nain had their burying places
without the city; and I do marvel, that London, being so great a city,
hath not a burial place without," &c. A. D. 1565.--Charles Borromeo, the
good bishop of Milan, ordered the return to the ancient custom of suburban
cemeteries.
Sir Matthew Hale used to say, "churches were made for the living, not for
the dead." The learned Anthony Rivet observed--"I wish this custom, which
covetousness and superstition first brought in, were abolished; and that
the ancient custom were revived to have burying places, in the free and
open fields, without the gates of cities." In 1832, fifteen Archbishops,
Bishops, and others, ecclesiastical commissioners, in London, recommended
the abolition of all burials in churches.
At great expense, the City Government of Roxbury have judiciously selected
a spot, eminently beautiful, and remote from the peopled portion of the
city, for the burial of the dead. The great argument--the manifest
motive--was _a just regard for the health of their constituents_. If the
present nuisance should continue much longer, and grow much greater, may
not the question be respectfully asked, with some little pertinency, _what
has become of that just regard?_
Surely there is no lack of power. In 1832, the government of Boston said
to the town of Roxbury, not in the language of David to Moab--thou shalt
be "_my wash pot_"--but thou shalt be the receptacle of our offal--of all,
that is filthy, and corruptible, within our borders. The City Government
of Boston went extensively then into the carrion and garbage business, and
furnished the provant for a legion of hogs, the property of an influential
citizen of Roxbury. This awful hoggery was located on the road, now called
East Street. The carrion carts of the metropolis of New England, _eundo,
redeundo, et manendo_, dropping filth and fatness, as they went, became
an abominable nuisance; and, as Commodore Trunnion beat up to church, on
his wedding day, so every citizen, as soon as he discovered one of these
aromatic vehicles, drawn by six or eight horses, tossing up their heads,
and snorting sympathetically, was obliged to close-haul his nose, and
struggle for the weather gage.
Then again, the proprietor of this colossal hog-sty, with his burnery of
bones, and other fragrant contrivances, created a stench, unknown among
men, since the bituminous conflagration of the cities of the plain--Sodom
and Gomorrah; and which terrible stench, in the language of Sternhold &
Hopkins, "_came flying all abroad_." In the keeping of the varying wind,
this "_arria cattiva_," like that from a graveyard, surcharged with
half-buried corpses, visited, from day to day, every dwelling, and
nauseated every man, woman, and child in the village. Four town meetings
were held, upon this subject. Roxbury calmly remonstrated,--Boston
doggedly persisted; and, at last, patience having had its perfect work,
the carrion carts, while attempting to enter Roxbury, were met, by the
yeomanry, on the line, and driven back to Boston. Chief Justice Shaw
having refused an application for an _injunction_, the complaint was
brought before the grand jury of Norfolk. Bills were found, against the
owner of the hogs, and the city of Boston. My learned and amiable friend,
the late John Pickering, then the City Solicitor, defended them both, with
great ability; and the present Judge Merrick, then County Attorney,
opposed the whole swinish concern, with the spirit of an Israelite, and
the power of a Rabbi. The owner of the hogs and the city of Boston were
both duly convicted, and, entering into a written obligation to sin no
more, in this wise, the indictment was held over them, for a reasonable
period, until they had given satisfactory evidence of their sincerity.
In the testimony of Dr. George Cheyne Shattuck, which was published, at
the time, after sustaining the prosecutors amply, in their allegation, in
respect to the deleterious effect of the nuisance, he remarks--"_The
Creator has established, in the sense of smelling, a sentinel, to descry
distant danger of life. The alarm, sounded through this organ, seldom
passes unheeded, with impunity._"
Dr. John C. Warren and sixteen other respectable physicians concurred in
this opinion.
No. LXI.
How long--oh Lord--how long will thy peculiar people disregard the simple,
unmistakable teachings of common sense, and the admonitions of their own,
proper noses, and bury the dead, in the very midst of the living!--Above
all, how long will they continue to perpetrate that hideous folly of
burying the dead, in tombs! What a childish effort, to keep the worm at
bay--to stave off corruption, yet a little while--to procrastinate the
payment of nature's debt, at maturity--DUST THOU ART AND UNTO DUST THOU
SHALT RETURN!--For what? That the poor, senseless tabernacle may have a
few more months or years, to rot in--that friends and relatives may, from
time to time, be enabled, upon every re-opening of the tomb, to gratify
their morbid curiosity, and see how the worms are getting on--that,
whenever the tomb is unbarred, for another and another tenant, as it may
often happen, at the time, when corruption is doing its utmost--its
rankest work--the foul quintessence--the reeking, deleterious gases may
rush back upon the living world; and, blending with ten thousand kindred
stenches, in a densely peopled city, promote the mighty work of pestilence
and death.
Who does not sympathize with Cowper!
Oh for a lodge, in some vast wilderness,
Some boundless contiguity of shade,
Where the atrocious smells of docks, and sewers,
Eruptive gas, and rank distillery
May never reach me more. My lungs are pain'd,
My nose is sick, with this eternal stench
Of corpse and carrion, with which earth is fill'd.
I am not unmindful, that, in a former number of these Dealings with the
Dead, I have passed over these burial-grounds, and partially exhibited the
interior of these tombs already. But there really seems to be a great
awakening, upon this subject, at the present moment, at home and abroad;
and I rejoice, that it is so.
I am aware, that, within the bounds of old, peninsular Boston, no
inhumations--_burials in graves_--are permitted. This is well.--_Burials
in tombs_ are still allowed.--Why? This mode of burial is much more
offensive. In _grave burial_, the gases percolate gradually; and a
considerable portion may be reasonably supposed to be neutralized, _in
transitu_. This is unquestionably the case, unless the grave is kept open,
or opened, six times, or more, on the speculation principle, for the
reception of new customers. In _tomb burial_, it is otherwise. The tomb is
opened for new comers, and sometimes, most inopportunely, and the horrible
smell fills the atmosphere, and compels the neighboring inhabitants, to
close their windows and doors.
As, with some persons, this may seem to require authentication, without
leading the reader to every offensive graveyard in this city, I will take
a single, and a sufficient example--I will take the oldest graveyard in
the Commonwealth, and the most central, in the city of Boston. I refer to
Isaac Johnson's lot, where, in 1630, his bones were laid--the Chapel
burying-ground. The Savings Bank building bounds upon that cemetery. The
rooms of the Massachusetts Historical Society are over the Bank.
The stench, produced, by burials in the tombs, in that yard, during the
summer of 1849, has compelled the Librarian to close his windows. _Tomb
burial_, in this yard, has not been limited to deceased proprietors, and
their relatives; it has, in some instances, been a matter of traffic. I
have been struck with the present arrangement of the gravestones, in this
yard. Some ingenious person has removed them all, from their original
positions, and actually planted them, "_all of a row_," like the four and
twenty fiddlers--or rather, in four straight rows, near the four sides of
the graveyard. This is a queerer metamorphosis, than any I ever read of.
