And now I will present Clarkson's just and sensible view of this

transaction. Mr. Macaulay has said, vol. ii. page 295, that "_the agency

of Penn was employed_," meaning, as the context shows, employed _by the

King_. Clarkson, vol. i. chap. 23, says expressly, that, Oct. 3, 1687, Dr.

Bailey wrote to Penn, "stated the merits of the case, and solicited his

mediation." Penn told the Fellows, as appears from _Dr. Hough's own

letter, written the evening after their last interview_, that he "feared

they had come too late. He would use, however, his endeavors; and, if they

were unsuccessful, they must attribute it to want of power in him, and not

of good will to serve them." The mediation came to nothing. The Fellows

grew dissatisfied with Penn; falling, doubtless, into the very common

error of parties, highly excited, and differing so widely, that all, who

are not _for them; in toto, are against them_. They seem to have been

specially offended, by the following liberal remark of Penn's--"For my

part, I have always declared my opinion, that the preferments of the

Church should not be put into any other hands but such as they at present

are in; but I hope you would not have the two Universities such invincible

bulwarks of the Church of England, that none but they must be capable of

giving their children a learned education."

In the same volume and chapter, Clarkson remarks--"They (the delegates

from Magdalen) thought, strange to relate, that Penn had been rambling;

and because he spoke doubtfully, about the success of his intended

efforts, and of the superior capacity of the established clergy, that they

alone should monopolize education, that his language was not to be

depended upon as sincere. How this could have come into their heads,

except from the terror, into which the situation of the College had thrown

them, it is not easy to conceive; for certainly William Penn was as

explicit, as any man could have been, under similar circumstances. He

informed them, that, after repeated efforts with the King, he feared they

had come too late. This was plain language. He informed them again, that

he would make another trial with the King; that he would read their papers

to him, unless peremptorily commanded to forbear; but that, if he failed,

they must attribute his want of success not to his want of will, but want

of power."

"This, though expressive of his doubts and fears, was but a necessary

caution, when his exertions had already failed; and it was still more

necessary, when there was reason to suppose, that, though the King had a

regard for him, and was glad to employ him, as an instrument, in

forwarding his public views, yet that he would not gratify him, where his

solicitations directly opposed them. That William Penn did afterwards make

a trial with the King, to serve the College, there can be no doubt,

because no instance can be produced, wherein he ever forfeited his word or

broke his promise. But all trials with this view must of necessity have

been ineffectual. The King and his ministers had already determined the

point in question."

Such were the sentiments of Clarkson.

No. LXVII.

Charles I. was King, when William Penn was born; and, when he died, George

I. was on the throne. Penn therefore lived in the reins of nine rulers of

the realm--Charles I.--the Cromwells, Oliver and Richard--Charles

II.--James II.--William and Mary as joint sovereigns--William

alone--Anne--and George I.

He was the son of Admiral, Sir William Penn, and was born on Tower Hill,

London, Oct. 4, 1644. The spirit and the flesh strove hard for the

mastery, before young William came forth a Quaker, fully developed. He was

remarkable at Oxford, for his fine scholarship, and athletic performances.

Penn believed, that the Lord appeared to him, when he was very young. The

devil seems to have made him a short visit afterwards, if we may rely upon

the testimony of Penn's biographers. Wood, in his Athenae, iv. 645, gives

this brief account of the Lord's visit--Penn was "educated in puerile

learning, at Chigwell in Essex, where, at eleven years of age, being

retired in a chamber alone, he was so suddenly surprised with an inward

comfort, and, as he thought, an external glory in the room, that he has,

many times, said that, from that time, he had the seal of divinity and

immortality, that there was also a God, and that the soul of man was

capable of enjoying his divine communications."

His biographer, Clarkson, says, that Penn, at the age of sixteen, was led

to a sense of the corruptions of the established faith, by the preaching

of Thomas Loe, a Quaker; and broke off at the chapel, and began to hold

prayer meetings. For this he was fined and admonished. It is remarkable,

that Wood, though he states, that Penn, after he became a Quaker, in good

earnest, was imprisoned, once in Ireland, once in the Tower, and three

times in Newgate, does not even allude, in his Athenae, to the expulsion

from Oxford, which is related, by Chalmers, Clarkson, and others.

It seems, that, after he had become impressed, by Loe's preaching, an

order came down from court, that the students should wear surplices. This

so irritated Penn, that, instead of letting his yea be yea, and his nay

nay--in company with others, says Clarkson, "he fell upon those students,

who appeared in surplices, and tore them everywhere over their heads." On

the subject of his conversion, Wood says--"If you'll believe a satirical

pamphlet--'_The history of Will Penn's conversion from a gentleman to a

Quaker_,' printed at London, in 1682--you'll find, that the reason of his

turning Quaker was the loss of his mistress, a delicate young lady, that

then lived in Dublin; or, as others say, because he refused to fight a

duel."

For two, good and sufficient reasons, this statement, contained in the

"_satirical pamphlet_," and referred to by Wood, is unworthy of the

slightest credit. In the first place, though Penn met Loe, in Dublin,

after the expulsion from Oxford, and became more fully impressed, yet his

first meeting with Loe was at Oxford, before the expulsion, and the

serious impression, produced by his preaching, led, albeit rather oddly,

to the affair of the surplices.

In the second place, the notion, that Penn would put on Quakerism, to

avoid a duel, is still more incredible. Nothing could be more unfortunate,

than any imputation upon Penn's courage, moral or physical. We have seen,

that he was famous for his athletic exercises. Strange, though it may

seem, to such as have contemplated Penn, as the quiet non-combatant, he

was an accomplished swordsman, and, upon one occasion, was actually

engaged in an affair, which had all the aspect, and all the peril, of the

_duellium_, however it may have lacked the preliminary forms and

ceremonies. "During his residence in Paris," says Chalmers, "he was

assaulted in the street, one evening, by a person with a drawn sword, on

account of a supposed affront; but among other accomplishments of a gay

man, he had become so good a swordsman, as to disarm his antagonist."

After his expulsion from Oxford, in 1662, he returned home. His father,

the Admiral, was greatly provoked, to see his son resorting to the company

of religious people, who were, of all, the least likely, in the licentious

reign of Charles II., to advance his worldly interest. The old gentleman

tried severity, and finally, as Penn himself relates, gave the Quaker

neophyte a thrashing, and turned him out of doors.

Ere long, the father got the better of the admiral. He relented: and,

probably, supposing there was as little vitality in Paris, for a Quaker,

as some of the old philosophers fancied there might be, in a vacuum, for

an angel, he sent young William thither, as one of a fashionable

travelling party.

After his return, he was admitted of Lincoln's Inn, and continued there,

till the year of the plague, 1665. The following year, his father sent him

to Ireland, to take charge of an estate. At Cork, he met Loe once

more--attended his meetings, became an unalterable Quaker, preached in

conventicles--was committed to prison--released upon application to the

Earl of Orrery--and summoned home, by his indignant father. The old

Admiral loved his accomplished son, then twenty-three years old--but

abhorred his Quakerish airs and manners. In all points, save one--the

point of conscience--William was unexceptionably dutiful. At length, the

Admiral agreed to compound, on conditions, which seem not to have been

very oppressive: in short, he consented to waive all objections, and let

William do as he pleased, in regard to his religion, provided he would

yield, in one particular--doff his broad brim--take off his hat--in

presence of the King, the Duke of York, and his own father, the Admiral.

Young William demanded time for consideration. It was granted; and he

earnestly sought the Lord, on an empty stomach, as he says himself, with

prayer. He finally informed his father, that he _could not do it_; and,

once again, the Admiral, in a paroxysm of wrath, turned the rebellious

young Quaker out of doors, broad brim and all.

William Penn now began to figure, as a preacher, at the Quaker meetings.

The _friends_, and the fond mother, ever on hand, in such emergencies,

supplied his temporal necessities. Even the old Admiral, becoming

satisfied of William's perfect sincerity, although too proud to tack

about, hoisted private signals, for his release, when imprisoned, for

attending Quaker meetings; and evidently lay by, ready to bear down, in

the event of serious difficulty.

In 1668, Penn's brim grew broader and broader, and his coat became

buttonless behind. He was a writer and a preacher, and a powerful defender

of the "_cursed and depised_" Quakers. The titles of his various works may

be found in Clarkson, and in Wood's Athenae. They conformed to the fashion

of the age, and were, necessarily, quaint and extended. I have room for

one only, as a specimen,--the title of his first tract--"_Truth exalted,

in a short but sure testimony, against all those religious faiths and

worships, that have been formed and followed in the darkness of apostacy;

and for that glorious light, which is now risen, and shines forth in the

life and doctrine of the despised Quakers, as the alone good old way of

life and salvation; presented to princes, priests, and people, that they

may repent, believe, and obey. By William Penn; whom Divine love

constrains, in an holy contempt, to trample on Egypt's glory, not fearing

the King's wrath, having beheld the majesty of Him, who is invisible._" In

this same year 1668, he was imprisoned in the Tower, for publishing his

SANDY FOUNDATION SHAKEN. There he was confined seven months, doing

infinitely more mischief, for the cause of lawn sleeves and white frocks,

forms, ceremonies, and hat-worship, as he calls it, than if he had been

loose. For, then and there, he wrote his most able pamphlets, especially,

NO CROSS NO CROWN, which gained him great praise, far beyond the pale of

Quakerdom. His treatise has been often reprinted, and translated into

foreign tongues.

In 1670, his influence was so great, that he obtained an order in Council,

for the release of the Quakers then in prison. At a later day, he again

assumed the office of St. Peter's angel, and set three thousand captives

free. In 1685, says Mr. Macaulay, "he strongly represented the sufferings

of the Quakers to the new King," &c. "In this way, about fifteen hundred

Quakers, and a still greater number of Roman Catholics regained their

liberty." No wonder he was mistaken for a Papist, by those, who adopt that

bastard principle, that charity begins at home, and ends there; whose

religious circle forms the exclusive line of demarcation, for the exercise

of that celestial principle; and who look, with the eye of a Chinaman,

upon all beyond the holy sectarian wall, as outside barbarians. I was

delighted and rather surprised, that Mr. Macaulay suffered the statement

of this fact to pass, without some ill-natured expression, in regard to

Penn--who, I say it reverentially, was less the TOOL of the King, than of

Jesus Christ.

No. LXVIII.

In 1670, William Penn was, for the third time, committed to Newgate, for

preaching. His fines were paid by his father, who died this year, entirely

reconciled to his son; and, upon his bed of death, pronounced these

comforting words--"_Son William, let nothing in this world tempt you to

wrong your conscience: I charge you, do nothing against your conscience.

So will you keep peace at home, which will be a feast to you in a day of

trouble_."

Penn inherited from his father an estate, yielding about L1500 per annum.

About this time he wrote his "_Seasonable caveat against Popery_;" though

he knew it was the faith of the Queen and his good friend, the Duke of

York. Shortly after, he travelled in Holland and Germany. In 1672, he

married Gulielma Maria Springett. In 1675, he held his famous dispute with

Richard Baxter; and, in 1677, he again visited the continent, in company

with George Cox and Robert Barclay, constantly preaching, and writing, and

importuning, in behalf of his despised and oppressed brethren. About this

period, and soon after his return to England, we find him petitioning

Parliament, in their behalf. Twice, he was permitted to address the

committee of the House of Commons, upon this subject.

Whoever coveted the honor of being the creditor of royalty found a willing

customer, in Charles the Second. In 1681, that monarch, in consideration

of L16,000 due from him to the estate of Admiral Penn, conveyed to William

the district, now called Pennsylvania. He himself would have given it the

name of Sylvania, but the King insisted, on prefixing the name of the

grantee. Full powers of legislation and government were bestowed upon the

proprietor. The only limitation was a power, reserved to the Privy

Council, to rescind his laws, within six months, after they were laid

before that body. The charter bears date March 4, 1681. He first designed

to call his domain "New Wales," and nothing saved the Philadelphians from

being Welchmen, but an objection, from the under-secretary of state, who

was himself a Welchman, and was offended at the Quaker's presumption.

He encouraged emigrants, judiciously selected, to embark for his Province;

and followed, himself, with about a hundred Quakers, in September, 1682.

His arrival in the Delaware, his beneficent administration, and the whole

story of his negotiation, with the Indians, are full of interest, and

overflowing. It is a long story withal, too long, altogether, for our

narrow boundaries. I have indicated the sources of information, and this

is all my limits will allow.

