No. XC.
My earliest recollections of some, among the dead and buried aristocracy
of Boston, find a ready embodiment, in cocked hats of enormous
proportions, queues reaching to their middles, cloaks of scarlet
broadcloth, lined with silk, and faced with velvet, and just so short, as
to exhibit the swell of the leg, silk stockings, and breeches, highly
polished shoes, and large, square, silver buckles, embroidered vests, with
deep lappet pockets, similar to those, which were worn, in the age of
_Louis Quatorze_, shirts ruffled, at the bosoms and sleeves, doeskin or
beaver gloves, and glossy, black, Surinam walking canes, six feet in
length, and commonly carried by the middle.
Of the last of the Capulets we know nearly all, that it is desirable to
know. Of the last of the cocked hats we are not so clearly certified.
The dimensions of the military cocked hat were terrible; and, like those
enormous, bear skin caps, which are in use, at present, eminently
calculated to put the enemy to flight. I have seen one of those enormous
cocked hats, which had long been preserved, as a memorial of the wearer's
gallantry. In one corner, and near the extremity, was a round hole, said
to have been made by a musket ball, at the battle of White Plains, Nov.
30, 1776. As I contemplated this relic, it was impossible to avoid the
comforting reflection, that the head of the gallant proprietor was at a
very safe distance from the bullet.
After the assassination of Henry IV., and greatly to the amusement of the
gay and giddy courtiers of his successor, Louis XIII.--old Sully
obstinately adhered to the costume of the former reign. Colonel Barnabas
Clarke was very much of Sully's way of thinking. "And who," asks the
reader, "was Colonel Barnabas Clarke?" He was a pensioner of the United
States, and died a poor, though highly respected old man, in the town of
Randolph, and Commonwealth of Massachusetts. For several years, he
commanded the third Regiment of the first Brigade, and first Division of
infantry; and he wore the largest cocked hat and the longest queue in the
known world. He was a broad-shouldered, strong-hearted Revolutioner. Let
me take the reader aside, for a brief space; and recite to him a pleasant
anecdote of old Colonel Barnabas Clarke, which occurred, under my own
observation, when John Brooks--whose patent of military nobilty bears date
at Saratoga, but who was one of nature's noblemen from his cradle--was
governor of Massachusetts.
There was a militia muster of the Norfolk troops, and they were reviewed
by Governor Brooks. They were drawn up in line. The Governor, bare headed,
with his suite, had moved slowly down, in front of the array, each
regiment, as he passed, paying the customary salute.
The petty _chapeau militaire_ had then become almost universal, and, with,
or without, its feather and gold edgings, was all over the field. Splendid
epaulettes and eaglets glittered, on the shoulders of such, as were
entitled to wear them. Prancing horses were caracoling and curvetting, in
gaudy trappings. In the midst of this showy array, in front of his
regiment, bolt upright, upon the back of his tall, chestnut horse, that,
upon the strength of an extra allowance of oats, pawed the ground, and
seemed to forget, that he was in the plough, the day before, sat an old
man, of rugged features, and large proportions. Upon his head was that
enormous cocked hat, of other days--upon his shoulders, scarcely
distinguishable, was a small pair of tarnished epaulettes--the gray hairs
at the extremity of his prodigious queue lay upon the crupper of his
saddle--his ancient boots shaped to the leg, his long shanked spurs, his
straight silver-hilted sword, and lion-headed pistols were of 1776. Such
was the outer man of old Colonel Barnabas Clarke.
As the Governor advanced, upon the line of the third Regiment of the first
Brigade, the fifes of that regiment commenced their shrill whistle, and
the drums began to roll; and, at the appropriate moment, the veteran
saluted his excellency, in that rather angular style, which was common, in
the days of our military fathers.