Ovid has nothing to compare with it. There they are, every one, with its
"_Here lies_," &c., compelled to stand forever, a monument of falsehood.
Of all the pranks, ever perpetrated in a graveyard, this, surely, is the
most amusing. In defiance of the _lex loci_, which rightfully enjoins
solemnity of demeanor, in such a place--and of all my reverence for Isaac
Johnson, and those illustrious men, who slumber there, I was actually
seized with a fit of uncontrollable laughter; and came to the conclusion,
that this sacrilegious transposition must have been the work of Punch, or
Puck, or some Lord of misrule. As I proceeded to read the inscriptions, my
merriment increased, for the gravestones seemed to be conferring together,
upon the subject of these extraordinary changes, which had befallen them;
and repeating over to one another--"_As you are now, so once was I_." As
it happened, in the case of Major Pitcairn, should any person desire to
remove the ashes of his ancestor, these misplaced gravestones would surely
lead to the awakening of the wrong passenger; and some venerable old lady,
who died in her bed, may be transported to England, and buried under arms,
for a major of infantry, who died in battle.
Why continue to bury in tombs? _Surely the sufferance on the part of the
City Government, does not arise, from a respect for vested rights!!!_ If
the City Government has power to close the offensive cellars in Broad
Street, and elsewhere, being private property, because they are accounted
injurious to public health, why may they not close the tombs, being
private property, for the very same reason? Considerations of public
health are paramount. When, upon an application from a number of the
liquor-sellers, wholesale and retail, in this city, Chancellor Kent gave
his opinion, adverse to their hearts' desire, that the license laws were
_constitutional_, he alluded, analogically, to the power of the
Commonwealth, to pass sanatory laws. If the municipal power were deemed
inadequate, legislation would give all the power required. For it would,
indeed, be monstrous, having settled the fact, that the public health
suffered, from burial in tombs, to suppose it a remediless evil.
The slaughter-houses and tanneries, which once existed, in Kilby Street
and Dock Square, would not be tolerated now. Originally, they were not
nuisances. Population gathered around them--their precedency availed them
nothing--they became nuisances, by the force of circumstances. The tombs,
in the churchyard, were not nuisances, when population was sparse--though
they are so now. But the fact I have stated will increase the evil, from
day to day: there can be no more burials, in graves, within the city
proper--people will die--and, as we have not the taste nor courage to
burn--they must be buried--where? In the tombs--which, as I have stated,
is the most offensive and mischievous mode of burial. I have already
alluded to some instances of traffic, connected with certain tombs, in the
Chapel yard. If some plan be not adopted, a new line of business will
spring up, in which the members of my profession will figure, to some
extent: many of the present owners of tombs will sell out, and move their
dead to Mount Auburn, or Forest Hills; and the city tombs will be crammed
with as many corpses, as they can hold, by their speculating proprietors.
Rather than this, it would have been better to continue the old mode of
earth burial. The remedy is plain--the fields are before you--_carry out_
"your dead!"
A famous preacher of eternal torment, and who always, in addition to the
sulphurous complexion of his discourses throughout, devoted three or four
pages, at the close, exclusively to brimstone and fire; is said, upon a
special occasion, to have produced a prodigious effect, upon the more
devoted of his intensely agitated flock, by causing the sexton, when he
heard the preacher scream BRIMSTONE, at the top of his lungs, to throw two
or three rolls, into the furnace below, whose fumes speedily ascended into
the church.
This anecdote came instantly to my recollection, some twenty years ago,
one Sabbath morning, while attending the services in St. Paul's church, in
this city. The rector was absent, and a very worthy clergyman supplied his
place. In the course of his sermon, he repeated, in a very solemn tone,
pointing downward with his finger, in the direction of the tombs below,
those memorable words of Job--_If I wait, the grave is mine house: I have
made my bed in darkness. I have said to corruption, Thou art my father: to
the worm, Thou art my mother and my sister._ Almost immediately--the
coincidence was wonderful--I was oppressed by a most offensive stench,
which certainly seemed to be _germain_ to the subject. It became more and
more powerful. It seemed to me, and I call myself a pretty good judge, to
be posthumous, decidedly. I certainly believed it proceeded from the
charnel house below. My eyes turned right and left, to see how my
neighbors were impressed. The females bowed their heads, and used their
handkerchiefs--the males were evidently aware of it; but, with a slight
compression of their noses, kept their eyes fixed upon the preacher. Two
medical gentlemen, then present, and yet living, pronounced it to be _the
worm and corruption_, and connected it with the burial of a particular
individual, not long before.
The case was carefully investigated, by the wardens and others; who were
perfectly satisfied, that this horrible effluvium was, very probably,
produced, by the burning of a heretic, in the form of a church mouse, that
had taken up his quarters, in the pipe or flue, and was thus converted
into an unsavory _pastille_.
No. LXII.
Draco, I think, would have been perfectly satisfied with some portions of
the primitive, colonial and town legislation of Massachusetts. Hutchinson,
i. 436, quotes the following decree--"Captain Stone, for abusing Mr.
Ludlow, and calling him _Justass_, is fined an hundred pounds, and
prohibited coming within the patent, without the Governor's leave, upon
pain of death."
Hazard, Hist. Coll. i. 630, has preserved a law against the Quakers,
published in Boston, by beat of drum. It bears date Oct. 14th, 1656. The
preamble is couched, in rather strong language--"Whereas there is a cursed
sect of heretics lately risen up in the world, which are commonly called
Quakers, who take upon them to be immediately sent of God," &c. The
statute inflicts a fine of L100 upon any person, who brings one of them
into any harbor, creek, or cove, compels him to carry such Quaker
away--the Quaker to be put in the house of correction, and severely
whipped; no person to speak to him. L5 penalty, for importing, dispersing,
or concealing any book, containing their "devilish opinions;" 40 shillings
for maintaining such opinions. L4 for persisting. House of correction and
banishment, for still persisting.
The poor Quakers gave our intolerant ancestors complete vexation. Hazard,
ii. 589, gives an extract from a law, for the special punishment of two of
these unhappy people, Peter Pierson and Judah Brown--"That they shall, by
the constable of Boston, be forthwith taken out of the prison, and
stripped from the girdle upwards, by the executioner, tied to the cart's
tail, and whipped through the town, with twenty stripes; and then carried
to Roxbury, and delivered to the constable there, who is also to tie them,
or cause them to be tied, in like manner, to the cart's tail, and again
whip them through the town with ten stripes; and then carried to Dedham,
and delivered to the constable there, who is again, in like manner, to
cause them to be tied to the cart's tail, and whipped, with ten stripes,
through the town, and thence they are immediately to depart the
jurisdiction, at their peril."
