American Spring—Controversy between Messrs. Owen and Cambell—Public
ball—Separation of the sexes—American freedom—Execution
The American spring is by no means so agreeable as the American autumn;
both move with faultering step, and slow; but this lingering pace,
which is delicious in autumn, is most tormenting in the spring. In the
one case you are about to part with a friend, who is becoming more
gentle and agreeable at every step, and such steps can hardly be made
too slowly; but in the other you are making your escape from a dreary
cavern, where you have been shut up with black frost and biting blasts,
and where your best consolation was being smoke-dried.
But, upon second thoughts, I believe it would be more correct, instead
of complaining of the slow pace of the American spring, to declare that
they have no spring at all. The beautiful autumn often lingers on till
Christmas, after which winter can be trifled with no longer, and
generally keeps a stubborn hold through the months which we call
spring, when he suddenly turns his back, and summer takes his place.
The inconceivable uncertainty of the climate is, however, such, that I
will not venture to state about what time this change takes place, for
it is certain, that let me name what time I would, it would be easy for
any weather journaliser to prove me wrong, by quoting that the
thermometer was at 100 at a period which my statement included in the
winter; or 50 long after I made the summer commence.
The climate of England is called uncertain, but it can never, I think,
be so described by any who have experienced that of the United States.
A gentleman, on whose accuracy I could depend, told me he had
repeatedly known the thermometer vary above 40 degrees in the space of
twelve hours. This most unpleasant caprice of the temperature is, I
conceive, one cause of the unhealthiness of the climate.
At length, however, after shivering and shaking till we were tired of
it, and having been half ruined in fire-wood (which, by the way, is
nearly as dear as at Paris, and dearer in many parts of the Union), the
summer burst upon us full blown, and the ice-house, the piazza, and the
jalousies were again in full requisition.
It was in the early summer of this year (1829) that Cincinnati offered
a spectacle unprecedented, I believe, in any age or country. Mr. Owen,
of Lanark, of New Harmony, of Texas, well known to the world by all or
either of these additions, had challenged the whole religious public of
the United States to discuss with him publicly the truth or falsehood
of all the religions that had ever been propagated on the face of the
earth; stating, further, that he undertook to prove that they were all
equally false, and nearly equally mischievous. This most appalling
challenge was conveyed to the world through the medium of New Orleans
newspapers, and for some time it remained unanswered; at length the
Reverend Alexander Campbell, from Bethany, (not of Judaea, but of
Kentucky,) proclaimed, through the same medium, that he was ready to
take up the gauntlet. The place fixed for this extraordinary discussion
was Cincinnati; the time, the second Monday in May, 1829, being about a
year from the time the challenge was accepted; thus giving the
disputants time to prepare themselves.
Mr. Owen’s preparation, however, could only have been such as those who
run may read, for, during the interval, he traversed great part of
North America, crossed the Atlantic twice, visited England, Scotland,
Mexico, Texas, and I know not how many places besides.
Mr. Campbell, I was told, passed this period very differently, being
engaged in reading with great research and perseverance all the
theological works within his reach. But whatever confidence the
learning and piety of Mr. Campbell might have inspired in his friends,
or in the Cincinnati Christians in general, it was not, as it appeared,
sufficient to induce Mr. Wilson, the Presbyterian minister of the
largest church in the town, to permit the display of them within its
walls. This refusal was greatly reprobated, and much regretted, as the
curiosity to hear the discussion was very general, and no other edifice
offered so much accommodation.
A Methodist meeting-house, large enough to contain a thousand persons,
was at last chosen; a small stage was arranged round the pulpit, large
enough to accommodate the disputants and their stenographers; the
pulpit itself was throughout the whole time occupied by the aged father
of Mr. Campbell, whose flowing white hair, and venerable countenance,
constantly expressive of the deepest attention, and the most profound
interest, made him a very striking figure in the group. Another
platform was raised in a conspicuous part of the building, on which
were seated seven gentlemen of the city, selected as moderators.
The chapel was equally divided, one half being appropriated to ladies,
the other to gentlemen; and the door of entrance reserved for the
ladies was carefully guarded by persons appointed to prevent any
crowding or difficulty from impeding their approach. I suspect that the
ladies were indebted to Mr. Owen for this attention; the arrangements
respecting them on this occasion were by no means American.