After two years, he returned to England, and became a greater favorite

than ever, with James II.--was calumniated, of course--pursued by the

unholy alliance of churchmen, and sectaries, and apostate Quakers--grossly

insulted--"chastened but not killed"--and finally deprived of his

government. Justice, at length, prevailed. Penn's rights were restored, by

William III. Having lost his wife and son, he went again, upon his

travels, and again married. In 1699, he returned to Pennsylvania, and

remained there, for the term of two years. He then went home to England;

and, after continuing to employ his tongue and his pen, as freely as ever,

for several years, he died, July 30, 1718, at the age of seventy-two

years, at Jordan, near Beaconsfield, in Buckinghamshire.

Such is the mere _skeleton_ of this good man's life; and it is my purpose

to _flesh it up_, with some few of those highly interesting, and well

authenticated, incidents, which may be found, on the pages of trust worthy

writers.

I do not believe, that the pen of any past, present, or future historian,

or biographer, however masterly the hand that holds it--however bitter and

pungent the gall of bigotry or political venom, in which it may

dipped--will ever be able, very grievously, or lastingly, to soil the

character of William Penn. The world's opinion has settled down, upon firm

convictions. If new facts can be produced, then, indeed, a writer may

justly move, for a reconsideration of the public sentiment--but Mr.

Macaulay does not present _a single fact_, in relation to William Penn,

not known before--he gives a _construction_ of his own, so manifestly

tinctured with ill nature, as, at once, to excite the suspicion of his

reader.

I wear a narrow brim, and have buttons behind--I am no Quaker--and,

indeed, have a quarrel with them all--chiefly grammatical--though I esteem

and respect the principles of that moral and religious people--but I

simply describe the impulse of my own heart, when I say, that Mr.

Macaulay's ill natured treatment of William Penn painfully disturbed my

confidence, in his impartiality; and constrained me to "read, mark, learn

and inwardly digest," the highly seasoned _provant_, which he has

furnished--_cum grano salis_; and with great care, not to swallow the

_flummery_. Scotchmen have not always written thus of William Penn; and

the sentiments of mankind, now and hereafter, if I do not strangely err,

will be found, embodied in the concluding passage of an article in the

Edinburgh Review, vol. xxi. page 462.

"We shall not stop to examine what dregs of ambition, or what hankerings

after worldly prosperity may have mixed themselves with the pious and

philanthropic principles, that were undoubtedly his chief guides in

forming, that great settlement, which still bears his name, and profits by

his example. Human virtue does not challenge nor admit of such a scrutiny:

and it should be sufficient for the glory of William Penn, that he stands

upon record, as the most humane, the most moderate, and most pacific of

all governors." All this may be enough for his _glory_. But there are some

simple, touching truths, to be told of William Penn, and some highly

interesting personal details; which, though they may have little about

them, in accordance with the ordinary estimate of _glory_, will long

continue to envelop the memory of this extraordinary man, with a purer and

a milder light.

I know no better mode of concluding the present article, than by

presenting a few extracts, from the valedictory letter of William Penn to

his wife and children, written on the eve of his first visit to

Pennsylvania, September, 1682. If the _saints_ write such admirable love

letters, it would greatly benefit the _sinners_--the men of this world--to

follow the example, and surpass it, if they can.

"My dear wife and children. My love, which neither sea, nor land, nor

death itself can extinguish nor lessen towards you, most endearingly

visits you, with eternal embraces, and will abide with you forever. My

dear wife! remember thou wast the love of my youth, and much the joy of my

life; the most beloved, as well as most worthy of all my earthly comforts;

and the reason of that love was more thy inward than thy outward

excellencies, which yet were many. God knows, and thou knowest it, I can

say it was a match of Providence's making; and God's image in us both was

the first thing, and the most amiable and engaging ornament in our eyes.

Now I am to leave thee, and that, without knowing whether I shall ever

see thee more in this world. Take my counsel into thy bosom, and let it

dwell with thee, in my stead, while thou livest."

Here follows some domestic advice. Penn then proceeds--"And now, my

dearest, let me recommend to thy care, my dear children, abundantly

beloved of me, as the Lord's blessings, and the sweet pledges of our

mutual and endeared affection. Above all things, endeavor to breed them

up, in the knowledge and love of virtue, and that holy plain way of it,

which we have lived in, that the world, in no part of it, get into my

family. * * *

"For their learning, be liberal. Spare no cost. For by such parsimony all

is lost, that is saved: but let it be useful knowledge, such as is

consistent with truth and godliness, not cherishing a vain conversation,

or idle mind. * * * I recommend the useful parts of mathematics, &c., but

agriculture is especially in my eye: let my children be husbandmen and

housewives: it is industrious, healthy, honest and of good example. * * *

Be sure to observe their genius, and do not cross it as to learning. * * *

I choose not they should be married to earthly, covetous kindred; and of

cities and towns of concourse, beware. The world is apt to stick close to

those, who have lived and got wealth there. A country life and estate, I

like best for my children. I prefer a decent mansion, of an hundred pounds

per annum, before ten thousand pounds, in London, or such like place, in a

way of trade."

He then addresses his children, and finally his elder boys, in the

following admirable strain, honorable alike to his understanding and his

heart.

"And, as for you, who are likely to be concerned, in the government of

Pennsylvania, I do charge you, before the Lord God and his holy angels,

that you be lowly, diligent and tender, fearing God, loving the people,

and hating covetousness. Let justice have its impartial course, and the

law free passage. Though to your loss, protect no man against it--for you

are not above the law, but the law above you. Live therefore the lives,

yourselves, you would have the people live; and then you have right and

boldness to punish the transgressor. Keep upon the square, for God sees

you: therefore do your duty, and be sure you see with your own eyes, and

hear with your own ears. Entertain no lurchers; cherish no informers for

gain or revenge; use no tricks; fly to no devices, to support or cover

injustice but let your heart be upright before the Lord, trusting in him,

above the contrivances of men, and none shall be able to hurt or

supplant."

The letter, from which I have made these few extracts, concludes--"So

farewell to my thrice dearly beloved wife and children! Yours as God

pleaseth, in that, which no waters can quench, no time forget, nor

distance wear away."

It is truly pleasant to get behind the curtain of form and ceremony, and

look at these eminent men, in their night-gowns and slippers, and listen

to them thus, while talking to their wives and their children.

No. LXIX.

It is remarkable, that such a genuine Quaker, as William Penn, should have

sprung from such a belligerent stock. His father, as I have stated, was a

British admiral; and his grandfather, Giles, was a captain in the navy.

William Penn may, nevertheless, have derived, from this origin, and from

his Dutch mother, Margaret Jasper, of Rotterdam--a certain quality,

eminently characteristic of the Quaker--that resolute determination, which

the coarser man of the world calls _pluck_, and the Quaker, _constancy_.

This constancy of purpose, in William Penn, seems never to have been

shaken. It appeared, in his refusal to doff his brim, before his father,

the Duke of York, and the King. It was manifested, when, being imprisoned

in the Tower, for printing his _Sandy Foundation Shaken_, and hearing,

that the Bishop of London had declared the offender should publicly

recant, or remain there, for life; he replied, "_he would weary out the

malice of his enemies by his patience, and that his prison should be his

grave, before he would renounce his just opinions, for he owed his

conscience to no man_."

This same constancy was signally exhibited, during the disputation,

between himself and George Whitehead, for the Quakers, and Thomas Vincent

and others, for the Presbyterians. Vincent had a parish, in Spitalfields.

Two of his parishioners went to listen, perhaps to laugh, at the Quakers.

Like Goldsmith's scoffers, who came to laugh, and remained to pray--they

went in, Presbyterians, and came out, Quakers. They were converted. At

this, Vincent lost his patience; and seems to have become a persecutor of

the _cursed Quakers_; and, as Clarkson states, said all manner of

"_unhandsome_" things of them, and their _damnable_ doctrines. Penn and

Whitehead invited Vincent to a public discussion. After much delay and

evasion, Vincent consented. As every fowl is bravest on his own

_stercorium_, Vincent selected his own Presbyterian meeting-house, as the

place for the discussion; and, before the appointed hour, filled it with

his own people, so completely, that the disputants themselves, Penn and

Whitehead, could scarcely gain admittance. They were instantly insulted,

by a charge, suddenly made, that the Quakers held "_damnable doctrines_."

Whitehead began a reply; Vincent interrupted him, and proposed, as the

proper course, that he should put questions to the Quakers. He put the

motion, and, as almost all present were of his party, it was agreed to, of

course. He then put a question concerning the Godhead, which he knew the

Quakers would answer in the negative. Whitehead and Penn attempted to

explain. Several rose on the other side. Whitehead desired to put a

question to Vincent. This the Presbyterians refused. They proceeded to

laugh, hiss and stigmatize. Penn they called a Jesuit. Upon an answer from

Whitehead, to a question from Vincent, uproar ensued, and Vincent "went

instantly to prayer," that the Lord would _come short_ with heretics and

blasphemers.

When he had, by this manoeuvre, discharged his battery upon the Quakers,

effectually securing himself from interruption--for no one would presume

to interrupt a minister at prayer--he cut off all power of reply, by

telling the people to go home immediately, at the same moment setting them

the example.

The closing part, which especially exhibits that constancy, for which the

Quakers have ever been remarkable, cannot be more happily related, than in

the language of Mr. Clarkson himself.

"The congregation was leaving the meeting-house, and they had not yet been

heard. Finding they would soon be left to themselves, some of them, at

length, ventured to speak; but they were pulled down, and the candles, for

the controversy had lasted till midnight, were put out. They were not,

however, prevented by this usage, from going on: for, rising up, they

continued their defence in the dark; and what was extraordinary, many

staid to hear it. This brought Vincent among them with a candle.

Addressing himself to the Quakers, he desired them to disperse. To this,

at length, they consented, but only, on the promise, that another meeting

should be granted them, for the same purpose, in the same place."

Vincent did not keep his promise. He was, doubtless, fearful that more of

his parishioners would be converted. Penn and Whitehead, at last, went to

Vincent's meeting-house, on a lecture day; and, when the lecture was

finished, rose and begged an audience: but Vincent went off, as fast as

possible; and the congregation, as speedily, followed. Finding no other

mode before him, Penn wrote and published his celebrated _Sandy Foundation

Shaken_, which caused his imprisonment in the Tower, as already related.

Another remarkable example of the constancy of Penn is recorded, in the

history of his trial, before the Lord Mayor, for a breach of the

conventicle act, in 1670. Mr. Macaulay is pleased to say, Penn had never

been "_a strong-headed man_." This is one of those sliding phrases, that

may mean anything, or nothing. It may mean, that not being a

_strong-headed man_, he necessarily belonged to the other category, and

was a _weak-headed man_. Or, it may mean, that he was not as strong-headed

as Lord Verulam, or Mr. Macaulay. I wish the reader would decide this

question for himself; and, for that end, read the history of this

interesting trial, as given by Clarkson, in the first volume, and sixth

chapter of his Memoirs of Penn. If the evidences of a strong head and a

strong heart were not abundantly exhibited, by the accused, upon that

occasion, I know not where to look for them.

The jury returned a verdict of _guilty of speaking in Grace Street

Church_. Sir Samuel Starling, the Mayor, and the whole court abused the

jurors, after the example of Jeffreys, and sent them back to their room.

After half an hour, they returned the same verdict, in writing, signed

with their names. The court were more enraged than before; and, Mr.

Clarkson says, the Recorder addressed them thus--"You shall not be

dismissed, till we have a verdict, such as the court will accept; and you

shall be locked up without meat, drink, fire, and tobacco; you shall not

think thus to abuse the court; we will have a verdict, by the help of God,

or you shall starve for it." After being out all night, the jury returned

the same verdict, for the third time. They were severely abused by the

court, after the fashion of that day, and sent to their room, once more. A

fourth time, they returned the same verdict. Penn addressed the jury, and

the court ordered the jailor to stop his mouth, and bring fetters, and

stake him to the ground. Friend William, for an instant, merged the Quaker

in the Englishman, and exclaimed--"Do your pleasure, I matter not your

fetters."

On the fifth of September, the jury, who had received no refreshment, for

two days and two nights, returned a verdict of _not guilty_. Such was the

condition of things, at that day, that, for the rendition of that verdict,

the jury were fined forty marks apiece, and imprisoned in Newgate. Penn

was, at this time, five-and-twenty years of age.