The legislative designation of the Quakers was _Quaker rogues, heretics,
accursed rantors, and vagabonds_.
In 1657, according to Hutchinson, i. 197, "an additional law was made, by
which all persons were subjected to the penalty of 40 shillings, for every
hour's entertainment, given to a known Quaker, and every Quaker, after the
first conviction, if a man, was to lose an ear, and a second time the
other; a woman, each time, to be severely whipped; and the third time, man
or woman, to have their tongues bored through, with a red-hot iron." In
1658, 10 shillings fine were levied, on every person, present at a Quaker
meeting, and L5 for speaking at such meeting. In October of that year, the
punishment of death was decreed against all Quakers, returning into the
Colony, after banishment. Bishop, in his "New England Judged," says, that
the ears of Holden, Copeland, and Rous, three Quakers, were cut off in
prison. June 1, 1660, Mary Dyer was hanged for returning, after
banishment. Seven persons were fined, some of them L10 apiece, for
harboring, and Edward Wharton whipped, twenty stripes, for piloting the
Quakers. Several persons were brought to trial--"for adhering to the
cursed sect of Quakers, not disowning themselves to be such, refusing to
give civil respect, leaving their families and relations, and running from
place to place, vagabond-like." Daniel Gold and Robert Harper were
sentenced to be whipped, and, with Alice Courland, Mary Scott, and Hope
Clifford, banished, under pain of death. William Kingsmill, Margaret
Smith, Mary Trask, and Provided Southwick were sentenced to be whipped,
and Hannah Phelps admonished.
Sundry others were whipped and banished, that year. John Chamberlain came
to trial, with his hat on, and refused to answer. The verdict of the jury,
as recorded, was--"_much inclining to the cursed opinions of the
Quakers_." Wendlock Christopherson was sentenced to death, but suffered to
fly the jurisdiction. March 14, 1660.--William Ledea, "_a cursed Quaker_,"
was hanged. Some of these Quakers, I apprehend, were determined to exhibit
the naked truth to our Puritan fathers. "Deborah Wilson," says Hutchinson,
i. 204, "went through the streets of Salem, naked as she came into the
world, for which she was well whipped." At length, Sept. 9, 1661, an order
came from the King, prohibiting the capital, and even corporal, punishment
of the Quakers.
Oct. 13, 1657.--Benedict Arnold, William Baulston, Randall Howldon, Arthur
Fenner, and William Feild, the Government of Rhode Island, addressed a
letter, on the subject of this persecution, to the General Court of
Massachusetts, in reply to one, received from them. This letter is highly
creditable to the good sense and discretion of the writers--"And as
concerning these Quakers, (so called)" say they, "which are now among us,
we have no law, whereby to punish any, for only declaring by words, &c.,
their mindes and understandings concerning the things and ways of God, as
to salvation and an eternal condition. And we moreover finde that in those
places, where these people aforesaid, in this Coloney, are most of all
suffered to declare themselves freely, and are only opposed by arguments
in discourse, there they least of all desire to come; and we are informed
they begin to loath this place, for that they are not opposed by the civil
authority, but with all patience and meekness are suffered to say over
their pretended revelations and admonitions, nor are they like or able to
gain many here to their way; and surely we find that they delight to be
persecuted by the civil powers, and when they are soe, they are like to
gaine more adherents by the conseyte of their patient sufferings than by
consent to their pernicious sayings."
One is taken rather by surprise, upon meeting with such a sample of
admirable common sense, in an adjoining Colony, and on such a subject, at
that early day--so opposite withal to those principles of action, which
prevailed in Massachusetts.
The laws of the Colony, enacted from year to year, were first collected
together, and ratified by the General Court, in 1648. Hutchinson, i. 437,
says, "Mr. Bellingham of the magistrates, and Mr. Cotton of the clergy,
had the greatest share in this work."
This code was framed, by Bellingham and Cotton, with a particular regard
to Moses and the tables, and a singular piece of mosaic it was. "Murder,
sodomy, witchcraft, arson, and _rape of a child_, under ten years of age,"
says Hutchinson, i. 440, "were the only crimes made capital in the Colony,
which were capital in England." Rape, in the general sense, not being a
capital offence, by the Jewish law, was not made a capital offence, in the
Colony, for many years. High treason is not even named. The worship of
false gods was punished with death, with an exception, in favor of the
Indians, who were fined L5 a piece, for powowing.
Blasphemy and reproaching religion were capital offences. Adultery with a
married woman, whether the man were married or single, was punished with
the death of both parties; but, if the woman were single, whether the man
were married or single, it was not a capital offence, in either.
Man-stealing was a capital offence. So was wilful perjury, with intent to
take away another's life. Cursing or smiting a parent, by a child over
sixteen years of age, unless in self-defence, or provoked by cruelty, or
having been "unchristianly neglected in its education," was a capital
offence. A stubborn, rebellious son was punished with death. There was a
conviction under this law; "but the offender," says Hutchinson, ibid. 442,
"was rescued from the gallows, by the King's commissioners, in 1665." The
return of a "cursed Quaker," or a Romish priest, after banishment, and the
denial of either of the books, of the Old or New Testament, were punished
with banishment or death, at the discretion of the court. The jurisdiction
of the Colony was extended, by the code of Parson Cotton and Mr.
Bellingham, over the ocean; for they decreed the same punishment, for the
last-named offence, when committed upon the high seas, and the General
Court ratified this law. Burglary, and theft, in a house, or in the
fields, on the Lord's day, were, upon a third conviction, made capital
crimes. The distinction, between grand and petty larceny, which was
recognized in England, till 1827, 7th and 8th Geo. IV., ch. 29, was
abolished, by the code of Cotton and Bellingham, in 1648; and theft,
without limitation of value, was made punishable, by fine or whipping, and
restitution of treble value. In some cases, only double. Thus, ibid. 436,
we have the following entry--"Josias Plaistowe, for stealing four baskets
of corn from the Indians, is ordered to return them eight baskets, to be
fined five pounds, and hereafter to be called by the name of Josias, and
not Mr., as formerly he used to be."
This lenity, in regard to larceny, Mr. Cotton seems to have been willing
to counterbalance, by a terrible severity, on some other occasions.
Mr. Hutchinson, ibid. 442, states, that he has seen the first draught of
this code, in the hand-writing of Mr. Cotton, in which there are named six
offences, made punishable with death, all which are altered, in the hand
of Gov. Winthrop, and the death penalty stricken out. The six offences
were--"Prophaning the Lord's day, in a careless or scornful neglect or
contempt thereof--Reviling the magistrates in the highest rank, viz., the
Governor and Council--Defiling a woman espoused--Incest within the
Levitical degrees--The pollution, mentioned in Leviticus xx. 13 to
16--Lying with a maid in her father's house, and keeping secret, till she
is married to another." Mr. Cotton would have punished all these offences
with death.