When Mr. Owen rose, the building was thronged in every part; the
audience, or congregation, (I hardly know which to call them) were of
the highest rank of citizens, and as large a proportion of best bonnets
fluttered there, as the “two horned church” itself could boast.
It was in the profoundest silence, and apparently with the deepest
attention, that Mr. Owen’s opening address was received; and surely it
was the most singular one that ever Christian men and women sat to
listen to.
When I recollect its object, and the uncompromising manner in which the
orator stated his mature conviction that the whole history of the
Christian mission was a fraud, and its sacred origin a fable, I cannot
but wonder that it was so listened to; yet at the time I felt no such
wonder. Never did any one practise the _suaviter in modo_ with more
powerful effect than Mr. Owen. The gentle tone of his voice; his mild,
sometimes playful, but never ironical manner; the absence of every
vehement or harsh expression; the affectionate interest expressed for
“the whole human family,” the air of candour with which he expressed
his wish to be convinced he was wrong, if he indeed were so—his kind
smile—the mild expression of his eyes—in short, his whole manner,
disarmed zeal, and produced a degree of tolerance that those who did
not hear him would hardly believe possible.
Half an hour was the time allotted for each haranguer; when this was
expired, the moderators were seen to look at their watches. Mr. Owen,
too, looked at his (without pausing) smiled, shook his head, and said
in a parenthesis “a moment’s patience,” and continued for nearly
another half hour.
Mr. Campbell then arose; his person, voice, and manner all greatly in
his favour. In his first attack he used the arms, which in general have
been considered as belonging to the other side of the question. He
quizzed Mr. Owen most unmercifully; pinched him here for his
parallelograms; hit him there for his human perfectibility, and kept
the whole audience in a roar of laughter. Mr. Owen joined in it most
heartily himself, and listened to him throughout with the air of a man
who is delighted at the good things he is hearing, and exactly in the
cue to enjoy all the other good things that he is sure will follow. Mr.
Campbell’s watch was the only one which reminded us that we had
listened to him for half an hour; and having continued speaking for a
few minutes after he had looked at it, he sat down with, I should
think, the universal admiration of his auditory.
Mr. Owen again addressed us; and his first five minutes were occupied
in complimenting Mr. Campbell with all the strength his exceeding
hearty laughter had left him. But then he changed his tone, and said
the business was too serious to permit the next half hour to pass so
lightly and so pleasantly as the last; and then he read us what he
called his twelve fundamental laws of human nature. These twelve laws
he has taken so much trouble to circulate to all the nations of the
earth, that it must be quite unnecessary to repeat them here. To me
they appear twelve truisms, that no man in his senses would ever think
of contradicting; but how any one can have conceived that the
explanation and defence of these laws could furnish forth occupation
for his pen and his voice, through whole years of unwearying
declamation, or how he can have dreamed that they could be twisted into
a refutation of the Christian religion, is a mystery which I never
expect to understand.
From this time Mr. Owen entrenched himself behind his twelve laws, and
Mr. Campbell, with equal gravity, confined himself to bringing forward
the most elaborate theological authorities in evidence of the truth of
revealed religion.
Neither appeared to me to answer the other; but to confine themselves
to the utterance of what they had uppermost in their own minds when the
discussion began. I lamented this on the side of Mr. Campbell, as I am
persuaded he would have been much more powerful had he trusted more to
himself and less to his books. Mr. Owen is an extraordinary man, and
certainly possessed of talent, but he appears to me so utterly
benighted in the mists of his own theories, that he has quite lost the
power of looking through them, so as to get a peep at the world as it
really exists around him.
At the conclusion of the debate (which lasted for fifteen sittings) Mr.
Campbell desired the whole assembly to sit down. They obeyed. He then
requested all who wished well to Christianity to rise, and a very large
majority were in an instant on their legs. He again requested them to
be seated, and then desired those who believed not in its doctrines to
rise, and a few gentlemen and one lady obeyed. Mr. Owen protested
against this manoeuvre, as he called it, and refused to believe that it
afforded any proof of the state of men’s minds, or of women’s either;
declaring, that not only was such a result to be expected, in the
present state of things, but that it was the duty of every man who had
children to feed, not to hazard the sale of his hogs, or his iron, by a
declaration of opinions which might offend the majority of his
customers. It was said, that at the end of the fifteen meetings the
numerical amount of the Christians and the Infidels of Cincinnati
remained exactly what it was when they began.