The peculiar position of William Penn, at the court of Charles and James

the Second, may be explained, without laying, at his door, the imputation

of being a time-server, and a man of the world. Between the latter monarch

and the Quaker, there existed a relation, akin to friendship. Penn, in

keeping with his Quaker principles, was forgetful of injuries, and mindful

of benefits. It is impossible to say, how long he would have remained in

the tower, when imprisoned there, through the agency of the Bishop of

London, had he not been released, upon the unsolicited importunity of

James II., when Duke of York. When the Admiral, his father, was near his

end, "he sent one of his friends," says Mr. Clarkson, "to the Duke of

York, to desire of him, as a death-bed request, that he would endeavor to

protect his son, as far as he consistently could, and to ask the King to

do the same, in case of future persecution. The answer was gratifying,

both of them promising their services, upon a fit occasion."

Perhaps it would not be going too far--with Mr. Macaulay's permission, of

course--to ascribe that personal consideration, which Penn exhibited, for

Charles and James--a part of it, at least--to a grateful recollection of

their favors, to his father and himself.

"_Titles and phrases_," says Mr. Macaulay, "_against which he had often

borne his testimony, dropped occasionally from his lips and his pen_." I

rather doubt, if the recording angel, who will never "_set down aught in

malice_," has noted the unquakerish sins of William Penn, in doing

grammatical justice to personal pronouns. This, truly, is a mighty small

matter. If Penn was not so particular, in these little things, as some

others of his brotherhood, his birth and education may be well considered.

He was not a Quaker born. His residence in France may also be taken into

the account. "He had contracted," says Clarkson, "a sort of polished or

courtly demeanor, which he had insensibly taken from the customs of the

people, among whom he had lately lived."

In the matter of the hat, even Mr. Macaulay will never charge William Penn

with inconsistency. In Granger's Biographical History of England, iv. 16,

I find the following anecdote--"We are credibly informed, that he sat with

his hat on before Charles II., and that the King, as a gentle rebuke for

his ill manners, put off his own: upon which Penn said to him--'Friend

Charles, why dost thou not put on thy hat?' The King answered, ''Tis the

custom of this place, that never above one person should be covered at a

time.'" This tale is told also, in a note to Grey's Hudibras, on canto ii.

v. 225, and elsewhere.

No. LXX.

_The pride of life_--that omnipresent frailty--that universal mark of

man's congenital naughtiness--in William Penn, seemed scarcely an earthly

leaven, springing, as it did, from a comforting consciousness of the

purity of his own. _The pride of life_, with him, was essentially

_humility_; for, when compelled to rest his defence, in any degree, upon

his individual character, he vaunted not himself, but gave all the glory

to the Giver.

No man, however, more keenly felt the assaults, which were made upon his

character, by the tongue and the pen of envy and hatred, ignorance and

bigotry, because he knew, that the shaft, though aimed, ostensibly, at

him, was frequently designed, for that body, whose prominent leader he

was.

In the very year of his father's death, and shortly after that event, he

was seized, by a file of soldiers, sent purposely, for his apprehension,

while preaching, in a Quaker meeting-house, and carried before Sir John

Robinson, who treated him roughly, and sent him, for six months, to

Newgate. In the course of the trial, Robinson said to Penn--"_You have

been as bad as other folks_"--to which Penn replied--"_When and where? I

charge thee to tell the company to my face._" Robinson rejoined--"Abroad,

and at home too." This was so notoriously false and absurd, that an

ingenuous member of the court, Sir John Shelden, exclaimed--"_No, no, Sir

John, that's too much_." Penn, turning to the assembly, and with all the

chastened indignation of an insulted Christian--Quaker as he

was--delivered himself, with a strength and simplicity, which would have

done honor to Paul, in the presence of Agrippa; and which must forever, so

long as the precious record shall remain, touch a responsive chord--even

in the bosoms of those, whose practice it is, upon ordinary occasions, to

let their yea be yea, and their nay--nay.

I am sure it would have cheered the old Admiral's heart, and elevated his

respect for the broad brim, to have heard the manly language of his Quaker

son, that day.

"I make this bold challenge to all men, women, and children upon earth,

justly to accuse me, with having seen me drunk, heard me swear, utter a

curse, or speak one obscene word, much less that I ever made it my

practice. I speak this to God's glory, who has ever preserved me from the

power of these pollutions, and who, from a child, begot an hatred in me,

towards them."

"But there is nothing more common, than, when men are of a more severe

life than ordinary, for loose persons to comfort themselves with the

conceit, that these were once as they themselves are; as if there were no

collateral or oblique line of the compass or globe, by which men might be

said to come to the Arctic pole, but directly and immediately from the

Antarctic. Thy words shall be thy burden, and I trample thy slanders, as

dirt, under my feet."

Mr. Clarkson is quoted, as good authority, by Mr. Macaulay. Such he has

ever been esteemed. A brief quotation may not be amiss, in regard to

Penn's relation to James II. Having referred to the Admiral's dying

request to Charles and James, to have a regard for his Quaker son,

Clarkson says--"From this period a more regular acquaintance grew up

between them (William Penn and James II.) and intimacy followed. During

this intimacy, however William Penn might have disapproved, as he did, of

the King's religious opinions, he was attached to him, from a belief, that

he was a friend to liberty of conscience. Entertaining this opinion

concerning him, he conceived it to be his duty, now that he had become

King, to renew this intimacy with him, and that, in a stronger manner than

ever, that he might forward the great object, for which he had crossed the

Atlantic, namely, the relief of those unhappy persons, who were then

suffering, on account of their religion. * * * * He used his influence

with the King solely in doing good."

The relation, between William Penn and the Papist King, was indeed

remarkable. Gerard Croese published his Historia Quakeriana, at Amsterdam,

in 1695, which was translated into English, in the following year. It was

greatly disliked, by the Quakers; and, in 1696, drew forth an answer from

one of the society. The testimony of Croese, in relation to Penn, may

therefore be deemed impartial. He says--"The king loved him, as a singular

and entire friend, and imparted to him many of his secrets and counsels.

He often honored him with his company in private, discoursing with him of

various affairs, and that not for one but many hours together."

When a peer, who had been long kept waiting for Penn to come forth,

ventured to complain, the King simply said--"_Penn always talked

ingeniously and he heard him willingly_." Croese says, that Penn was

unwearied, as the suitor on behalf of his oppressed people, making

constant efforts for their liberation, and paying their legal expenses,

from his private purse. The King's remark certainly does not quadrate with

Burnet's statement, that Penn "_had a tedious luscious way of talking_."

With Queen Anne he was a great favorite; and Clarkson says, vol. ii. chap.

15, "she received him always in a friendly manner, and was pleased with

his conversation." So was Tillotson. So was a better judge than Queen

Anne, Tillotson, or Burnet. In Noble's continuation of Granger, Swift is

stated to have said--"_Penn talked very agreeably and with much spirit_."

Somewhat of Penn's relation to King James may be gathered, from Penn's

answer, when examined, in 1690, before King William, in regard to an

intercepted letter from King James to Penn. In that letter, James desired

Penn to "_come to his assistance and express to him the resentments of his

favor and benevolence_." When asked what _resentments_ were intended, he

replied that "he did not know, but he supposed the King meant he should

compass his restoration. Though, however he could not avoid the suspicion

of such an attempt, he could avoid the guilt of it. He confessed he had

loved King James; and, as he had loved him, in his prosperity, he could

not hate him, in his adversity--yes, he loved him yet, for the many favors

he had conferred on him, though he could not join with him, in what

concerned the state or kingdom." This answer, says Pickart, "_was noble,

generous, and wise_."

One of the most able and eloquent compositions of William Penn is his

justly celebrated letter of October 24, 1688, to William Popple. Mr.

Popple was secretary to the Lords Commissioners, for the affairs of trade

and plantations, and a particular friend of Penn and of his schoolfellow,

John Locke. Had Mr. Macaulay flourished then, he would have had readier

listeners to these cavils, than he has at present. Penn, in 1688, was

excessively unpopular. He was not only _the tool of the King and the

Jesuits_, but a rank _Papist_ and _Jesuit_ himself--the _friend of

arbitrary power,--bred at St. Omers in the Jesuits College--he had

taken orders at Rome--married under a dispensation--officiated as a

priest at Whitehall_--no charge against William Penn was too absurd, to

gain credit with the people, at the period of the Revolution.

Upon this occasion, Mr. Popple addressed to Penn a letter, eminently

beautiful, in point of style, and containing a most forcible appeal to

Penn's sense of duty to himself, to the society of Friends, to his

children, and the world, to put down these atrocious calumnies, by some

public written declaration. His letter will be found, in Clarkson's

Memoirs, vol. ii. chap. i. I truly regret, that I have space only, for

some brief disconnected extracts, from William Penn's reply.

"Worthy Friend; it is now above twenty years, I thank God, that I have not

been very solicitous what the world thought of me, &c. The business,

chiefly insisted on, is my Popery and endeavors to promote it. I do say

then, and that, with all simplicity, that I am not only no Jesuit, but no

Papist; and which is more, I never had any temptation upon me to be so,

either from doubts in my own mind, about the way I profess, or from the

discourses or writings of any of that religion. And in the presence of

Almighty God I do declare, that the King did never once directly or

indirectly, attack me or tempt me upon that subject." * * * * "I say then

solemnly, that so far from having been bred at St. Omers, and having

received orders at Rome, I never was at either place; nor do I know

anybody there, nor had I ever a correspondence with anybody in those

places." After alluding to the absurdity of charging him with having

officiated as a Catholic Priest, he adverts to his opinion of the views of

King James, on the subject of toleration--"And in his honor, as well as in

my own defence, I am obliged in conscience to say, that he has ever

declared to me it was his opinion; and on all occasions, when Duke, he

never refused me the repeated proof of it, as often as I had any poor

sufferers for conscience' sake to solicit his help for." * * * * "To this

let me add the relation my father had to this King's service; his

particular favor in getting me released out of the Tower of London in

1669, my father's humble request to him, upon his death-bed, to protect me

from the inconveniences and troubles my persuasion might expose me to, and

his friendly promise to do it, and exact performance of it, from the

moment I addressed myself to him. I say, when all this is considered,

anybody, that has the least pretence to good nature, gratitude, or

generosity, must needs know how to interpret my access to the King."

This letter contains sentiments, on the subject of religious toleration,

which would be highly ornamental, if placed in golden characters, upon the

walls of all our churches--"Our fault is, we are apt to be mighty hot upon

speculative errors, and break all bounds in our resentments; but we let

practical ones pass without remark, if not without repentance! as if a

mistake about an obscure proposition of faith were a greater evil, than

the breach of an undoubted precept. Such a religion the devils themselves

are not without, for they have both faith and knowledge; but their faith

doth not work by love, nor their knowledge by obedience." * * * "Let us

not think religion a litigious thing; nor that Christ came only to make us

disputants." * * * * "It is charity that deservedly excels in the

Christian religion." * * * * "He that suffers his difference with his

neighbor, about the other world, to carry him beyond the line of

moderation in this, is the worse for his opinion, even if it be true. It

is too little considered by Christians, that men may hold the truth in

unrighteousness; that they may be orthodox, and not know what spirit they

are of."

Verily, this "_courtly Quaker_"--this "_tool of the King and the

Jesuits_," who was "_never a strong-headed man_"--was quite a Christian

gentleman after all.

No. LXXI.

In the latter days of William Penn, _the sun and the light were

darkened--the clouds returned after the rain--the grasshopper became a

burden_--and the years had drawn nigh, when he could truly say he had _no

pleasure in them_. No mortal, probably, ever enjoyed a more continual

feast from the consciousness of a life, devoted to the glory of God, and

the welfare of man; but many of his temporal reliances had crumbled under

him; and trouble had gathered about his path, and about his bed.

He had not much more comfort in his government, I fear, than Sancho Panza

enjoyed, in that of Barataria. Its commencement was marked, by a vexatious

dispute with Lord Baltimore; and the Governor's absence was ever the

signal for altercation, between different cliques and parties, and

vexatious neglect, on the part of his tenants and agents. In his letters

to Thomas Lloyd, the President of his Council, he complains of some in the

government, for drinking, carousing, and official extortion.

In his letters to Lloyd and Harrison in 1686, he complains of the Council,

for neglecting and slighting his letters; that he cannot get "_a penny_"

of his quit-rents; and adds--"God is my witness, I lie not. I am now above

six thousand pounds out of pocket, more than ever I saw by the province;

and you may throw in my pains, cares, and hazard of life, and leaving of

my family and friends to serve them."