On the subject of divorce, the code of 1648 differed from that of the
present day, _with us_, essentially. Adultery in the wife was held to be
sufficient cause, for divorce _a vinculo_: "but male adultery," says
Hutchinson, i. 445, "after some debate and consultation with the elders,
was judged not sufficient." The principle, which directed their decision,
was, doubtless, the same, referred to and recognized, by Lord Chancellor
Eldon, in the House of Lords, in 1801, as reported by Mr. Twiss, in his
Memoirs, vol. i. p. 383.
No. LXIII.
If the materials, of which history and biography are made--the sources of
information--were accessible to every reader, and the patience and ability
were his, to examine for himself, there is, probably, no historian nor
biographer, in whose accuracy and impartiality, his confidence would not
be occasionally weakened. The statement or assertion, the authority for
which lies scattered, among the pages of fifty different writers,
perhaps, and which the historian has compressed within ten short lines,
would, now and then, be found tinctured, and its true complexion
materially altered, by the religious or political coloring of the writer's
mind.
The entire history of one or more ages has been written, to support a
particular code of religious or political tenets. The prejudices of an
annalist have, occasionally, from long indulgence, become so habitual,
that his offences, in this wise, become almost involuntary.
It is very probable, that the devoted followers--the wholesale
admirers--of William Penn, who have presented their conceptions of his
character, and their constructions of his conduct, to the world, from time
to time, have been led into some little excesses, by the force of habitual
idolatry. On the other hand, few readers, I believe, have failed to be
surprised, by some of the statements and opinions, in regard to Penn,
which are presented, on the pages of Mr. Macaulay's History of England.
In my last number, I alluded to the persecution of the Quakers in
Massachusetts. It is my purpose, to say something more of these "_cursed_"
Quakers, and, particularly, of William Penn. My remarks may extend over
several consecutive numbers of these Dealings with the Dead; and, I
flatter myself, that, from the nature of the subject, they will not be
wholly uninteresting to the reader.
I have always cherished a feeling of regard and respect, for these
"cursed" Quakers, originating in early impressions, and increased, by some
personal intercourse, with certain members of the Society of Friends.
It appears, by the Salem Records, that John Kitchen was fined thirty
pence, for "unworthy and malignant carriages and speeches, in open court,
Sept. 25, 1662." I was very much chagrined, when I first glanced at this
record; for he was my great, great, great-grandfather, by the mother's
side; and grandfather of the Hon. Col. John Turner, of Salem, who
commanded, at the battle of Haverhill. Great was my satisfaction, when I
discovered, that John Kitchen's offence was neither more nor less, than an
absolute refusal to take off his hat, in presence of the magistrate. For
the luxury of keeping it on, and absenting themselves from the ordinances,
he appears to have paid L40 stirling, in fines, for himself and Elizabeth,
his wife. The "_cursed_" Quakers appear to have had a hard time of it,
about the middle of the seventeenth century. Felt tells us, in his Annals,
p. 204, that Robinson and Stevenson were hung in 1659, for returning from
banishment; and, on p. 206, that Mary Dyer, of the Friends, was hung, June
1, 1660.
The deposition of John Ward and Thomas Mekens, is still of record, taken
in that very month and year, showing that they saw Mrs. Kitchen pulled off
her horse, and heard one Batter tell her, she was "_a base, quaking
slut_," and had been "_a powowing_."
Now, John Kitchen was a good Quaker, doubtless, so far as regarded the
essential qualification of obstinately wearing his hat, and refusing to
take an oath. But he was made of flesh and blood, like all other Quakers;
and this outrage, in pulling my gr. gr. gr. grandmother down from her
horse, was more than flesh and blood could bear. A copy of the deposition
of Giles Corey is now before me, showing, that John, upon other occasions,
was not so pacific, as he might have been--and that, upon one occasion,
"_he struck up Mr. Edward Norris his heels_"--and, upon another, he beat
Giles Corey himself, "_till he was all blody_." He seems to have been
moved, by the spirit, to thrash them both. I take this Giles Corey to be
the man, or the father of the man, who, as Felt says, p. 308, was pressed
to death, in Salem, for standing mute, during the witch mania, September
19, 1692.
William Penn was, for many years, engaged in controversy, chiefly in
defence of the peculiar, religious opinions of the Quakers. Wood, in his
Athenae Oxonienses, iv. p. 647, Lond. 1820, gives the titles of fifty-two
tracts and pamphlets, published by Penn, between 1668 and 1690. In the
heat of controversy, his character was rudely assailed, and his conduct
grossly misrepresented. The familiar relation, subsisting between him and
James II., gave color, with some persons, to the report, that Penn, at
heart, was a Papist and a Jesuit. These groundless imputations have, long
ago, been swallowed up, in their own absurdity. So strong, however, was
the hold, which these ridiculous fancies had taken of the public mind,
that, after the revolution of 1688, he was examined before the Council,
and obliged to give bond, for his appearance, from time to time; till, at
last, he obtained a hearing before King William, and effectually
established his innocence.
Among the few men, of elevated standing, who gave, or pretended to give
credit to the rumor, that Penn was a Papist, Burnet appears in the
foremost rank. He, who could speak of Prior, as "_one Prior_," might be
expected to speak of William Penn, as "_Penn the Quaker_." The appearance
of Penn, at the Court of the Prince of Orange, could, on no account, have
been agreeable to a Bishop, and, least of all Bishops, to Burnet; who saw,
in the new comer, the confidential agent of his bitterest enemy, King
James the Second; and who might, on other scores, have been jealous of the
influence, even of "_Penn the Quaker_." Burnet's words are these, vol. ii.
p. 318, Lond., 1818--"Many suspected that he was a concealed Papist; it is
certain he was much with father Peter, and was particularly trusted by the
Earl of Sunderland." On the preceding page Burnet thus describes the
Quaker--"He was a talking vain man, who had been long in the King's favor,
he being the Vice Admiral's son. He had such an opinion of his own faculty
of persuading, that he thought none could stand before it; though he was
singular in that opinion; for he had a tedious, luscious way, that was not
apt to overcome a man's reason, though it might tire his patience." It is
impossible not to perceive, in this description, some touches, which,
historians have told us, were singularly applicable to Burnet himself.
William, who perfectly comprehended the character of Halifax and Burnet,
perceived the propriety of keeping them apart, when the former came to
Hungerford, as a commissioner from the King, Dec. 8, 1688. How far I judge
rightly, in applying a part of Burnet's description of Penn, to Burnet
himself, may appear, in the following passage from Macaulay, vol. ii. p.
538: "Almost all those, who were admitted to his (William's) confidence,
were men, taciturn and impenetrable as himself. Burnet was the only
exception. He was notoriously garrulous and indiscreet. Yet circumstances
had made it necessary to trust him; and he would, doubtless, under the
dexterous management of Halifax, have poured put secrets, as fast as
words. William knew this well; and, when he was informed, that Halifax was
asking for the Doctor, could not refrain from exclaiming, '_If they get
together, there will be fine tattling_.'"