This was a result that might have been perhaps anticipated; but what
was much less to have been expected, neither of the disputants ever
appeared to lose their temper. I was told they were much in each
other’s company, constantly dining together, and on all occasions
expressed most cordially their mutual esteem.
All this I think could only have happened in America. I am not quite
sure that it was very desirable it should have happened any where.
In noting the various brilliant events which diversified our residence
in the western metropolis, I have omitted to mention the Birthday Ball,
as it is called, a festivity which, I believe, has place on the 22nd of
February, in every town and city throughout the Union. It is the
anniversary of the birth of General Washington, and well deserves to be
marked by the Americans as a day of jubilee.
I was really astonished at the _coup d’oeil_ on entering, for I saw a
large room filled with extremely well-dressed company, among whom were
many very beautiful girls. The gentlemen also were exceedingly smart,
but I had not yet been long enough in Western America not to feel
startled at recognising in almost every full-dressed _beau_ that passed
me, the master or shopman that I had been used to see behind the
counter, or lolling at the door of every shop in the city. The fairest
and finest belles smiled and smirked on them with as much zeal and
satisfaction as I ever saw bestowed on an eldest son, and I therefore
could feel no doubt of their being considered as of the highest rank.
Yet it must not be supposed that there is no distinction of classes: at
this same ball I was looking among the many very beautiful girls I saw
there for one more beautiful still, with whose lovely face I had been
particularly struck at the school examination I have mentioned. I could
not find her, and asked a gentleman why the beautiful Miss C. was not
there.
“You do not yet understand our aristocracy,” he replied, “the family of
Miss C. are mechanics.”
“But the young lady has been educated at the same school as these, whom
I see here, and I know her brother has a shop in the town, quite as
large, and apparently as prosperous, as those belonging to any of these
young men. What is the difference?”
“He is a mechanic; he assists in making the articles he sells; the
others call themselves merchants.”
The dancing was not quite like, yet not very unlike, what we see at an
assize or race-ball in a country town. They call their dances
cotillions instead of quadrilles, and the figures are called from the
orchestra in English, which has very ludicrous effect on European ears.
The arrangements for the supper were very singular, but eminently
characteristic of the country. The gentlemen had a splendid
entertainment spread for them in another large room of the hotel, while
the poor ladies had each a plate put into their hands, as they
pensively promenaded the ballroom during their absence; and shortly
afterwards servants appeared, bearing trays of sweetmeats, cakes, and
creams. The fair creatures then sat down on a row of chairs placed
round the walls, and each making a table of her knees, began eating her
sweet, but sad and sulky repast. The effect was extremely comic; their
gala dresses and the decorated room forming a contrast the most
unaccountable with their uncomfortable and forlorn condition.
This arrangement was owing neither to economy nor want of a room large
enough to accommodate the whole party, but purely because the gentlemen
liked it better. This was the answer given me, when my curiosity
tempted me to ask why the ladies and gentlemen did not sup together;
and this was the answer repeated to me afterwards by a variety of
people to whom I put the same question.
I am led to mention this feature of American manners very frequently,
not only because it constantly recurs, but because I consider it as
being in a great degree the cause of that universal deficiency in good
manners and graceful demeanour, both in men and women, which is so
remarkable.
Where there is no court, which every where else is the glass wherein
the higher orders dress themselves, and which again reflected from them
to the classes below, goes far towards polishing, in some degree, a
great majority of the population, it is not to be expected that manner
should be made so much a study, or should attain an equal degree of
elegance; but the deficiency, and the total difference, is greater than
this cause alone could account for. The hours of enjoyment are
important to human beings every where, and we every where find them
preparing to make the most of them. Those who enjoy themselves only in
society, whether intellectual or convivial, prepare themselves for it,
and such make but a poor figure when forced to be content with the
sweets of solitude: while, on the other hand, those to whom retirement
affords the greatest pleasure, seldom give or receive much in society.
Wherever the highest enjoyment is found by both sexes in scenes where
they meet each other, both will prepare themselves to appear with
advantage there. The men will not indulge in the luxury of chewing
tobacco, or even of spitting, and the women will contrive to be capable
of holding a higher post than that of unwearied tea-makers.
In America, with the exception of dancing, which is almost wholly
confined to the unmarried of both sexes, all the enjoyments of the men
are found in the absence of the women. They dine, they play cards, they
have musical meetings, they have suppers, all in large parties but all
without women. Were it not that such is the custom, it is impossible
but that they would have ingenuity enough to find some expedient for
sparing the wives and daughters of the opulent the sordid offices of
household drudgery which they almost all perform in their families.