It is even stated by Clarkson, vol. i. ch. 22, that want of funds from the

Province prevented his returning to America, in 1686. In the following

year, he renews these complaints.

In 1688, and after the revolution, he was examined, before the Lords of

Council, on the charge of being a Papist and a Jesuit; gave bonds for his

attendance, on the first day of the next term; and, no witness then

appearing against him, he was discharged.

In 1690, he was again arrested, and bound over as before, and, no witness

appearing, was again discharged. In the same year, he was once more

arrested, and committed to prison. On the day of trial, no witness

appeared, and he was again discharged. He resolved to fly from such

continual persecution, to America, and, while making his preparation, he

was again arrested, upon the information of one Fuller, who was afterward

set in the pillory, for his crime.

Penn sought safety, in privacy and retirement from the world. In 1691, a

new proclamation was issued for his arrest; and his American affairs wore

a gloomy aspect. In 1693, he was deprived of his government, by King

William; and pursued with unrelenting rage, by his enemies. In the words

of Clarkson, he was "_a poor, persecuted exile_."

"_Canonized to-day and cursed to-morrow_"--such seems to have been the

fortune of William Penn. His only prudent course seemed to be to bow down,

before the wrath of that popular hurricane, which swept furiously over

him, and went upon its way. This good and great man was not wholly

forgotten. He had never forfeited the affectionate respect of some

persons, who have left bright names, for the admiration of future ages.

Such were Locke and Tillotson. They marked their time, and moved in behalf

of the oppressed. Lords Ranelagh, Rochester, and Sidney went to King

William--they "_considered it a dishonor to the Government, that a man,

who had lived such an exemplary life, and who had been so distinguished

for his talents, disinterestedness, generosity, and public spirit, should

be buried in an ignoble obscurity, and prevented from rising to future

eminence and usefulness, in consequence of the charge of an unprincipled

wretch, whom Parliament had publicly stigmatized, as a cheat and an

impostor_."

King William replied to these truly noble lords, "that William Penn was

_an old friend of his, as well as theirs_, and that he might follow his

business, as freely as ever, for he had nothing to say against him." The

principal Secretary of State, Sir John Trenchard, and the Marquis of

Winchester bore these joyful tidings to William Penn. And how did he

receive them? He went instantly, of course, to tender the homage of his

humble acknowledgments to King William--not so. He was then greatly

embarrassed in his pecuniary affairs. Foes were on every side. The wife

whom, in his parting letter, he bade remember, that she was _the love of

his youth and the joy of his life_, was on her death-bed, prostrated

there, according to Clarkson, in no small degree, by her too keen sympathy

for her long suffering husband. His _heart_ was broken--his _spirit_ was

not. He preferred rights before favors, and desired permission publicly to

defend himself, before the King in council. This was granted, and he was

abundantly acquitted, after a deliberate hearing.

The last hours of his wife, Gulielma Maria, were cheered by this

intelligence. In about a month after this event, she died. "She was an

excelling person," said he, "as wife, child, mother, mistress, friend, and

neighbor."

In 1694, a complete reconciliation took place between Penn and the society

of Friends; and, in the same year, he was restored to the Government of

Pennsylvania. In 1696, he married Hannah Callowhill, of Bristol. These

gleams of returning happiness were soon obscured. A few weeks after this

marriage, he lost his eldest son. This young man was upon the eve of

twenty-one. His father's simple narrative of the dying hour is truly

affecting. "His time drawing on apace, he said to me--'My dear father,

kiss me. Thou art a dear father. How can I make thee amends?' He also

called his sister, and said to her, 'poor child, come and kiss me,'

between whom seemed a tender and long parting. I sent for his brother,

that he might kiss him too, which he did. All were in tears about him.

Turning his head to me, he said softly, 'Dear father, hast thou no hope

for me?' I answered, 'My dear child, I am afraid to hope, and I dare not

despair, but am and have been resigned, though one of the hardest lessons

I ever learned.'" When the doctor came, he was very weak, and the

narrative continues thus. "He said--'Let my father speak to the doctor,

and I'll go to sleep,' which he did and waked no more; breathing his last

upon my breast, the tenth day of the second month, between nine and ten in

the morning, 1696. So ended the life of my dear child and eldest son, much

of my comfort and hope, and one of the most tender and dutiful, as well as

ingenuous and virtuous youths I knew, if I may say so of my own dear son,

in whom I lost all that any father can lose in a child; since he was

capable of anything, that became a sober young man, my friend and

companion, as well as most affectionate and dutiful child."

About this time Penn was sorely grieved, by the conduct of George Keith,

the apostate Quaker, who had been excommunicated, and now spent his time,

in abusing the society.

Penn had become well convinced of many solemn truths, presented in the

last chapter of Ecclesiastes, and of none more fully, than that there is

no end of making books. He continued to pour forth pamphlets, on various

subjects. In this year, 1696, he became acquainted, and had several

interviews, with Peter the Great, who was then working, as a common

shipwright, in the dock yards at Deptford. In 1699 he once more visited

Pennsylvania. In 1701 he returned to England. In 1702 and 1703 he

continued to preach and publish, as vigorously as ever.

In 1707 he became involved in a lawsuit, with the executors of one Ford,

his former steward, or agent. Ford was undoubtedly a knave. Penn suffered

severely from this cause. The decision was against him; and, though

Chancery could not relieve, many thought him greatly wronged. He was

compelled, in 1708, to live within the rules of the Fleet. This,

doubtless, was the occasion of Mr. Burke's erroneous statement, many years

after, that Penn died in the Fleet Prison. An amusing anecdote may be

referred to this period, which, though not mentioned by Clarkson, nor in

the life by Chalmers, may be found in the Encyclopaedia Britannica, of

1798, and is repeated, in Napier's edition of 1842. Penn is said to have

had a peep-hole, through which, unseen, he could see every visitor. A

creditor, having often knocked, and becoming impatient, knocked more

violently; "will not your master see me?" said he, when the door was

opened--"He hath _seen_ thee, friend," the servant replied, "but he doth

not like thee."

In 1709, his necessities were such, that he mortgaged his whole Province

of Pennsylvania, for L6600. This necessity, as Oldmixon says, in his

"Account of the British Empire in America," arose from "his bounty to the

Indians, his generosity in minding the public affairs of the Colony more

than his own private ones, his humanity to those, who have not made

suitable returns, his confidence in those, who have betrayed him."

In 1712, he had three apoplectic fits, followed by those painful effects,

which are usual in such cases. His friend, Thomas Story, the first

recorder of Philadelphia, made him yearly visits, after this period, till

his death, which took place July 30, 1718. It is impossible to read the

account of these visits, as given by Thomas Story himself, and presented

by Clarkson, vol. ii. chap. 18, without emotion.

It has too often befallen those, whose lives have been devoted to the

benefit of mankind, to be outraged, after they were dead and buried.

Malice delights to meddle with their ashes. Political prejudice and

priestly bigotry seek, in graves, undisturbed by ages, for something to

gratify their unnatural appetites, and satisfy the gnawings of a mean,

vindictive spirit.

Penn had not long been committed to the tomb, when a wretch, Henry

Pickworth, an excommunicated renegade, spread abroad, with all the

industry and energy of a malicious spirit, the report that Penn had died a

raving maniac, at Bath. This rumor became so general, that it was thought

necessary to destroy it, by the publication of certificates from those,

who had ministered about his dying bed.

For one hundred and thirty years, William Penn has slumbered in the grave.

That _hutesium et clamor_, that spirit of persecution, by which this

excellent man was pursued, vilified, impoverished, and exiled, has long

been hushed. The high churchman, the bigot, the Quaker renegade, the false

accuser, have worn out their viperous teeth upon the file. All, that bore

the primeval impress of human weakness, in William Penn, had well nigh

perished, and departed from the minds of men. All, that was excellent, and

lovely, and of good report, had become case hardened, as it were, into a

sort of precious immortality. That his spirit had found a celestial niche,

among the just made perfect, was the firm faith of all, who believe, that

their Father in Heaven is a God of toleration and of mercy. I have paid my

imperfect tribute of affectionate respect to the memory of William Penn.

Notwithstanding Mr. Macaulay's efforts to disturb the popular opinion, in

regard to William Penn, his History of England is one of the most amusing

books, in the English language. Relationship is worth something, even in a

library; I have placed the two volumes, already published, between the

works of Sir Walter Scott, and a highly prized edition of the Arabian

Nights.

No. LXXII.

Death has taken away, within a brief space, several of our estimable

citizens--Mr. Joseph Balch, an excellent and amiable man, who filled an

official station, honorably for himself, and profitably for others--Mr.

Samuel C. Gray, a gentleman of taste and refinement, who graduated at

Harvard College, in 1811, and, at the time of his death, was President of

the Atlas Bank--Mr. John Bromfield, a man of a sound head, and a kind

heart. Having bestowed five and twenty thousand dollars, in his life-time,

upon the Boston Athenaeum, he modestly left the more extended purposes of

his benevolent heart, to be proclaimed, after his decease; and, by his

will, distributed, among eight charitable institutions, and his native

town, the sum of one hundred and ten thousand dollars.

The features of these good men are still upon the retina of our memories;

the tones of their voices yet ring in our ears; we almost expect their

wonted salutation, upon the public walk. But there is no mockery

here--they are gone--the places, that knew them, shall know them no more!

Death has laid his icy hand upon these men, as he has ever laid the same

cold palm upon their fathers, since time began. Such exits are common.

Disease triumphed over the flesh, and they ceased to be.

But Death has done his dismal work, of late, in our very midst, by the

hand of cruel violence--not sitting like the King of Terrors, in quiet

dignity, upon his throne, and casting his unerring shafts abroad; but

darting down upon his unsuspecting victim, and, with a murderous grasp,

crushing him at once. I allude, as every reader well knows, to the fate of

the late Dr. George Parkman.

As the Coroner's Inquest, after long and laborious investigation, has

declared, that he was "_killed_," we must assume it to be so. I have known

this gentleman, for more than forty years; and have had occasion to

observe some of the peculiarities of his character, in the relations of

business, as well as in those of ordinary intercourse--I say the

_peculiarities_ of his character, for he certainly must be classed in the

category of _eccentric_ men. Having heard much of this ill-fated

gentleman, for many years, before the late awful occurrence, and still

more since the event--for he was extensively known, and all, who knew him,

have something to relate--I am satisfied, that those very traits of

eccentricity, to which I refer, have led the larger part of mankind, to

form erroneous impressions of his character.

Dr. George Parkman was the son of Samuel Parkman, an enterprising, and

successful merchant, of Boston, who was a descendant of Ebenezer Parkman,

who graduated at Harvard College, in 1721, and was ordained Oct. 28, 1724,

the first minister of Westborough; and who, after a ministry of sixty

years, died, Dec. 9, 1782, at the age of 79, and whose wife was the

daughter of Robert Breck, minister of Marlborough, who was the grandson

of Edward Breck, one of the early settlers of Dorchester, in 1636.

Dr. George Parkman graduated, at Harvard College, in 1809. When he

commenced his junior year, John White Webster, now Erving Professor of

Chemistry and Mineralogy, entered the University, as freshman. Dr.

Webster, who is now in prison, charged with the "_killing_" of Dr.

Parkman, will, in due time, be tried, by a jury of his countrymen. Will it

not be decorous, and humane, and in accordance with the golden rule, for

the men, women, and children of Massachusetts, to permit the accused to

have an impartial trial? Can this be possible, if, upon the _on dits_ of

the day, of whose value every man of any experience can judge, this

individual, whose past career seems not to have been particularly

bloodthirsty, is to be morally condemned, without a hearing?

Hundreds, whose elastic intellects have been accustomed to jump in

judgment, are already assured, that we believe Dr. Webster innocent. Now

we _believe_ no such thing--nor do we _believe_ he is guilty. His

reputation and his life are of some little importance to himself, and to

his family; and we should be heartily ashamed, to carry a head upon our

shoulders, which would not enable us to suspend our judgment, until all

the _true facts_ are in, and all the _false facts_ are out.

How much beautiful reasoning has been utterly and gratuitously wasted,

upon premises, which have turned out to be not a whit better, than stubble

and rottenness! The very readiness, with which everybody believes all

manner of evil, of everybody, furnishes evidence enough, that the devil is

in everybody; and goes not a little way, in support of the doctrine of

original sin.