Mr. Macaulay remarks, that--"_To speak the whole truth, concerning Penn,
is a task, which requires some courage_." He then, vol. i. page 505,
delivers himself as follows--"The integrity of Penn had stood firm
against obloquy and persecution. But now, attacked by royal wiles, by
female blandishments, by the insinuating eloquence and delicate flattery
of veteran diplomatists and courtiers, his resolution began to give way.
Titles and phrases, against which he had often borne his testimony,
dropped occasionally from his lips and his pen. It would be well, if he
had been guilty of nothing worse than such compliances with the fashions
of the world. Unhappily it cannot be concealed, that he bore a chief part
in some transactions, condemned, not merely by the rigid code of the
society, to which he belonged, but by the general sense of all honest men.
He afterwards solemnly protested that his hands were pure from illicit
gain, and that he had never received any gratuity from those, whom he had
obliged, though he might easily, while his interest at court lasted, have
made a hundred and twenty thousand pounds. To this assertion full credit
is due. But bribes may be offered to vanity, as well as to cupidity; and
it is impossible to deny that Penn was cajoled into bearing a part, in
some unjustifiable transactions of which others enjoyed the profits."
This passage will tend, in the ratio of Mr. Macaulay's influence, to
disturb the popular opinion of William Penn. It is very carefully written,
and will not always be so carefully read. It is, perhaps, unfortunate for
Penn, that Mr. Macaulay felt obliged, in pursuing the course of his
history, to postpone the presentation of the facts, upon which his
opinions rest, until they arise, in their chronological order. Thus the
impression, instead of being removed, qualified, or confirmed, by instant
examination, is suffered to become imbedded in the mind. Having carefully
collated this passage, with every other passage, relative to Penn, in Mr.
Macaulay's work, I must confess, that the exceedingly painful impression,
produced by the paragraph, presented above, has been materially relieved,
by a careful consideration of all the evidence, subsequently offered, by
Mr. Macaulay himself, and by the testimony of other writers. Perhaps the
reader will consent to go along with me, in the examination of this
question.
No. LXIV.
Mr. Macaulay's second mention of William Penn may be found, vol. i. page
650. A number of young girls, acting under the direction of their
school-mistress, had walked in procession, and presented a standard to
Monmouth, at Taunton, in 1635. Some of them had expiated their offence
already. That hell-hound of a judge, Jeffreys, had literally frightened
one of them to death. It was determined, under menace of the gibbet, to
extort a ransom from the parents of _all_ these innocent girls. Who does
not apply those lines of Shakspeare to this infernal judge!
"Did you say all? What, all? Oh, hell-kite, all?
What, all my pretty chickens and their dam,
At one fell swoop?"
"The Queen's maids of honor," says Mr. Macaulay, "asked the royal
permission, to wring money out of the parents of the poor children; and
the permission was granted." They demanded L7000, and applied to Sir
Francis Warre, to exact the ransom. "He was charged to declare, in strong
language, that the maids of honor would not endure delay," &c.
Warre excused himself. Mr. Macaulay proceeds as follows: "The maids of
honor then requested William Penn to act for them, and Penn accepted the
commission. Yet it should seem that a little of the pertinacious
scrupulosity, which he had often shown, about taking off his hat, would
not have been altogether out of place on this occasion. He probably
silenced the remonstrances of his conscience, by repeating to himself,
that none of the money, which he extorted, would go into his own pocket;
that, if he refused to be the agent of the ladies, they would find agents
less humane; that by complying he should increase his influence at the
court; and that his influence at the court had already enabled him, and
might still enable him to render greater services to his oppressed
brethren. The maids of honor were at last forced to content themselves
with less than a third part of what they had demanded."
Now it seems to me, that no clear-headed, whole-hearted, _impartial_
reader will draw the inference, from this passage, which Mr. Macaulay
would manifestly have him draw. Penn well understood the resolute
brutality of Jeffreys, the never-dying obstinacy and vindictive
malevolence of James, and the heartless greediness of these maids of
honor. He knew, as Mr. Macaulay says, that "_if he refused to be the agent
of the ladies they would find agents less humane_." There was no secrecy
here--this thing was not done in a corner. Mr. Macaulay says, "they
_charged_ Sir Francis Warre," &c.: and after he refused, they "_requested_
William Penn," &c. Penn acted as a peacemaker. He stood between these she
wolves--these shameless maids of honor--and the Taunton lambs; and,
instead of L7000, he persuaded those vampyres, who, under the royal grant,
had full power in their hands to do their wicked will--to receive less
than L2300. Mr. Macaulay admits, that Penn received not a farthing; and,
that, had he refused, matters might have been worse for the oppressed.
The known character of Penn demands of us the presumption, in his favor,
that he entered upon this business conscientiously, and not as an
_extortioner_--and that he made, as the result leads us to believe he did,
the very best terms for the parents. Wherein was ever the sin or the shame
of negotiating, between the buccaneers of the Tortugas, and the parents of
captive children, for their ransom? Does not Mr. Macaulay present the
reign of James II. before us, as blotted all over, with official piracy
and judicial murder? If the adjustment of this odious business increased
the influence of Penn, at court, and thereby enabled him to "_render great
services to his oppressed brethren_"--these were the natural consequences
of the act; without them, there was enough of just and honorable motive,
for a mediator, to step between the oppressor and the oppressed, and
lessen, as much as possible, the weight of the oppression.
If the conduct of William Penn, upon this occasion, was the humane and
Christian thing, which it certainly appears to have been, "_the
pertinacious scrupulosity, which he had often shown, about taking off his
hat_" would have been wholly out of place. And if so, what justification
can be found for Mr. Macaulay's expressions--"_the remonstrances of his
conscience_," and "_the money, which he extorted_."
It is proverbially hard, for an old dog to learn new tricks. He, to whose
hand the hatchet is familiar, when he substitutes the rapier, will still
hack and hew with it, as though it were a hatchet. It may well be doubted,
if an impartial history, especially those parts of it, wherein the writer
deals with character and motive, can ever be trustworthily and impartially
written, by a veteran, professional reviewer, of the tomahawk school,
however splendid his talents may be.
Upon this occasion, Penn, doubtless, persuaded the maids of honor to
moderate their demands; at the same time, representing to the parents the
uncompromising character of those, with whom they had to deal, and the
unavoidable necessity of making terms. It is impossible to judge of the
transaction aright, without taking into view the character of those dark
days of tyranny and misrule, and the little security, then enjoyed by the
subject.