At that moment, Governor Brooks checked his horse, and, replacing his hat
upon his head, dismounted, and walked towards the Colonel, who,
comprehending the intention, returned his sword to its scabbard, and came
to the ground, with the alertness of a much younger man. They met midway,
between the line and the reviewing cortege--in an instant, each grasped
the other's hand, with the ardor of men, who are mutually endeared, by the
recollection of partnership, in days of danger and daring--they had been
fellow lodgers, within the intrenchments of Burgoyne, on the memorable
night of October 7, 1777. After a few words of mutual respect and
affection, they parted--the review went forward--the fifers and drummers
outdid themselves--the beholders sent forth an irrepressible shout--and
when old Colonel Barnabas got up once again, upon his chestnut horse, I
thought he looked considerably more like old Frederick, hat, queue, and
all, than he did, before he got down. He looked as proud as Tamerlane,
after he had caged the Sultan, Bajazet--yet I saw him dash a tear from his
eye, with the sleeve of his coat--I found one in my own. How frail we
are!--there is one there now!
While contemplating the remarkable resurrection that has occurred, within
a few years, of old chairs and tables, porcelain and candlesticks, I
confidently look forward to the resurrection of cocked hats. They were
really very becoming. I speak not of those vasty beavers, manufactured, of
yore, by that most accomplished, gentlemanly, and facetious of all
hatters, Mr. Nathaniel Balch, No. 72 old Cornhill; but such as he made,
for his excellent friend, and boon companion, Jeremiah Allen, Esquire,
high Sheriff of Suffolk. When trimmed with gold lace, and adorned with the
official cockade, it was a very becoming affair.
No man carried the fashion, as I have described it, in the commencement of
this article, to a greater extent, than Mr. Thomas Marshall, more commonly
known as _Tommy Marshall_. He was a tailor, and his shop and house were in
State Street, near the present site of the Boston Bank. In London, his
leisurely gait, finished toilette, admirable personal equipments, and
exceedingly composed and courtly carriage and deportment would have passed
him off, for a gentleman, living at his ease, or for one of the nobility.
Mr. Marshall was remarkable, for the exquisite polish, and classical cut
of his cocked hat. He was much on 'change, in those primitive days, and
highly respected, for his true sense of honor. Though the most
accomplished tailor of his day, no one ever suspected him of cabbage.
When I began the present article, it was my design to have written upon a
very different subject--but since all my cogitations have been "_knocked
into a cocked hat_," I may as well close this article, with a short
anecdote of Tommy Marshall.
There was a period--there often is, in similar cases--during which it was
doubtful, if the celebrated James Otis was a sane or an insane man. During
that period, he was engaged for the plaintiff, in a cause, in which Mr.
Marshall was a witness, for the defendant. After a tedious cross
examination, Mr. Otis perceived the impossibility of perplexing the
witness, or driving him into any discrepancy; and, in a moment of despair,
his mind, probably, not being perfectly balanced, he lifted his finger,
and shaking it, knowingly, at the witness, exclaimed--"_Ah, Tommy
Marshall, Tommy Marshall, I know you!_" "_And what do you know of me,
sir?_" cried the witness, doubling his fist in the very face of Mr. Otis,
and stamping on the floor--"_I know you're a tailor, Tommy!_"
No. XCI.
Wake--Vigil--Waecan--import one and the same thing. So we are informed, by
that learned antiquary, John Whitaker, in his History of Manchester,
published in 1771. Originally, this was a festival, kept by watching,
through the night, preceding the day, on which a church was dedicated. We
are told, by Shakspeare--
He that outlives this day, and sees old age,
Will yearly, on the _vigil_, feast his neighbors,
And say _tomorrow_ is Saint Crispian.
These vigils, like the _agapae_, or love-feasts, fell, erelong, into
disrepute, and furnished occasion, for disgraceful revelry and riot.
The Irish _Wake_, as it is popularly called, however it may have sprung
from the same original stock, is, at present, a very different affair.
Howling, at a wake, is akin to the ululation of the mourning women of
Greece, Rome, and Judea, to which I have alluded, in a former number. The
object of the Irish _Wake_ is to rouse the spirit, which, otherwise, it is
apprehended, might remain inactive, unwilling, or unable, to quit its
mortal frame--to _wake_ the soul, not precisely, "by tender strokes of
art," but by long-continued, nocturnal wailings and howlings. In practice,
it has ever been accounted extremely difficult, to get the Irish soul
fairly off, either upward or downward, without an abundance of
intoxicating liquor.