Let us, by all means, and especially, by an avoidance of the topic, give

assurance to the accused of a fair and impartial trial. If he shall be

proved to be innocent, who will not blush, that has contributed to fill

the atmosphere, with a presentiment of this poor man's guilt? If, on the

other hand, he shall be proved to be guilty of an incomparably foul and

fiendish murder--let him be hanged by the neck till he is dead, for God's

sake--aye, for GOD'S SAKE--for God hath said--WHOSO SHEDDETH MAN'S BLOOD,

BY MAN SHALL HIS BLOOD BE SHED.

The personal appearance of Dr. Parkman was remarkable--so much so, that

his identity could not well be mistaken, by any one, who had carefully

observed his person. His body was unusually attenuated, and I have often,

while looking at his profile, perceived a resemblance to Hogarth's sketch

of his friend Fielding, taken from memory, after death.

The talents of Dr. George Parkman were highly respectable. His mind was of

that order, which took little rest--its movements, like those of his body,

were always quick; more so, perhaps, upon some occasions, than comported

with the formation of just and permanent judgment. He was a respectably

well read man, not only in his own profession, but he possessed a very

creditable store of general information, and was an entertaining and

instructive companion. In various ways, he promoted the best interests of

medical science; and nothing, probably, prevented him from attaining very

considerable eminence, in his calling, but the accession of hereditary

wealth; whose management occupied, for many years, a large portion of his

time and thoughts.

By some persons, he has been accounted over sharp and hard, in his

pecuniary dealings--mean and even miserly. No opinion can be more untrue.

Dr. Parkman's eccentricity was nowhere so manifest, as in his money

relations. The line was singularly well defined, in his mind, between

charity, or liberality, and traffic. He adhered to the time-honored maxim,

that _there is no love in trade_. There are persons, who, in their

dealings, give up fractions, and suffer petty encroachments, for the sake

of popularity; and who make, not only their own side of a bargain, but, in

a very amiable, patronizing way, a portion of the other. Dr. Parkman did

none of these things. He gave men credit, for a full share of selfishness

and cunning--made his contracts carefully--performed them strictly--and

expected an exact fulfilment, from the other party.

It is perfectly natural, that the promptness and the pertinacity of Dr.

Parkman, in exacting the punctual payment of money, and the strict

performance of contracts, should be equally surprising and annoying to

those, whose previous dealings had been with men, of less method and

vigilance. But no man, however irritated by the daily repetition of the

dun, has ever charged, upon Dr. Parkman, the slightest departure from the

line of strict integrity. He was a man of honor, in the true acceptation

of that word. His domestic arrangements were of the most liberal kind--his

manners were courteous--and he possessed the high spirit of a

gentleman--and, with all the occasional evidences, which his conduct

_openly_ supplied, of his particular care, in the gathering of units; he

could be _secretly_ liberal, with hundreds.

It may well be doubted, if any individual has ever lived, for sixty years,

in this city, whose real character has been so little understood, by the

community at large. The reason is at hand--he exposed that regard for

pittances, which most men conceal--and he concealed many acts of charity,

which most men expose. He had many tenants of the lower order--he was

frequently his own collector, and brought upon himself many murmurs and

complaints, which are commonly the agent's portion.

The charities of Dr. Parkman wore an aspect, now and then, of

whimsicality, and were strangely contrasted with _apparent_ meanness.

Thus, upon one occasion, he is said to have insisted upon being paid a

paltry balance of rent, some twenty-five cents, by a poor woman, who

assured him it was all she had to buy her dinner. "_Now we have settled

the rent_," said he, and immediately gave her a couple of dollars.

A gentleman, an old college acquaintance of Dr. Parkman's, told me, a day

or two since, that the Dr. came to him, after this gentleman's failure,

some years ago, and said to him, with great kindness and delicacy--"You

want a house--there is mine in ---- street, empty and repaired--take

it--you shall pay no rent for a year, and as much longer, as may suit your

convenience."

In 1832, this city was visited by the cholera. Mr. Charles Wells was

Mayor, and a very good Mayor was he. Had his benevolence induced him to

labor, for the more extensive diffusion of the blessing of alcohol, among

the poor, the liquor trade would certainly have voted him a punch-bowl,

for his vigorous opposition to the cholera. Upon the occasion, to which I

refer, Dr. Parkman said to the city authorities--"You are seeking for a

cholera hospital--take any of my houses, that may suit you, rent free, in

welcome. If you prefer that, which I occupy, I will move out, with

pleasure."

When Dorcas died, the good people of Joppa began to display her handiwork.

I am surprised, though much of it was known to me before, at the amount of

evidence, which is now produced, from various quarters, to prove, that

this unfortunate gentleman was a man of the most kind affections, and of

extensive, practical benevolence.

Let me close these remarks, with one brief anecdote; which, though once

already related of Dr. Parkman, by the editor of the Transcript, is worthy

of many republications, and is not at all like news, on the stock

exchange, good only while it is new.

"A politician stopped the Doctor in the street and asked him to subscribe

for the expense of a salute, in honor of some political victory. The

Doctor put his arm in his, and invited him to take a little walk. He led

him round the corner into a dismal alley, and then up three flights of

rickety stairs into a room where a poor woman was sitting, propped by

pillows, feebly attempting to sew. Some pale, hungry-looking children were

near. The Doctor took six dollars out of his pocket-book, and handed it to

the politician, and, simply remarking, "do with it as you please," he

darted out of the room in his usually impulsive way."

I must close this feeble tribute of respect to the memory of one, who

truly deserved a milder fate and an abler pen. Had we the power of

recall--how well and wisely might we pay his ransom, with scores of men,

quite as _eccentric_ in their way, but whose _eccentricity_ has very

rarely assumed the charitable type!

No. LXXIII.

When I was a very young man, I had the honor of a slight acquaintance with

a most worthy gentleman, my senior by many years, who represented the town

of Hull, in the Legislature of our Commonwealth. As I marked the solemn

step, with which he moved along the public way, towards the House of

Representatives, and the weight of responsibility, which hung upon his

anxious brow--if such, thought I, is the effect, produced upon the

representative of Hull--what an awful thing it must be, to represent the

whole United States of North America, at the court of the greatest nation

in the world!

In harmony with this opinion, every nation of the earth has selected, from

the _elite_ of the whole country, for the high and responsible employment

of standing before the world, as the legitimate representative of itself,

a man of affairs--I do not mean the affairs of trade, and discounts, and

invoices, and profits--I use the word, in its most ample diplomatic

sense--a man of great wisdom, and knowledge, and experience--a man

familiar with the laws of nations--a man of dignity--not that arrogated

dignity, which looks supremely wise, while it feels supremely foolish--but

that conscious dignity, which is innate, and sits upon the wearer, like an

easy garment--a man of liberal education, and great familiarity, not with

the whole circle of sciences, but with the whole circle of historical and

correlative knowledge--a man of classical erudition, and a scholar,

competent to bear a becoming part, in that elevated intercourse of mind,

which forms the dignified and delightful recreation of the diplomatist, in

the first society of Europe.

Men, who have been bred up, amid the pursuits of trade, have been, with

great propriety, selected, to fill the offices of _consuls_, in foreign

lands; agreeably to the long established distinction, that _consuls_

represent the _commercial affairs_--_ambassadors_ the _state and dignity_

of the country, from whence they come.

Oh! for the wand of that enchantress, the glorious witch of Endor! to turn

up the sod of memory, and conjure, from their honorable graves, the train

of illustrious, and highly gifted men, who, from time to time, have been

sent forth, to represent this great Republic, before the throne of

England!

First, on that scroll of honor, is a name, which shall prove coeval with

the first days, and with the last, of this Republic. It shall never

perish, till the whole earth itself shall be rolled up, like a scroll. On

the second day of June, 1785, JOHN ADAMS was presented to King George, the

third. The very man, whom that obstinate, old monarch had never

contemplated, in his royal visions, but as a rebel, suing for pardon, with

a rope about his neck, then stood before him, calm and erect--the equal of

that king, in all things, that became a man, and his mighty superior in

many--the representative of a nation, which his consummate wisdom, and

invincible, moral courage had contributed, so materially, to render free

and independent.

What a tribute was conveyed, in the words of Jefferson, his political

rival--"_The great pillar and support to the declaration of independence,

and its ablest advocate and champion on the floor of the house was_ JOHN

ADAMS. _He was the Colossus of that Congress: not graceful, not eloquent,

not always fluent, in his public addresses, he yet came out with a power

both of thought and expression, which moved the hearers from their

seats._"

In those thoughtful days, secretaries of legation were carefully selected,

and with some reference, of course, to their contingent responsibilities,

in the event of the absence, or illness, of their principals. When, in

1779, Mr. Adams went, on his mission to France, a gentleman of high

qualifications, Mr. Francis Dana, gave up his seat, _as a member of

Congress_, to follow that great man, _as secretary of legation_. Mr. Dana

subsequently figured, ably and gracefully, in the highest stations. In

1780, he was minister to Russia. In 1784, he was a delegate to Congress.

In 1797, he declined the office of envoy extraordinary to France. From

1792 to 1806, he was the able, impartial, and eminently dignified Chief

Justice of the Supreme Judicial Court of Massachusetts.

In 1794, it was thought, by the appointing power, that John Jay might be

trusted to represent our Republic, at the British Court. With what a

reputation, for wisdom, and talents, and learning, that great man crossed

the sea! Mr. Jay, an eminent lawyer, uniting the wisdom and dignity of

years, with the vigor and zeal of early manhood, was a member of the first

American Congress, at the age of twenty-nine. Chairman of the Committee,

of which Lee and Livingston were members, he was the author of the

eloquent "_Address to the People of Great Britain_." He was Chief Justice

of the State of New York, from 1777 to 1779, and relinquished that

elevated station, as incompatible with the due performance of his duties,

as President of Congress. From his skilful hand came the stirring address

of that assembly, to its constituents, of Sept. 8, 1779. He was appointed

minister plenipotentiary to Spain, at the close of that year--a

commissioner, to negotiate peace with Great Britain, in 1782--Chief

Justice of the Supreme Judicial Court of the United States, in

1789--Governor of New York, in 1795, being then abroad, as minister

plenipotentiary of the United States, to Great Britain, to which office he

was appointed in 1794--and again Governor of New York, in 1798.

Rufus King graduated at Harvard College, in 1777, with a high reputation,

as a classical scholar and an orator; and studied his profession, with the

late Chief Justice Parsons. In 1784, he was a delegate to Congress. He was

a member of the Convention of 1787, to form the Constitution of the United

States. In 1789, he was a member of the United States Senate. Of the

celebrated Camillus papers, commonly ascribed to Hamilton, all, excepting

the ten first, were from the pen of Rufus King. In 1796, he was nominated,

by Washington, minister plenipotentiary to the Court of Great Britain. He

filled that high station, till the close of the second year of the

Jefferson administration. After a long retirement, he was again in the

Senate of the United States, in 1813. After quitting the Senate, in 1825,

he was once more appointed minister to Great Britain; but, after remaining

abroad, about a year, in ill health, he returned, and died at Jamaica,

Long Island, April 29, 1827.

"_And what shall I more say?_ For the time would fail me, to tell of"

Pinckney, and Gore, and the younger Adams, that incarnation of wisdom and

learning, and Gallatin, and Maclean, and Everett, and Bancroft, every one

of whom has been preceded, by the well-earned reputation of high,

intellectual powers and attainments, whatever may have been the difference

of their political opinions.

Knowledge is power; talent is power; and fine literary tastes and

acquirements are, preeminently, power; and, in no spot, upon the surface

of the earth, are they more truly so, than in the great British

metropolis. The wand of a man of letters can there do more, than can be

achieved, by the power of Midas, or the wonder-working lamp of Aladdin.

Our fathers, therefore, preferred, that the nation should be represented,

in its simplicity and strength, by men of long heads, strong hearts, and

short purses. They considered a regular, thorough, and polished education,

literary attainments of a very high order, a clear and comprehensive

knowledge of the law of nations, and an extensive store of general

information, absolutely essential, in a minister plenipotentiary, from

this Republic, to the Court of Great Britain; for our _state and dignity_

were to be represented there, not less than our _commercial relations_.

They well knew, that our representative should be qualified to represent

the refined and educated portions of our community, in the presence of

those elevated classes, among whom he must frequently appear; and "_whose

talk_," to use the expression of Dr. Johnson, was not likely to be "_of

bullocks_." They therefore invariably selected, for this exalted station,

one, who would be abundantly able to represent the nation, with gravity,

and dignity, and wisdom, and knowledge, and power; and who would never be

reduced, whatever the subject might be, to believe his safety was in

sitting still, or of suffering the secret of his impotency to escape, by

opening his mouth.