On page 659, ibid., Mr. Macaulay, once more, introduces Penn to his
readers--"William Penn, for whom exhibitions, which humane men generally
avoid, seem to have had a strong attraction, hastened from Cheapside,
where he had seen Cornish hanged, to Tyburn, in order to see Elizabeth
Gaunt burned. He afterwards related that, when she calmly disposed the
straw about her, in such a manner, as to shorten her sufferings, all the
bystanders burst into tears." Here is another attempt to lower the Quaker,
in public estimation.
That Penn ever, from the cradle to the grave, gazed, unsympathizingly,
upon human suffering, nobody, but a madman, will credit, for a moment. Nor
would Mr. Macaulay, notwithstanding the rather peculiar construction of
the paragraph, venture _directly_ so to represent him. It has been my
fortune to know several men, of kind and warm affections, who have
confessed, without reserve, a strong desire to witness the execution of
criminals. Cornish and Gaunt were executed on the same day, and their fate
excited universal attention. Penn's account of the last moments of both
was very minute; and shows him to have been a deeply interested observer.
I am not aware, that he ever attended any other execution. And if he did
not, the remark of Mr. Macaulay, which is _general_, can never be
justified, in relation to Penn; though it would fairly apply to the
celebrated George Selwyn, who, though remarkable for the keenness of his
sensibility, and the kindness of his heart, was in the habit of attending
every execution in London; and who, upon one remarkable occasion of this
kind, actually embarked for the Continent.
Why could not Mr. Macaulay, who often refers to Clarkson, have adopted
some of his charitable and gentlemanly constructions of Penn's conduct,
upon this occasion? Clarkson says--"Men of the most noted benevolence have
felt and indulged a curiosity of this sort. They have been worked upon, by
different motives; some, perhaps, by a desire of seeing what human nature
would be, at such an awful crisis; what would be its struggles; what would
be the effects of innocence or guilt; what would be the power of religion
on the mind." * * * * "I should say that he consented to witness the
scenes in question, with a view to do good; with a view of being able to
make an impression on the King's mind, by his own relation," &c.
In vol. ii. page 222, 1687, Mr. Macaulay says--"Penn had never been a
strong-headed man: the life which he had been leading, during two years,
had not a little impaired his moral sensibility; and, if his conscience
ever reproached him, he comforted himself by repeating, that he had a good
and noble end in view, and that he was not paid for his services in
money."
Again, ibid., page 227, referring to the effort of the King, to propitiate
William Kiffen, a great man, among the Baptists, no phraseology would suit
Mr. Macaulay, but this--"_Penn was employed in the work of seduction_."
What _seduction_? Indeed, whenever a good chance presents itself to reach
the Quaker, anywhere and anyhow, through the joints of the harness, the
phylactery of Mr. Macaulay seems to have been--_semper paratus_.
It was enough, that Penn was, in some sense, the confidant, and,
occasionally, the _unconstrained and perfectly conscientious_ agent of
this most miserable King.
That posterity will sanction these politico-historical flings, at the
character of William Penn, I cannot believe.
Tillotson knew him well. He had once expressed a suspicion that Penn was a
Papist. A correspondence ensued. "In conclusion," says Chalmers,
"Tillotson declared himself fully satisfied, and, as in that case he had
promised, he heartily begs pardon of Penn."
Chalmers himself, who had no sympathy with the "_cursed Quakers_," closes
his account of Penn, as follows--"_It must be evident from his works, that
he was a man of abilities; and from his conduct through life, that he was
a man of the purest conscience. This, without acceding to his opinions in
religion, we are perfectly willing to allow and to declare_."
No. LXV.
There was a couple of unamiable, maiden ladies, who had cherished, for a
long time, an unkindly feeling to the son of their married sister; and,
whenever her temporary absence afforded a fitting opportunity, one of them
would inquire of the other, if it was not _a good time to lick Billy_. Mr.
Macaulay suffers no convenient occasion to pass, without exhibiting a
practical illustration of this opinion, that it is _a good time to lick
Billy_.
In vol. ii. page 292, Mr. Macaulay says--"Penn was at Chester (in 1687,)
on a pastoral tour. His popularity and authority among his brethren had
greatly declined since he had become a tool of the King and the Jesuits."
In proof of this assertion Mr. Macaulay refers to a letter, from Bonrepaux
to Seignelay, and to Gerard Croese's Quaker History. Let us see, for
ourselves, what Bonrepaux says--"Penn, chef des Quakers, qu'on sait etre
dans les interets du Roi d'Angleterre, est si fort decrie parmi ceux de
son parti qu'ils n'ont plus aucune confiance en lui."
Now I ask, in the name of historical truth, if Mr. Macaulay is sustained
in his assertion, by Bonrepaux? Is there a jot or tittle of evidence, in
this reference, that Penn "_had become a tool of the King and of the
Jesuits_;" or that Bonrepaux was himself of any such opinion?
Let us next present the passage from Croese--"Etiam Quakeri Pennum non
amplius, ut ante, ita amabant ac magnifaciebant, quidam aversabantur ac
fugiebant."
I ask, in reference to this quotation from Croese, the same question? No
possible version of these passages into English will go farther, than to
show, that the Quakers were dissatisfied with Penn, about that time: in
neither is there the slightest reference to Penn, as "_a tool of the King
and of the Jesuits_." Mr. Macaulay's passage is so constructed, that his
citation of authorities goes, not only to the fact of Penn's unpopularity,
for a time, but to the cause of it, as assigned by Mr. Macaulay himself,
namely, that Penn "_had become a tool of the King and of the Jesuits_."
Now it is well known, that Penn, in 1687, was in bad odor with some of the
Quakers. He was _suspected_, by some persons, of being a Jesuit--George
Keith, the Quaker renegade, called him a deist--he was said by others to
be a Papist. Even Tillotson had given countenance to this foolish story,
which Penn's intimacy with King James tended to corroborate. How far
Tillotston believed Penn to be a _Papist_, or a _tool_ of the King, or of
the _Jesuits_, will appear, upon the perusal of a few lines from Tillotson
to Penn, written in 1686, the year before that, of which Mr. Macaulay is
writing--"I am very sorry that the suspicion I had entertained concerning
you, of which I gave you the true account in my former letter, hath
occasioned so much trouble and inconvenience to you: and I do now declare
with great joy, that I am fully satisfied, that there was no just ground
for that suspicion, and therefore do heartily beg your pardon for it."
Clarkson's Memoirs, vol. i. chap. 22.
If the authorities, cited, sustained the statement of Mr. Macaulay, their
credibility would still form a serious question. In vol. ii. pages
305-7-8, Mr. Macaulay refers to Bonrepaux's "complicity with the Jesuits."
It would have been quite agreeable to that crafty emissary of Lewis, to
have had it believed, that Penn was of their fraternity. As for Gerard
Croese, Chalmers speaks of him and his history, with very little respect;
and states, that it dissatisfied the Quakers. However this may have been,
there is not a syllable in Gerard Croese's Historia Quakeriana, giving
color to Mr. Macaulay's assertion, that Penn "_had become a tool of the
King and of the Jesuits_." On the contrary, Croese, as I shall show
hereafter, speaks of Penn, with great respect, on several occasions.