Even in the slave states, though they may not clear-starch and iron,
mix puddings and cakes one half of the day, and watch them baking the
other half, still the very highest occupy themselves in their household
concerns, in a manner that precludes the possibility of their becoming
elegant and enlightened companions. In Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New
York, I met with some exceptions to this; but speaking of the country
generally, it is unquestionably true.
Had I not become heartily tired of my prolonged residence in a place I
cordially disliked, and which moreover I began to fear would not be
attended with the favourable results we had anticipated, I should have
found an almost inexhaustible source of amusement in the notions and
opinions of the people I conversed with; and as it was, I often did
enjoy this in a considerable degree.
We received, as I have mentioned, much personal kindness; but this by
no means interfered with the national feeling of, I believe,
unconquerable dislike, which evidently lives at the bottom of every
truly American heart against the English. This shows itself in a
thousand little ways, even in the midst of the most kind and friendly
intercourse, but often in a manner more comic than offensive.
Sometimes it was thus.—“Well, now, I think your government must just be
fit to hang themselves for that last war they cooked up; it has been
the ruin of you I expect, for it has just been the making of us.”
Then.—“Well, I do begin to understand your broken English better than I
did; but no wonder I could not make it out very well at first, as you
come from London; for every body knows that London slang is the most
dreadful in the world. How queer it is now, that all the people that
live in London should put the _h_ where it is not, and never will put
it where it is.”
I was egotistical enough to ask the lady who said this, if she found
that I did so.
“No; you do not,” was the reply; but she added, with a complacent
smile, “it is easy enough to see the pains you take about it: I expect
you have heard how we Americans laugh at you all for it, and so you are
trying to learn our way of pronouncing.”
One lady asked me very gravely, if we had left home in order to get rid
of the vermin with which the English of all ranks were afflicted? “I
have heard from unquestionable authority,” she added, “that it is quite
impossible to walk through the streets of London without having the
head filled.”
I laughed a little, but spoke not a word. She coloured highly, and
said, “There is nothing so easy as to laugh, but truth is truth,
laughed at or not.”
I must preface the following anecdote by observing that in America
nearly the whole of the insect tribe are classed under the general name
of bug; the unfortunate cosmopolite known by that name amongst us is
almost the only one not included in this term. A lady abruptly
addressed me with, “Don’t you hate chintzes, Mrs. Trollope?”
“No indeed,” I replied, “I think them very pretty.”
“There now! if that is not being English! I reckon you call that loving
your country; well, thank God! we Americans have something better to
love our country for than that comes to; we are not obliged to say that
we like nasty filthy chintzes to shew that we are good patriots.”
“Chintzes? what are chintzes?”
“Possible! do you pretend you don’t know what chintzes are? Why the
nasty little stinking blood-suckers that all the beds in London are
full of.”
I have since been informed that _chinche_ is Spanish for bug; but at
the time the word suggested only the material of a curtain.
Among other instances of that species of modesty so often seen in
America, and so unknown to us, I frequently witnessed one, which, while
it evinced the delicacy of the ladies, gave opportunity for many lively
sallies from the gentlemen. I saw the same sort of thing repeated on
different occasions at least a dozen times; e.g. a young lady is
employed in making a shirt, (which it would be a symptom of absolute
depravity to name), a gentleman enters, and presently begins the
sprightly dialogue with “What are you making Miss Clarissa?”
“Only a frock for my sister’s doll, sir.”
“A frock? not possible. Don’t I see that it is not a frock? Come, Miss
Clarissa, what is it?”
“Tis just an apron for one of our Negroes, Mr. Smith.”
“How can you. Miss Clarissa! why is not the two side joined together? I
expect you were better tell me what it is.”
“My! why then Mr. Smith, it is just a pillow-case.”
“Now that passes. Miss Clarissa! ’Tis a pillow-case for a giant then.
Shall I guess, Miss?”
“Quit, Mr. Smith; behave yourself, or I’ll certainly be affronted.”
Before the conversation arrives at this point, both gentleman and lady
are in convulsions of laughter. I once saw a young lady so hard driven
by a wit, that to prove she was making a bag, and nothing but a bag,
she sewed up the ends before his eyes, shewing it triumphantly, and
exclaiming, “there now! what can you say to that?”