The philosophy of this is too high for me--I cannot attain unto it. I know
not, whether the soul goes off, in a fit of disgust, at the senseless and
insufferable uproar, or is fairly frightened out of its tabernacle. This I
know, that boon companions, and plenty of liquor are the very last means I
should think of employing, to induce a true-born Irishman, to give up the
ghost. I have read with pleasure, in the Pilot, a Roman Catholic paper of
this city, an editorial discommendation of this preposterous custom.
However these barbarous proceedings may serve to outrage the dignity, and
even the decency, of death, they have not always been absolutely useless.
If the ravings, and rantings, the drunkenness, and the bloody brawls, that
have sometimes occurred, during the celebration of an _Irish wake_, have
proved unavailing, in raising the dead, or in exciting the lethargic
soul--they have, certainly, sometimes sufficed, to restore consciousness
to the cataleptic, who were supposed to be dead, and about to be committed
to the grave.
In April, 1804, Barney O'Brien, to all appearance, died suddenly, in the
town of Ballyshannon. He had been a terrible bruiser, and so much of a
profligate, that it was thought all the priests, in the county of Donegal,
would have as much as they could do, of a long summer's day, to confess
him. It was concluded, on all hands, that more than ordinary efforts would
be required, for the _waking_ of Barney O'Brien's soul. A great crowd was
accordingly gathered to the shanty of death. The mountain dew was
supplied, without stint. The howling was terrific. Confusion began. The
altercation of tongues was speedily followed, by the collision of fists,
and the cracking of shelalahs. The yet uncovered coffin was overturned.
The shock, in an instant, terminated the trance. Barney O'Brien stood
erect, before the terrified and flying group, six feet and four inches in
his winding sheet, screaming, at the very top of his lungs, as he
rose--"_For the love o' the blissed Jasus, jist a dhrap o' the crathur,
and a shelalah!_"
In a former number, I have alluded to the subject of premature interment.
A writer, in the London Quarterly, vol. lxiii. p. 458, observes, that
"there exists, among the poor of the metropolitan districts, an inordinate
dread of premature burial." After referring to a contrivance, in the
receiving houses of Frankfort and Munich,--a ring, attached to the finger
of the corpse, and connected with a lightly hung bell, in the watcher's
room--he significantly asks--"_Has the corpse bell at Frankfort and Munich
ever yet been rung?_"--For my own part, I have no correspondence with the
sextons there, and cannot tell. It may possibly have been rung, while the
watcher slept! After admitting the possibility of premature burial, this
writer says, he should be content with Shakspeare's test--"_This feather
stirs; she lives_," This may be a very good affirmative test. But, as a
negative test, it would be good for little--_this feather stirs not; she
is dead_. In cases of catalepsy, it often happens, that a feather will not
stir; and even the more trustworthy test--the mirror--will furnish no
evidence of life.
To doubt the fact of premature interment is quite as absurd, as to credit
all the tales, in this connection, fabricated by French and German
wonder-mongers. During the existence of that terrible epidemic, which has
so recently passed away, the necessity, real or imagined, of removing the
corpses, as speedily as possible, has, very probably, occasioned some
instances of premature interment.
On the 28th of June, 1849, a Mr. Schridieder was supposed to be dead of
cholera, at St. Louis, and was carried to the grave; where a noise in the
coffin was heard, and, upon opening it, he was found to be alive.
In the month of July, 1849, a Chicago paper contained the following
statement:--
"We know a gentleman now residing in this city, who was attacked by the
cholera, in 1832, and after a short time, was supposed to have died. He
was in the collapsed state, gave not the least sign of life, and when a
glass was held over his mouth, there was no evidence that he still
breathed. But, after his coffin was obtained, he revived, and is now
living in Chicago, one of our most estimable citizens."
"Another case, of a like character, occurred near this city, yesterday. A
man who was in the collapsed state, and to all appearances dead, became
reanimated after his coffin was procured. He revived slightly--again
apparently died--again revived slightly--and finally died and was buried."