In the same paragraph, of which a part is quoted, at the commencement of
this article, Mr. Macaulay, after stating, that, when the King and Penn
met at Chester, in 1687, Penn preached, or, to use Mr. Macaulay's word,
_harangued_, in the tennis court, he says--"_It is said indeed, that his
Majesty deigned to look into the tennis court, and to listen, with
decency, to his friend's melodious eloquence_." What does Mr. Macaulay
mean?--that the King did not laugh outright?--that he made some little
exertion, to suppress a disposition to make a mock of Penn and his
preaching? No intelligent reader, though he may not catch the invidious
spirit of this remark, can fail to perceive the writer's design, to speak
disparagingly of Penn.
Well: what is Mr. Macaulay's authority for this? He quotes "Cartwright's
Diary, Aug. 30, 1687, and Clarkson's Life of William Penn"--but without
any indication of volume, chapter, or page. This loose and unsatisfactory
kind of reference is quite common with Mr. Macaulay; and one might almost
as well indicate the route to the pyramids, by setting up a finger post in
Edinburgh, pointing in the direction of Cairo. No eminent historian,
English or Scotch, has ever been thus regardless of his reader's comfort;
neither Rapin nor Tindal, Smollett nor Hume, nor Henry, nor Robertson, nor
Guthrie, nor any other. Of this the reader may well complain. This may all
be well enough, in a historical romance--but in a matter, pretending to be
true and impartial history, no good reader will walk by faith, altogether,
and upon the staff of a single narrator; and he will too often find, that
the spirit of the context, in the authority, is very different, from that
of the citation.
He, who imparts to any historical fact the coloring of his own prejudice,
and _dresses up_ a statement, after his own fancy, has no right to vouch
in, as his authority, for the _whole thing_, however grotesque he may have
made it--the writer, who has stated the _naked fact_. If Clarkson said
simply, that the King had listened to Penn's preaching, Mr. Macaulay has
no right to quote Clarkson, as having said so, in a manner to lower Penn,
the tithe of a hair, in the estimation of the world. _A fortiori_, if
Clarkson has said, that the King listened to Penn's preaching, _on several
occasion, with respect_, Mr. Macaulay had no right to quote Clarkson, as
his authority, for the sneering and ill-natured statement, to which I have
referred. This is not history, it is gross misrepresentation; and, the
more forcibly and ingeniously it is fabricated, the more unjust and the
more ungenerous the libel, upon the dead.
The reader, if he will, may judge of Mr. Macaulay's impartiality, by
comparing his words with the _only words_ uttered by Clarkson, on this
point. They may be found, vol. i. chap. 23--"Among the places he (Penn)
visited, in Cheshire, was Chester itself. The King, who was then
travelling, arriving there at the same time, went to the meeting-house of
the Quakers, to hear him preach. This mark of respect the King showed him
also, at two or three other places where they fell in with each other, in
the course of their respective tours."
This is the only passage, which can be referred to, in Clarkson, by Mr.
Macaulay, to sustain his ill-natured remark, whose evil spirit is entirely
neutralized, by the very authority he cites. But there will be many, who
will rather give Mr. Macaulay credit, for stating the point impartially;
and few, I apprehend, who will take the trouble to look, through two
octavo volumes, for a passage, thus vaguely referred to, without any
indication of the volume, chapter, or page.
This rude assault, upon the character and motives of William Penn, Mr.
Macaulay commences, by saying--"_To speak the whole truths concerning
Penn, is a task, which requires some courage_." It is becoming, in every
historian, to speak the truth, the whole truth, and _nothing but the
truth_. It certainly requires some courage--audacity, perhaps, is the
better word--to present citations, in French and Latin, to sustain an
assertion, which those citations do not sustain; and to refer to a highly
respectable author, as having stated that, which he has nowhere stated.
It may not be amiss, to present my views of Mr. Macaulay's injustice, more
plainly than I have done. It is obvious to all, that a fact--the same
fact--may, by the very manner of stating it, raise or lower the character
of him, in regard to whom it is related. The _manner_ of representing it
may become _material_, or, substantially, part and parcel of the fact, as
completely, as the coloring is part and parcel of a picture. No man has a
right to take the sketch or outline of an angel, and, having given it the
sable complexion of a devil, ascribe the entire thing, such as he has made
it, to the author of the original sketch. No man, surely, has a right to
seize a wreath, respectfully designed for the brows of his neighbor;
distort it into the shape of a fool's cap; clap it upon that neighbor's
head; and then charge the responsibility upon him, who prepared the
original chaplet, as a token of respect.
Mr. Macaulay represents King James, as listening to the preaching of Penn,
with concealed contempt--such are the force and meaning of his words; and
he quotes Clarkson, as authority for this, who says precisely the
contrary.
Every reader, who is uninstructed in the French and Latin languages, will
view the quotations from Bonrepaux and Croese, as authorities for Mr.
Macaulay's assertion, that Penn had "_become the tool of the King and the
Jesuits_"--for, whether carelessly, or cunningly, contrived, the sentence
will certainly be understood to mean precisely this. A large number, even
of those, who understand the languages, will take these quotations, as
evidence, upon Mr. Macaulay's word, without examination. Now, as I have
stated, there is not the slightest authority, in these passages, for Mr.
Macaulay's assertion.
No. LXVI.
Mr. Macaulay's last attack upon William Penn will be found, in vol. ii.,
pages 295-6-7. The Fellows of Magdalen College had been most abominably
treated, by James II., in 1687. The detail is too long for my limits, and
is, withal, unnecessary here, since there is neither doubt nor denial of
the fact. The mediatorial agency of Penn was employed. The King was
enraged, and resolved to have his way. His obstinacy was a proverb. There
were three courses for Penn--right, left, and medial--to side with the
King--to side with the Fellows--or to act as a mediator. Mr. Macaulay is
pleased, in his Index, to speak of the transaction, as "_Penn's
mediation_."
Had he sided with the Fellows entirely, he would have lost his influence
utterly, to serve them, with the King. Had he sided with the King
entirely, he would have lost all confidence with the Fellows. Mr.
Macaulay, here, as elsewhere, is evidently bent upon showing up Penn, as
the "_tool of the King_:" and, if there is anything more unjust, upon
historical record, I know not where to look for it.
[1]With manifest effort, and in stinted measure, Mr. Macaulay lets down a
few drops of the milk of human kindness, in the outset, and says of
Penn--"_He had too much good feeling to approve of the violent and unjust
proceedings of the government, and even ventured to express part of what
he thought_." Here, that which proceeded from _fixed and lofty principle_,
is ascribed to a less honorable motive--"_good feeling_," or _bonhommie_;
and the "_part of what he thought_," was neither more nor less, than a
bold and frank remonstrance, committed to writing, and sent to the King,
by Penn.