If I have passed too rapidly for the reader's willingness to linger, over

the names of some highly distinguished men, who have so ably represented

our country, at the British Court, and who still _survive_--it is because

_my dealings are with the dead_.

No. LXXIV.

"An immense quantity of fuel was always of necessity used, when dead

bodies were burned, instead of buried; and a friend, learned in such lore,

as well as in much that is far more valuable, informs us that the burning

of a _martyr_ was always an expensive process."

This passage was transferred, from the New York Courier and Enquirer, to

the Boston Atlas, December 29, 1849, and is part of an article having

reference to the partial cremation of Dr. Parkman's remains.

I must presume, as a sexton of the old school, to doubt the accuracy of

this statement, in the very face of the averment, that the editor's

authority is "_a friend, learned in such lore_."

To enable my readers to judge of the comparative expense of burial, in the

ordinary mode, by interment or entombment, and by cremation, I refer, in

the first place, to Mr. Chadwick's Report, made by request of Her

Majesty's Principal Secretary of State, for the Home Department, Lond.

1843, in which it is stated, that a Master in Chancery, when dealing with

insolvent estates, will pass, "_as a matter of course_," such claims as

these--from L60 to L100 for burying an upper tradesman--L250 for burying a

gentleman--L500 to L1500 for burying a nobleman.

But let us confine our remarks to the particular allegation. The "_friend,

learned in such lore_," has greatly diminished the labor of refutation, by

confining his statement to the burning of _martyrs_--"_the burning of a

martyr was always an expensive process_," requiring, says the Courier and

Enquirer, "_an immense quantity of fuel_."

I well remember to have read, though I cannot recall the authority, that

aromatic woods and spices were occasionally used in the East, during the

_suttees_, to correct the offensive odor. In addition to the reason,

assigned by Cicero, De Legibus, ii. 23, for the law against intramural

burning, that conflagration might be avoided--Servius, in a note, on the

AEneis, vi. 150, states another, that the air might not be infected with

the stench. To prevent this, we know that costly perfumes were cast upon

the pile; and the respect and affection for the defunct came to be

measured, at last, by this species of extravagance; just as the funereal

sorrow of the Irish is supposed to be graduated, by the number of coaches,

and the quantity of whiskey.

But our business is with the _martyrs_. What was the cost of burning John

Rogers I really do not know. I doubt if the process was very expensive;

for good old John Strype has told us, almost to a fagot, how much fuel it

took, to burn Cranmer, Latimer, and Ridley. The fuel, employed to burn

Latimer and Ridley, cost fifteen shillings and four pence sterling for

both; and the fuel for burning Cranmer, nine shillings and four pence

only. Then there were chains, stakes, laborers, and cartage; and the whole

cost for burning all three, was _one pound, sixteen shillings, and six

pence_! Not a very expensive process truly. The authority is not at every

one's command: I therefore give it entire, from Strype's Memorials of

Cranmer, Oxford ed., 1840, vol. i. p. 563:--

_s._ _d._

"For three loads of wood fagots to burn Ridley and Latimer, 12 0

Item, one load of furs fagots, 3 4

For the carriage of these four loads, 2 0

Item, a post, 1 4

Item, two chains, 3 4

Item, two staples, 0 6

Item, four laborers, 2 8

"FOR BURNING CRANMER.

For an 100 of wood fagots, 6 0

For an 100 and half of furs fagots, 3 4

For the carriage of them, 0 8

To two laborers, 1 4."

L1500 to _bury_ a nobleman, and L1 16 6, to _burn_ three martyrs! Leaving

the Courier and Enquirer, and the "_friend, learned in such lore_," to

_bury_ or to _burn_ this record, as they please, I turn to another

subject, referred to, on the very same page of Strype's Memorials, and

which is not without some little interest, at the present moment.

A prisoner, charged with any terrible offence, innocent or guilty, lies

under the _surveillance_ of all eyes and ears. The slightest act, the

shortest word, the very breath of his nostrils are carefully reported. The

public resolves itself into a committee of anxious inquirers, to ascertain

precisely how he eats, and drinks, and sleeps. There are persons of lively

fancies, whose imaginations fire up, at the mere sight of his prison

walls, and start off, under high pressure, filling the air with rumors,

too horribly delightful, to be doubted for an instant.

If the topic were not the terrible thing that it is, it would be difficult

to preserve one's gravity, while listening to some portion of the

testimony, upon which, it may be our fortune, one of these days, to be

convicted of murder, by the charitable public.

Of the guilt or innocence of John White Webster I _know_ nothing, and I

_believe_ nothing. But it has been currently reported, that, since his

confinement, he has been detected, in the crime of eating oysters. I

doubt, if this ordeal would have been considered entirely satisfactory,

even by Dr. Mather, in 1692. Man is a marvellous monster, when sitting,

self-placed, in judgment, on his fellow! The very thing, which is a sin,

in the commission or observance, is no less a sin, in the omission and the

breach--for who will doubt the blood-guiltiness of a man, that, while

confined, on a charge of murder, can partake of an oyster pie! And if he

cannot do this, who will doubt, that a consciousness of guilt has deprived

him of his appetite!

I have heard of a drunken husband, who, while staggering home, after

midnight, communed with himself, as follows--"_If my wife has gone to bed,

before I get home to supper, I'll beat her,--and if she is sitting up, so

late as this, burning my wood and candles, I'll beat her_."

Good John Strype, ibid. 562, says of Cranmer, Latimer and Ridley, while in

the prison of Bocardo--"They ate constantly suppers as well as dinners.

Their meals amounted to about three or four shillings; seldom exceeding

four. Their bread and ale commonly came to two pence or three pence; they

had constantly cheese and pears for their last dish, both at dinner and

supper; and always wine." It is not uninteresting to note the prices, paid

for certain articles of their diet, in those days, 1555. While describing

the _provant_ of these martyrs, Strype annexes the prices, "_it being an

extraordinary dear time_.--A goose, 14d. A pig, 12 oz. 13d. A cony, 6d. A

woodcock, 3d. and sometimes 5d. A couple of chickens, 6d. Three plovers,

10d. Half a dozen larks, 3d. A dozen of larks and 2 plovers, 10d. A breast

of veal, 11d. A shoulder of mutton, 10d. Roast beef, 12d." He presents one

of Cranmer's bills of fare:--

"Bread and ale, 2.d.

Item oisters, 1.d.

Item butter, 2.d.

Item eggs, 2.d.

Item lyng, 8.d.

Item a piece of fresh salmon, 10.d.

Wine, 3.d.

Cheese and pears, 2.d."

Two bailiffs, Wells and Winkle, upon their own responsibility, furnished

the table of these martyrs, and appear never to have been reimbursed.

Strype says, ibid. 563, that they expended L63 10s. 2d., and never

received but L20, which they obtained from Sir William Petre, Secretary of

State. Ten years after, a petition was presented to the successor of

Cranmer, that these poor bailiffs might receive some recompense.

After the pile had burnt down, in the case of Cranmer, upon raking among

the embers, his heart was found entire. Upon this incident, Strype

exclaims--"Methinks it is a pity, that his heart, that remained sound in

the fire, and was found unconsumed in his ashes, was not preserved in some

urn; which, when the better times of Queen Elizabeth came, might, in

memory of this truly good and great Thomas of Canterbury, have been placed

among his predecessors, in his church there, as one of the truest glories

of that See."

In 1821, Mr. William Ward, of Serampore, published, in London, his

"_Farewell Letters_." Mr. Ward was a Baptist missionary; and, at the time

of the publication, was preparing to return to Bengal. This work was very

favorably reviewed in the Christian Observer, vol. xxi. p. 504. I have

never met with a description, so exceedingly minute, of the _suttee_, the

process of burning widows. He thus describes the funeral pile--"The

funeral pile consists of a quantity of fagots, laid on the earth, rising,

in height, about three feet from the ground, about four feet wide, and six

feet in length." Admitting these fagots to be closely packed, the pile

contains seventy-two cubic feet of wood, or fifty-six less than a cord.

"_A large quantity of fagots are then laid upon the bodies_," says Mr.

Ward. As the widow often leaps from the pile, and is chased back again,

into the flames, by the benevolent Bramins, the fagots, which are not

heaped _around_ the pile, but "_laid on the bodies_," cannot be a very

oppressive load; and the quantity, thus employed in the _suttee_, is for

the cremation of two bodies, at least, the dead husband, and the living

widow.

There can be no doubt of the superior economy of cremation, over

earth-burial. The notions of an "_expensive process_," and the "_immense

quantities of fuel_," have no foundation in practice. If the ashes, as has

been sometimes the case, were given to the winds, or cast upon the waters,

the expense of cremation would be exceedingly small. But cremation,

however inexpensive, in itself, has led to unmeasured extravagance, in the

matter of urns of the most costly materials, and workmanship, of which an

ample account may be found, in the _Hydriotaphia_ of Sir Thomas Browne,

London, 1835, vol. iii. p. 449.

More remarkable changes have occurred, in modern times, than a revival of

the practice of cremation. It is an error, however, to suppose this

practice to have been the original mode of dealing with the dead. It was

very general about the year 1225, B. C., but the usage, at the present

day, was, doubtless, the primitive practice of mankind. So thought Cicero,

De Legibus ii. 22. "Ac mihi quidem antiquissimum sepulturae genus id fuisse

videtur, quo apud Xenophontem Cyrus utitur. Redditur enim terrae corpus, et

ita locatum ac situm, quasi operimento matris obducitur."

Nevertheless, there is a strong cremation party among us. Who would not

save sixpence, if he could, even in a winding-sheet! Should the wood and

lumber interest be fairly represented, in our city councils, it would not

be surprising, if there should be a majority, in favor of taking the

remains of our citizens to Nova Scotia, to be burnt, rather than to

Malden, to be buried. My friends, Birch, Touchwood, and Deal, are of this

opinion; and would be happy to receive the citizens on board their

regular coasters, for this purpose, at a reasonable price, per hundred, or

by the single citizen--packed in ice.

An experienced person will be always on hand, to receive the corpses.

Religious services will be duly performed, during the burning, without

extra charge; and, should the project find favor with the public, a

regular line of funeral coasters, with appropriate emblems, and

figure-heads, will, in due time, be established. Those, who prefer the

more economical mode of water-burial, for their departed relatives,

thereby saving the expense of fuel altogether, will be accommodated, if

they will leave orders in writing, with the masters on board, who will

personally superintend the dropping of the bodies, off soundings.

No. LXXV.

While attempting to rectify the supposed mistakes of other men, we

sometimes commit egregious blunders ourselves. In turning over an old copy

of John Josselyn's Voyages to New England, in 1638 and 1663, my attention

was attracted, by a particular passage, and a marginal manuscript note,

intended to correct what the annotator supposed, and what some readers

might suppose, to be a blunder of the printer, or the author. The passage

runs thus--"In 1602, these North parts were further discovered by Capt.

_Bartholomew Gosnold_. The first _English_ that planted there, set down

not far from the _Narragansetts Bay_, and called their Colony _Plimouth_,

since old _Plimouth, An. Dom., 1602_." The annotator had written, on the

margin, "_gross blunder_," and, in both instances, run his indignant pen

through 1602, and substituted 1620. There are others, doubtless, who would

have done the same thing. The first aspect of the thing is certainly very

tempting. The text, nevertheless, is undoubtedly correct. It is altogether

likely, that the matter, stated by Josselyn, can be found, so stated by no

other writer. In 1602, Gosnold discovered the Elizabeth Islands, and built

a house, and erected palisades, on the "Island Elizabeth," the westernmost

of the group, whose Indian name was Cuttyhunk. In 1797, Dr. Jeremy Belknap

visited this interesting spot. "_We had the supreme satisfaction_," says

he, Am. Biog. ii. 115, "_to find the cellar of Gosnold's store-house_!"

Hutchinson, i. 1, refers expressly to the passage, in Josselyn; and after

stating that Gosnold discovered the Elizabeth Islands, in 1602, and built

a fort there, and intended a settlement, but could not persuade his people

to remain, he adds, in a note--"_This, I suppose, is what Josselyn, and no

other author, calls the first colony of New Plimouth, for he says it was

begun in 1602, and near Narragansett Bay_."

The writer of a "Topographical Description of New Bedford," M. H. C., iv.