One of my friends startled me one day by saying in an affectionate, but
rather compassionate tone, “How will you bear to go back to England to
live, and to bring up your children in a country where you know you are
considered as no better than the dirt in the streets?”
I begged she would explain.
“Why, you know I would not affront you for any thing; but the fact is,
we Americans know rather more than you think for, and certainly if I
was in England I should not think of associating with anything but
lords. I have always been among the first here, and if I travelled I
should like to do the same. I don’t mean, I’m sure, that I would not
come to see you, but you know you are not lords, and therefore I know
very well how you are treated in your own country.”
I very rarely contradicted statements of this kind, as I found it less
trouble, and infinitely more amusing, to let them pass; indeed, had I
done otherwise, it would have been of little avail, as among the many
conversations I held in America respecting my own country, I do not
recollect a single instance in which it was not clear that I knew much
less about it than those I conversed with.
On the subject of national glory, I presume I got more than my share of
buffeting; for being a woman, there was no objection to their speaking
out. One lady, indeed, who was a great patriot, evinced much delicacy
towards me, for upon some one speaking of New Orleans, she interrupted
them, saying, “I wish you would not talk of New Orleans;” and, turning
to me, added with great gentleness, “It must be so painful to your
feelings to hear that place mentioned!”
The immense superiority of the American to the British navy was a
constant theme, and to this I always listened, as nearly as possible,
in silence. I repeatedly heard it stated, (so often, indeed, and from
such various quarters, that I think there must be some truth in it),
that the American sailors fire with a certainty of slaughter, whereas
our shots are sent very nearly at random. “This, “ said a naval officer
of high reputation, “is the blessed effect of your game laws; your
sailors never fire at a mark; whilst our free tars, from their practice
in pursuit of game, can any of them split a hair.” But the favourite,
the constant, the universal sneer that met me every where, was on our
old-fashioned attachments to things obsolete. Had they a little wit
among them, I am certain they would have given us the cognomen of “My
Grandmother, the British,” for that is the tone they take, and it is
thus they reconcile themselves to the crude newness of every thing
around them.
“I wonder you are not sick of kings, chancellors, and archbishops, and
all your fustian of wigs and gowns,” said a very clever gentleman to me
once, with an affected yawn, “I protest the very sound almost sets me
to sleep.”
It is amusing to observe how soothing the idea seems, that they are
more modern, more advanced than England. Our classic literature, our
princely dignities, our noble institutions, are all gone-by relics of
the dark ages.
This, and the vastness of their naked territory, make up the flattering
unction which is laid upon the soul, as an antidote to the little
misgiving which from time to time arises, lest their large country be
not of quite so much importance among the nations, as a certain paltry
old-fashioned little place that they wot of.
I was once sitting with a party of ladies, among whom were one or two
young girls, whose curiosity was greater than their patriotism, and
they asked me many questions respecting the splendour and extent of
London. I was endeavouring to satisfy them by the best description I
could give, when we were interrupted by another lady, who exclaimed,
“Do hold your tongues, girls, about London; if you want to know what a
beautiful city is, look at Philadelphia; when Mrs. Trollope has been
there, I think she will allow that it is better worth talking about
than that great overgrown collection of nasty, filthy, dirty streets,
that they call London.”
Once in Ohio, and once in the district of Columbia, I had an atlas
displayed before me, that I might be convinced by the evidence of my
own eyes what a very contemptible little country I came from. I shall
never forget the gravity with which, on the latter occasion, a
gentleman drew out his graduated pencil-case, and shewed me past
contradiction, that the whole of the British dominions did not equal in
size one of their least important states; nor the air with which, after
the demonstration, he placed his feet upon the chimney-piece,
considerably higher than his head, and whistled Yankee Doodle.
Their glorious institutions, their unequalled freedom, were, of course,
not left unsung.
I took some pains to ascertain what they meant by their glorious
institutions, and it is with no affectation of ignorance that I profess
I never could comprehend the meaning of the phrase, which is, however,
on the lip of every American, when he talks of his country. I asked if
by their institutions they meant their hospitals and penitentiaries.
“Oh no! we mean the glorious institutions which are coeval with the
revolution.” “Is it,” I asked, “your institution of marriage, which you
have made purely a civil and not a religious rite, to be performed by a
justice of peace, instead of a clergyman?”