[1] The palpable reluctance of Mr. Macaulay to deal in liberal
construction, and to award the smallest praise, on such occasions, is
not confined to Penn. A writer in Blackwood's Magazine, for October,
1849, page 509, after referring to the glorious defeat of the Dutch
fleet, off Harwich, when the Duke of York, afterwards James II.,
commanded in person, remarks--"Mr. Macaulay, in his late published
_History of England_, has not deigned even to notice this
engagement--a remarkable omission, the reason of which omission it is
foreign to our purpose to inquire. This much we may be allowed to say,
that no historian, who intends to form an accurate estimate of the
character of James II., or to compile a complete register of his
deeds, can justly accomplish his task, without giving that unfortunate
monarch the credit for his conduct and intrepidity, in one of the most
important and successful naval actions, which stands recorded, in our
annals."
Other English historians have related it. Hume, Oxford ed. 1826, vol.
vii. page 355--Smollett, Lond. ed. 1759, vol. viii. page 31.--Rapin,
Lond. ed. 1760, vol. xi. page 272. "The Duke of York," says Smollett,
"was in the hottest part of the battle, and behaved with great spirit
and composure, even when the Earl of Falmouth, the Lord Muskerry, and
Mr. Boyle, were killed at his side, by one cannon ball, which covered
him with the blood and brains of these three gallant gentlemen."
When they met at Oxford, says Clarkson, vol. i. chap. 23, "William Penn
had an opportunity of showing not only his courage, but his consistency in
those principles of religious liberty, which he had defended, during his
whole life." After giving an account of the Prince's injustice, Clarkson
says--"Next morning William Penn was on horseback, ready to leave Oxford,
but knowing what had taken place, he rode up to Magdalen College, and
conversed with the Fellows, on the subject. After this conversation, he
wrote a letter, and desired them to present it to the King." * * * * "Dr.
Sykes, in relating this anecdote of William Penn, by letter to Dr.
Chazlett, who was then absent, mentions that Penn, after some discourse
with the Fellows of Magdalen College, wrote a short letter, directed to
the King. He wrote to this purpose--that their case was hard, and that, in
their circumstances, they could not yield obedience."
This was confirmed by Mr. Creech, as Clarkson states, and by Sewell, who
states, in his History of the Rise and Progress of the Quakers, that Penn
told the King the act "_could not in justice be defended, since the
general liberty of conscience did not allow of depriving any of their
property, who did what they ought to do, as the Fellows of the said
College appeared to have done_." This is the "_part of what he thought_,"
referred to by Mr. Macaulay, who has not found it convenient, upon this
occasion, to quote a syllable from Clarkson, nor from Sewell, of whose
work Chalmers and others have spoken with respect.
I know of no better mode of presenting this matter fairly, than by laying
before the reader contrasted passages, from Mr. Macaulay, and from
Clarkson, relating to the conduct of Penn, upon this occasion. Mr.
Macaulay shall lead off--"James, was as usual, obstinate in the wrong. The
courtly Quaker, therefore, did his best to seduce the college from the
path of right."--Therefore!--Wherefore? Penn did his best to _seduce_ the
college from the path of right, _because_ James was, as usual, obstinate
in the wrong! This is based, of course, upon Mr. Macaulay's favorite
hypothesis, that Penn was "_the tool of the King and the Jesuits_."--"He
tried first intimidation. Ruin, he said, impended over the society. The
King was highly incensed. The case might be a hard one. Most people
thought it so. But every child knew that his Majesty loved to have his own
way, and could not bear to be thwarted. Penn, therefore, exhorted the
Fellows not to rely on the goodness of their cause, but to submit, or at
least to temporize. Such counsel came strangely from one, who had been
expelled from the University for raising a riot about the surplice, who
had run the risk of being disinherited, rather than take off his hat to
the princes of the blood, and who had been more than once sent to prison,
for haranguing in conventicles. He did not succeed in frightening the
Magdalen men."
It may be thought scarcely worth while, to charge a Quaker, at the age of
_forty-three_, with inconsistency, because his views had somewhat altered,
since he was a wild young man, at _twenty-one_.
It is also clear, that Penn viewed the Magdalen question, as one quite as
much of _property_ as of _conscience_; and that he could see no good
reason, with his eyes of toleration wide open, why all the great
educational institutions should be forever, in the hands of one
denomination.
Mr. Macaulay again--"Then Penn tried a gentler tone. He had an interview
with Hough and some of the Fellows, and after many professions of sympathy
and friendship, began to hint at a compromise. The King could not bear to
be crossed. The college must give way. Parker must be admitted. But he was
in very bad health. All his preferments would soon be vacant. 'Dr. Hough,'
said Penn, 'may then be Bishop of Oxford. How should you like that,
gentlemen?' Penn had passed his life in declaiming against a hireling
ministry. He held, that he was bound to refuse the payment of tithes, and
this even when he had bought lands, chargeable with tithes, and had been
allowed the value of the tithes in the purchase money. According to his
own principles, he would have committed a great sin, if he had interfered,
for the purpose of obtaining a benefice, on the most honorable terms, for
the most pious divine. Yet to such a degree had his manners been corrupted
by evil communications, and his understanding obscured by inordinate zeal
for a single object, that he did not scruple to become a broker in simony
of a peculiarly discreditable kind, and to use a bishopric as a bait to
tempt a divine to perjury."
Are these the words of truth and soberness? I rather think they are not.
In the sacred name of common sense--did Penn become a _broker in simony of
a peculiarly discreditable kind, and use a bishopric, as a bait to tempt a
divine to perjury_, by stating, that Parker was very infirm, and, that,
should he die, Hough might be his successor! If this is history, give us
fiction, for Heaven's sake, which is said to be less marvellous than fact.
There is not the least pretence, that he offered, or was authorized to
offer, any such "_bait_." He spoke of a mere contingency; and did the best
he could to mediate, between the King and the Fellows, both of whom were
highly incensed.
As to the matter of tithes, Penn was mediating, between men, _who had no
scruples about tithes_. He recognized, _pro hac vice_, the usages of the
parties; and a Christian judge may, as shrewdly, be charged with
infidelity, for conforming to the established law of evidence, and
permitting a disciple of Mahomet to be sworn, upon the Koran.
When Hough replied, that the Papists had robbed them of University
College, and Christ Church, and were now after Magdalen, and would have
all the rest, "Penn," says Mr. Macaulay, "was foolish enough to answer,
that he believed the Papists would now be content. 'University,' he said,
'is a pleasant college. Christ Church is a noble place. Magdalen is a fine
building. The situation is convenient. The walks by the river are
delightful. If the Roman Catholics are reasonable, they will be satisfied
with these.'"