234, states, that the island, on which Gosnold built his fort and

store-house, was _Nashaun_, and refers to Dr. Belknap's Biography. The New

Bedford writer is wrong, in point of fact, and right, in point of

reference. Dr. Belknap published the first volume of his Biography, in

1794, containing a short notice of Gosnold, in which, p. 236, he

says--"The island, on which Gosnold and his companions took up their

abode, is now called by its Indian name, _Nashaun_, and is the property of

the Hon. James Bowdoin, of Boston, to whom I am indebted for these remarks

on Gosnold's journal." The writer of the description of New Bedford

published his account, the following year, and relied on Dr. Belknap, who

unfortunately relied on his informant, who, it seems, was entirely

mistaken.

Dr. Belknap published his second volume, in 1798, with a new and more

extended memoir of Gosnold, in which, p. 100, he remarks--"The account of

Gosnold's voyage and discovery, in the first volume of this work, is so

erroneous, from the misinformation, which I had received, that I thought

it best to write the whole of it anew. The former mistakes are here

corrected, partly from the best information which I could obtain, after

the most assiduous inquiry; but principally from _my own observations_, on

the spot; compared with the journal of the voyage, more critically

examined than before."

Here is abundant evidence of that scrupulous regard for historical truth,

for which that upright and excellent man was ever remarkable. With most

writers, the pride of authorship would have revolted. The very thought of

these _vestigia retrorsum_, would not have found toleration, for a moment.

Some less offensive mode might have been adopted, by the employment of

_errata_, or _appendices_, or _addenda_. Not so: this conscientious man,

however innocently, had misled the public, upon a few historical points,

and nothing would give him satisfaction, but a public recantation. His

right hand had not been the agent, like Cranmer's, of voluntary

falsehood, but of unintentional mistake, like Scaevola's; and nothing would

suffice, in his opinion, but the actual cautery.

In this second life of Gosnold, p. 114, after describing "the island

Elizabeth," or Cuttyhunk, Dr. Belknap says--"To this spot I went, on the

20th day of June, 1797, in company with several gentlemen, whose curiosity

and obliging kindness induced them to accompany me. The protecting hand of

nature had reserved this favorite spot to herself. Its fertility and its

productions are exactly the same, as in Gosnold's time, excepting the

wood, of which there is none. Every species of what he calls 'rubbish,'

with strawberries, pears, tansy, and other fruits, and herbs, appear in

rich abundance, unmolested by any animal but aquatic birds. We had the

supreme satisfaction to find the cellar of Gosnold's store-house."

"_We had the supreme satisfaction to find the cellar of Gosnold's

store-house!_"--A whole-souled ejaculation this! I reverence the memory of

the man who made it. It is not every other man we meet on 'Change, who can

estimate a sentiment like this. My little Jew friend, in Griper's Alley,

entirely mistakes the case. Never having heard of Bart Gosnold before, he

takes him, for the like of Kidd; and the venerable Dr. Jeremy Belknap, for

a gold-finder. What _supreme satisfaction_ could there be, in discovering

the cellar of a store-house, nearly two hundred years old, unless hidden

treasures were there concealed! How, in the name of two per cent. a month,

and all the other gods we worship, could a visit down to Cuttyhunk ever

_pay_, only to stare at the stones of an ancient cellar!

Dr. Belknap's ejaculation reminds one of divers interesting matters--of

Archimedes, when he leaped from his bath, and ran about naked, for joy,

with _eureka_ on his lips, having excogitated the plan, for detecting the

fraud, practised upon Hiero.--It also recalls--_parvis componere

magna_--Johnson's memorable exclamation, upon walking over the graves, at

Icolmkill--"To abstract the mind from all local emotion would be

impossible, if it were endeavored, and would be foolish, if it were

possible. Whatever withdraws us from the power of our senses; whatever

makes the past, the distant or the future predominate over the present,

advances us in the dignity of thinking beings. Far from me and from my

friends be such frigid philosophy, as may conduct as indifferent and

unmoved over any ground, which has been dignified by wisdom, bravery or

virtue. That man is little to be envied, whose patriotism would not gain

force upon the plains of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow warmer

among the ruins of Iona."

Dr. Jeremy Belknap was a Boston boy, born June 4, 1744. He learned his

rudiments, under the effective birch of Master Lovell; graduated A. M. at

Harvard, 1762, S. T. D. 1792. He was ordained pastor of the church in

Dover, N. H. 1767; and in 1787, he became pastor of the church in Berry

Street, formerly known as Johnny Moorehead's, who was settled there in

1730, and succeeded, by David Annan, in 1783, and which is now Dr.

Gannett's.

Dr. Belknap was the founder of the Massachusetts Historical Society, and

one of the most earnest promoters of the welfare of Harvard College.

Dr. Belknap published sermons, on various occasions; a volume of

dissertations, on the character and resurrection of Christ; his history of

New Hampshire in three volumes; his American Biography, in two volumes;

and the Foresters, an American Tale, well worthy of republication, at the

present day. He wrote extensively, in the newspapers, and published

several essays, on the slave trade, and upon the early settlement of the

country.

I have the most perfect recollection of this excellent man; for I saw him

often, when I was very young; and I used to wonder, how a man, with so

rough a voice, could bestow such a benign and captivating smile, upon

little boys.

The churchman prays to be delivered from _sudden_ death. Dr. Belknap

prayed for _sudden_ death--that he might be translated "_in a

moment_"--such were his words. Yet here is no discrepancy. No man,

prepared to die, will pray for a lingering death--and to him, who is not

prepared, no death, however prolonged, can be other than _sudden_ and

premature. On the ninth of February, 1791, Dr. Belknap was called to mourn

the loss of a friend, whose death was immediate. Among the Dr.'s papers,

after his decease, the following lines were found, bearing the date of

that friend's demise, and exhibiting, with considerable felicity of

language, his own views and aspirations:--

"When faith and patience, hope and love

Have made us meet for Heav'n above;

How blest the privilege to rise,

Snatch'd, in a moment, to the skies!

Unconscious, to resign our breath,

Nor taste the bitterness of death!

Such be my lot, Lord, if thou please

To die in silence, and at ease;

When thou dost know, that I'm prepared,

Oh seize me quick to my reward.

But, if thy wisdom sees it best,

To turn thine ear from this request;

If sickness be th' appointed way,

To waste this frame of human clay;

If, worn with grief, and rack'd with pain,

This earth must turn to earth again;

Then let thine angels round me stand;

Support me, by thy powerful hand;

Let not my faith or patience move,

Nor aught abate my hope or love;

But brighter may my graces shine,

Till they're absorbed in light divine."

The will of the Lord coincided with the wish of this eminent disciple; and

his was the sudden death, that he had asked of God. At 4 o'clock in the

morning of June 20, 1798, paralysis seized upon his frame, and, before

noon, he was no more.

Personal considerations of the flesh cannot be supposed, alone, to have

moved the heart of this benevolent man. Who would not wish to avoid that

pain, which is reflected, for days, and weeks, and months, and years, from

the faces of those we love, who watch, and weep, about the bed of disease

and death! Who can imagine this veteran soldier of the cross, with his

armor of righteousness, upon the right hand and upon the left, awaiting

the welcome signal to depart--without adopting, in the spiritual, and in

the physical, sense, the language of the prophet--"_Let me die the death

of the righteous, and let my last end be like his_."

No. LXXVI.

I never dream, if I can possibly avoid it--when the thing is absolutely

forced upon me, why that is another affair. On the evening of the second

day of January, 1850, from some inexplicable cause, I lost all appetite

for my pillow. I had, till past eleven, been engaged, in the perusal of

Goethe's Confessions of a Fair Saint. After a vain trial of the

commonplace expedients, such as counting leaping sheep, up to a thousand

and one; humming Old Hundred; and fixing my thoughts upon the heads of

good parson Cleverly's last Sabbath sermon, on perseverance; I,

fortunately, thought of Joel Barlow's Columbiad, and, after two or three

pages, went, thankfully, to bed. I threw myself upon my right side, as I

always do; for, being deaf--very--in the sinister ear, I thus exclude the

nocturnal cries of fire, oysters, and murder.

I think I must have been asleep, full half an hour, by a capital

Shrewsbury clock, that I keep in my chamber. It was, of course, on the

dawning side of twelve--the very time, when dreams are true, or poets lie,

which latter alternative is impossible. I was aroused, by the stroke of a

deep-toned bell; and, in an instant, sat bolt upright, listening to the

sound. I should have known it, among a thousand--it was the old passing

bell of King's Chapel. I am confident, as to the bell--it had the full,

jarring sound, occasioned by the blockhead of a sexton, who cracked it, in

1814. I counted the strokes--one--two--three--an adult male, of

course--and then the age--seventy-four was the number of the strokes of

that good old bell, corresponding with the years of his pilgrimage--and

then a pause--I almost expected another--so, doubtless, did he, poor

man--but it came not!--Some old stager, thought I, has put up, for the

long night; and the power of slumber was upon me, in a moment.

I slept--but it was a fitful sleep--and I dreamt such a dream, as none but

a sexton of the old school can ever dream--

--------"velut aegri somnia, vanae

Fingentur species, ut nec pes, nec caput uni

Reddatur formae."

"Funeral baked meats," and bride's cake, and weepers, and wedding rings

seemed oddly consorted together. At one moment, two very light and airy

skeletons seemed to be engaged, in dancing the polka; and, getting angry,

flung their skulls furiously at each other. I then fancied, that I saw old

Grossman, driving his hearse at a full run, with the corpse of an

intemperate old lady, not to the graveyard, but, by mistake, to the very

shop, where she bought her Jamaica. I dare not relate the half of my

dream, lest I should excite some doubt of my veracity. For aught I know, I

might have dreamt on till midsummer, had not a hand been laid on my

shoulder, and a change come over the spirit of my dream, in a marvellous

manner--for I actually dreamt I was wider awake, than I often am, when

Sirius rages, of a summer afternoon, and I am taking my comfort, in my

postprandial chair.

Starting suddenly, I beheld the well known features of an old acquaintance

and fellow-spadesman--"Don't you know me?" "Yes," said I--"no, I can't say

I do"--for I was confoundedly frightened--"Not know me! Haven't we lifted,

head and foot, together, for six and thirty years?" "Well, I suppose we

have; but you are so deadly pale; and, will you be so kind as to take your

hand from my shoulder; for it's rather airy, at this season, you know, and

your palm is like the hand of death." "And such it is," said he--"did you

not hear my bell?" "_Your_ bell?" I inquired, gazing more intently, at the

little, white-haired, old man, that stood before me. "Even so, Abner," he

replied; "your old friend, and fellow-laborer, Martin Smith, is dead. I

always had a solemn affection, for the passing bell. It sounded not so

pleasantly, to be sure, in the neighborhood of theatres and gay hotels;

and its good, old, solemnizing tones are no longer permitted to be heard.

I longed to hear it, once more; and, after they had laid me out, and left

me alone, I clapped on my great coat, over my shroud, as you see, and ran

up to the church, and tolled my own death peal. When, more than one

hundred years ago, in 1747, Dr. Caner took possession, in the old way, by

entering, and closing the doors, and tolling the bell, as the Rev. Roger

Price had done before, in 1729, he did not feel, that the church belonged

to him, half so truly as I have felt, for many years, whenever I got a

fair grip of that ancient bell-rope."

"Martin," said I, "this is rather a long speech, for a ghost; and must be

wearying to the spirit; suppose you sit down." This I said, because I

really supposed the good, little, old man, contrary to all his known

habits, was practising upon my credulity--perhaps upon my fears; and was

playing a new year's prank, in his old age: and I resolved, by the

smallest touch of sarcasm in the world, to show him, that I was not so

easily deceived. He made no reply; but, drawing my hand between his great

coat and shroud, placed it over the region of his heart--"Good God! you

are really dead then, Martin!" said I, for all was cold and still there.

"I am," he replied. "I have lived long--did you count the strokes of my

bell?"--I nodded assent, for I could not speak.--"Four years beyond the

scriptural measure of man's pilgrimage. You are not so old as I

am"--"No," I replied.--"No, not quite," said he.--"No, no, Martin," said

I, adjusting my night cap, "not by several years."--"Well," said the old

man, with a sigh, "a few years make very little difference, when one has

so many to answer for; those odd years are like a few odd shillings, in a

very long account. I have come to ask you to go with me."--A cold sweat

broke through my skin, as quickly, as if it had been mere tissue paper;

and my mind instantly sprang to the work of finding devices, for putting

the old man off. "Surely," said he, observing my reluctance, "you would

not deny the request of a dying man." "Perhaps not," I replied, "but now

that you are dead, dear Martin, for Heaven's sake, what's the use of it?"