“Oh no! we speak of our divine political institutions.” Yet still I was
in the dark, nor can I guess what they mean, unless they call incessant
electioneering, without pause or interval for a single day, for a
single hour, of their whole existence, “a glorious institution.”
Their unequalled freedom, I think, I understand better. Their code of
common law is built upon ours; and the difference between us is this,
in England the laws are acted upon, in America they are not.
I do not speak of the police of the Atlantic cities; I believe it is
well arranged: in New York it is celebrated for being so; but out of
the range of their influence, the contempt of law is greater than I can
venture to state, with any hope of being believed. Trespass, assault,
robbery, nay, even murder, are often committed without the slightest
attempt at legal interference.
During the summer that we passed most delightfully in Maryland, our
rambles were often restrained in various directions by the advice of
our kind friends, who knew the manners and morals of the country. When
we asked the cause, we were told, “There is a public-house on that
road, and it will not be safe to pass it,”
The line of the Chesapeak and Ohio canal passed within a few miles of
Mrs. S—’s residence. It twice happened during our stay with her, that
dead bodies were found partially concealed near it. The circumstance
was related as a sort of half hour’s wonder; and when I asked
particulars of those who, on one occasion, brought the tale, the reply
was, “Oh, he was murdered I expect; or maybe he died of the canal
fever; but they say he had marks of being throttled.” No inquest was
summoned; and certainly no more sensation was produced by the
occurrence than if a sheep had been found in the same predicament.
The abundance of food and the scarcity of hanging were also favourite
topics, as proving their superiority to England. They are both
excellent things, but I do not admit the inference. A wide and most
fertile territory, as yet but thinly inhabited, may easily be made to
yield abundant food for its population: and where a desperate villain
knows, that when he has made his town or his village “too hot to hold
him,” he has nothing to do but to travel a few miles west, and be sure
of finding plenty of beef and whiskey, with no danger that the law
shall follow him, it is not extraordinary that executions should be
rare.
Once during our residence at Cincinnati, a murderer of uncommon
atrocity was taken, tried, convicted, and condemned to death. It had
been shewn on his trial, that some years before he had murdered a wife
and child at New Orleans, but little notice had been taken of it at the
time. The crime which had now thrown him into the hands of justice was
the recent murder of a second wife, and the chief evidence against him
was his own son.
The day of his execution was fixed, and the sensation produced was so
great from the strangeness of the occurrence, (no white man having ever
been executed at Cincinnati,) that persons from sixty miles’ distance
came to be present at it.
Meanwhile some unco’ good people began to start doubts as to the
righteousness of hanging a man, and made application to the Governor of
the State[6] of Ohio, to commute the sentence into imprisonment. The
Governor for some time refused to interfere with the sentence of the
tribunal before which he had been tried; but at length, frightened at
the unusual situation in which he found himself, he yielded to the
importunity of the Presbyterian party who had assailed him, and sent
off an order to the sheriff accordingly. But this order was not to
reprieve him, but to ask him if he pleased to be reprieved, and sent to
the penitentiary instead of being hanged.
[6] The Governors of states have the same power over life and death as
is vested, with us, in the Crown.
The sheriff waited upon the criminal, and made his proposal, and was
answered. “If any thing could make me agree to it, it would be the hope
of living long enough to kill you and my dog of a son: however, I won’t
agree; you shall have the hanging of me.”
The worthy sheriff, to whom the ghastly office of executioner is
assigned, said all in his power to persuade him to sign the offered
document, but in vain; he obtained nothing but abuse for his efforts.
The day of execution arrived; the place appointed was the side of a
hill, the only one cleared of trees near the town; and many hours
before the time fixed, we saw it entirely covered by an immense
multitude of men, women, and children. At length the hour arrived, the
dismal cart was seen slowly mounting the hill, the noisy throng was
hushed into solemn silence; the wretched criminal mounted the scaffold,
when again the sheriff asked him to sign his acceptance of the
commutation proposed; but he spurned the paper from him, and cried
aloud, “Hang me!”
Midday was the moment appointed for cutting the rope; the sheriff
stood, his watch in one hand, and a knife in the other; the hand was
lifted to strike, when the criminal stoutly exclaimed, “I sign;” and he
was conveyed back to prison, amidst the shouts, laughter, and ribaldry
of the mob.
I am not fond of hanging, but there was something in all this that did
not look like the decent dignity of wholesome justice.