The old man seemed to be pained, by my hesitation--"Abner," said he, after

a short pause, "you and I have had a goodly number of strange passages, at

odd hours, down in that vault--are ye afeard, Abner--eh!"--"Why, as to

that, Martin," said I, "if you were a real, live sexton, I'd go with

pleasure; but our relations are somewhat changed, you will admit. Besides,

as I told you before, I cannot see the use of it." I felt rather vexed, to

be suspected of fear.

"You have the advantage of me, Abner Wycherly," said Martin Smith, "being

alive; and I have come to ask you to do a favor, for me, which I cannot

do, for myself."--"What is it?" said I, rather impatiently, perhaps.--"I

want you to embalm my"--"Martin," said I, interrupting him--"I can't--I

never embalmed in my life." "You misunderstand me"--the old man

replied--"I want you to embalm my memory; and preserve it, from the too

common lot of our profession, who are remembered, often, as

resurrectionists, and men of intemperate lives, and mysterious

conversations. I want you to allow me a little _niche_, among your

_Dealings with the Dead_. I shall take but little room, you see for

yourself"--and then, in an under-tone, he said something about thinking

more of the honor, than he should of a place in Westminster Abbey; which

was very agreeable, to be sure, notwithstanding the sepulchral tone, in

which it was uttered. Indeed I was surprised to find how very refreshing,

to the spirits of an author, this species of extreme unction might be,

administered even by a ghost.

"Martin," said I, "I have always thought highly of your good opinion; but

what can I say--how can I serve you?" "I am desirous," said he, "of

transmitting to my children a good name, which is better than

riches."--"Well, my worthy, old fellow-laborer," I replied, "if that is

all you want, the work is done to your hand, already. You will not suspect

me of flattering you to your face, now that you are dead, Martin; and I

can truly say, that I have heard thousands speak of you, with great

kindness and respect, and never a lisp against you. All this I am ready to

vouch for--but, for what purpose, do you ask me to go with you?"

"I wish you to go with me, and examine for yourself," said the old man;

"and then you can speak, of your own knowledge. Don't refuse me--let us

have one more of those cozy walks, Abner, under the old Chapel, and over

that yard. I desire to talk over some things with you there, which can be

better understood, upon the spot--and I want to explain one or two

matters, so that you may be able to defend my reputation, should any

censure be cast upon it, after I am gone."--"I cannot go with you tonight,

Martin," said I; "I see a gleam in the East, already."--"True," said he,

"I may be missed."--For not more than the half of one second, I closed my

eyes--and, in that twinkling of an eye, he was gone--but I heard him

whisper, distinctly, as he went--"_tomorrow night_!"

No. LXXVII.

I verily believe, that ghosts are the most punctual people in the world,

especially if they were ever sextons, after the flesh. The last stroke of

twelve had not ceased ringing in my ears, when that icy palm was again

laid upon my shoulder; and Martin Smith stood by the side of my bed.

"Well, Martin," said I, "since you have taken the trouble to come out

again, and upon such a stormy night withal, I cannot refuse your

request."--It seemed to me, that I rose to put on my garments, and found

them already on; and had scarcely prepared to go, with my old friend, to

the Chapel, before we were in the middle of the broad aisle. Dreams are

marvellous things, certainly--all this was a dream, I suppose--for, if it

was not--what was it?

There seemed to be an oppressive weight, upon the mind of my old friend,

connected, doubtless, with those explanations, which he had proposed to

make, upon the spot. We sat down, near Governor Shirley's monument.

"Abner," said he, "I wish, before I am buried, to make a clean breast, and

to confess my misdeeds."--"I cannot believe, Martin," I replied, "that

there is a very heavy, professional load upon your conscience. If there

is, I know not what will become of the rest of us. But I will hearken to

all you may choose to reveal."--"Well," resumed the old man, with a sigh,

"I have tried to be conscientious, but we are all liable to error--we are

are all fallible creatures, especially sextons. I have been sexton here,

for six and thirty years; and I am often painfully reminded, that, in the

year 1815, I was rather remiss, in dusting the pews."--"Have you any other

burden upon your conscience?"--"I have," he replied; and, rising,

requested me to follow him.

He went out into the yard, and walked near the northerly corner, where Dr.

Caner's house formerly stood, which was afterwards occupied, as the Boston

Athenaeum, and, more recently, gave place to the present Savings Bank.

"Here," said he, "thirty years ago, Dinah Furbush, a worthy, negro woman,

was buried. The careless carpenter made her coffin one foot too short;

and, to conceal his blunder, chopped off Dinah's head, and, clapping it

between her feet, nailed down the lid. This scandalous transaction came to

my knowledge, and I grieve to say, that I never communicated it to the

wardens."--"Well, Martin," said I, "what more?"--"Nothing, thank Heaven!"

he replied. Giving way to an irresistible impulse, I broke forth into a

roar of laughter, so long and loud, that three watchmen gathered to the

wall, and seeing Martin Smith, whom they well knew, with the bottom of his

shroud, exhibited below his great coat, they dropped their hooks and

rattles, and ran for their lives. Martin walked slowly back to the church,

and I followed.

He walked in, among the tombs--thousands of spirits seemed to welcome his

advent--but, as I crossed the threshold, at the tramp of a living foot,

they vanished, in a moment.

"How many corpses have you lifted, my old friend, in your six and thirty

years of office?" "About five thousand," he replied, "exclusive of babies.

It is a very grateful employment, when one becomes used to it."

"I have heard," continued Martin, "that the office of executioner, in

Paris, is highly respectable, and has been hereditary, for many years, in

the family of the Sansons. I have done all in my power, to elevate our

profession; and it is my highest ambition, that the office should continue

in my family; and that my descendants may be sextons, till the graves

shall give up their dead, and death itself be swallowed up in victory." I

was sensibly touched, by the enthusiasm of this good old official; for I

honor the man, who honors his calling. I could not refrain from saying a

few kind and respectful words, of the old man's son and successor. He was

moved--"The eyes of ghosts," said he, "are tearless, or I should weep. You

have heard," continued the old man, in a low, tremulous voice, "that, when

the mother of Washington was complimented, by some distinguished men, upon

the achievements of her son, she went on with her knitting, saying,

'_Well, George always was a good boy_'--now, I need say no more of Frank;

and, in truth, I can say no less. I knew he would be a sexton. He has

forgotten it, I dare say; but he was not satisfied with the first go-cart

he ever had, till he had fashioned it, like a hearse. He _took hold

right_, from the beginning. When I resigned, and gave him the keys, and

felt, that I should no more walk up and down the broad aisle, as I had

done, for so many years, I wept like a child."

"Yours has been a hale old age. You have always been _temperate_, I

believe," said I.--"No," the old man replied, "I have always been

_abstinent_. Like yourself, I use no intoxicating drink, upon any

occasion, nor tobacco, in any of its forms, and we have come, as you say,

to a hale old age. I have seen drunken sextons squirt tobacco juice over

the coffin and pall; and let the corpse go by the run; and I know more

than one successor of St. Peter, in this city, who smoke and chew, from

morning to night; and give the sextons great trouble, in cleaning up after

them."

We had advanced midway, among the tombs.--"It is awfully cold and dark

here, Martin," said I, "and I hear something, like a mysterious breathing

in the air; and, now and then, it seems as if a feather brushed my

cheek."--"Is it unpleasant?" said the old man.--"Not particularly

agreeable," I replied.--"The spirits are aware, that another is added to

their number," said he, "and even the presence of one, in the flesh, will

scarcely restrain them from coming forth. I will send them back to their

dormitories." He lighted a spirit lamp, not in the vulgar sense of that

word, but a lamp, before whose rays no spirit, however determined, could

stand, for an instant.

There is comfort, even in a farthing rush light--I felt warmer. "What a

subterraneous life you must have had of it," said I, "and how many tears

and sighs you must have witnessed!" "Why yes," he replied, with a shake of

the head, and a sigh, "the duties of my office have given to my features

an expression of universal compassion--a sort of omnibus look, which has

caused many a mourner to say--'Ah, Mr. Smith, I see how much you feel for

me.' And I'm sure I did; not perhaps quite so keenly as I might, if I had

been less frequently encored in the performance of my melancholy part.

Yes," continued the old man--"I have witnessed tears and sighs, and deep

grief, and shallow, and raving--for a month, and life-long; very proper

tears, gushing from the eyes of widows, already wooed and won; and from

the eyes of widowers, who, in a right melancholy way, had predetermined

the mothers, for their orphan children. But passages have occurred, now

and then, all in my sad vocation, pure and holy, and soul-stirring enough,

to give pulse to a heart of stone."

The old man took from his pocket a master key, and beckoned me to follow.

He opened an ancient tomb. The mouldy shells were piled one upon another,

and a few rusty fragments of that flimsy garniture, which was in vogue of

old, had fallen on the bricks below.

"_Sacred to the memory!_" said the old man, with a sad, significant smile,

upon his intelligent features, as he removed the coffin of a child. I

looked into the little receptacle, as he raised the lamp. "This," said he,

"was the most beautiful boy I ever buried." "This?" said I, for the little

narrow house contained nothing but a small handful of grayish dust. "Aye,"

he replied, "I see; it is all gone now--it is twelve years since I looked

at it last--there were some remnants of bones then, and a lock or two of

golden hair. This small deposit was one of the first that I made, in this

melancholy savings bank. Six-and-thirty years! So tender and so frail a

thing may well be turned to dust.

"Time is an alchymist, Abner, as you and I well know. If tears could have

embalmed, it would not have been thus. I have never witnessed such agony.

The poor, young mother lies there. She was not seventeen, when she died.

In a luckless hour, she married a very gentlemanly sot, and left her

native home, for a land of strangers. Hers was the common fate of such

unequal bargains. He wasted her little property, died of intemperance, and

left her nothing, but this orphan boy. And all the love of her warm, young

heart was turned upon this child. It had, to be sure, the sweetest,

catching smile, that I ever beheld.

"Their heart strings seemed twisted together--the child pined; and the

mother grew pale and wan. They waned together. The child died first. The

poor, lone, young mother seemed frantic; and refused to part with her

idol. After the little thing was made ready for the tomb, she would not

suffer it to be removed. It was laid upon the bed, beside her. On the

following day, I carried the coffin to the house; and, leaving it below,

went up, with a kind neighbor, to the chamber, hoping to prevail upon the

poor thing, to permit us to remove the body of the child. She was holding

her little boy, clasped in her arms--their lips were joined together--'It

is a pity to awaken her,' said the neighbor, who attended me--I put my

hand upon her forehead--'Nothing but the last trump will awaken her,' said

I--'she is dead.'"

"Well, Martin," said I, "pray let us talk of something else--where is old

Isaac Johnson, the founder of the city, who was buried, in this lot, in

1630?"--"Ah"--the old man replied--"the prophets, where are _they_! I

believe you may as well look among the embers, after a conflagration, for

the original spark."

"You must know many curious things, Martin," said I, "concerning this

ancient temple."--"I do," said he, "of my own knowledge, and still more,

by tradition; and some things, that neither the wardens nor vestry wot of.

If I thought I might trust you, Abner, in a matter of such moment,

but"--"Did I ever deceive you, Martin," said I, "while living; and do you

think I would take advantage of your confidence, now you are a

ghost?"--"Pardon me, Abner," he replied, for he saw, that he had wounded

my feelings, "but the matter, to which I allude, were it made public,

would produce terrible confusion--but I will trust you--meet me here, at

ten minutes before twelve, on Sabbath night--three low knocks upon the

outer door--at present I can reveal no more."--"No postponement, on

account of the weather?" I inquired.--"None," the old man replied, and

locked up the tomb.

"Did you ever see Dr. Caner," I inquired, as we ascended into the body of

the church.--"That," replied Martin Smith, "is rather a delicate question.

In the very year, in which I was born, 1776, the Rev. Doctor Henry Caner,

then an old man, carried off the church plate, 2800 ounces of silver, the

gift of three kings; of which not a particle has ever been recovered: and,

in lieu thereof, he left behind his fervent prayers, that God would

"_change the hearts of the rebels_." This the Almighty has never seen fit

to do--so that the society have not only lost the silver, but the benefit

of Dr. Caner's prayers. No, Abner, I have never seen Dr. Caner, according

to the flesh, but--ask me nothing further, on this highly exciting

subject, till we meet again."