But time was on its ever-ceaseless wing, and was now bringing the last
hour of this illustrious man. He saw its approach with undisturbed
serenity. He counted the moments as they passed, and beheld that his
last sands were falling. That day, too, was at hand which he had helped
to make immortal. One wish, one hope, if it were not presumptuous, beat
in his fainting breast. Could it be so, might it please God, he would
desire once more to see the sun, once more to look abroad on the scene
around him, on the great day of liberty. Heaven, in its mercy, fulfilled
that prayer. He saw that sun; he enjoyed its sacred light; he thanked
God for this mercy, and bowed his aged head to the grave. "Felix, non
vitæ tantum claritate, sed etiam opportunitate mortis."[23]
The last public labor of Mr. Jefferson naturally suggests the expression
of the high praise which is due, both to him and to Mr. Adams, for their
uniform and zealous attachment to learning, and to the cause of general
knowledge. Of the advantages of learning, indeed, and of literary
accomplishments, their own characters were striking recommendations and
illustrations. They were scholars, ripe and good scholars; widely
acquainted with ancient as well as modern literature, and not altogether
uninstructed in the deeper sciences. Their acquirements, doubtless, were
different, and so were the particular objects of their literary
pursuits; as their tastes and characters, in these respects, differed
like those of other men. Being, also, men of busy lives, with great
objects requiring action constantly before them, their attainments in
letters did not become showy or obtrusive. Yet I would hazard the
opinion that if we could now ascertain all the causes which gave them
eminence and distinction in the midst of the great men with whom they
acted, we should find not among the least their early acquisitions in
literature, the resources which it furnished, the promptitude and
facility which it communicated, and the wide field it opened for analogy
and illustration; giving them thus, on every subject, a larger view and
a broader range, as well for discussion as for the government of their
own conduct.
Fellow-citizens, I will detain you no longer by this faint and feeble
tribute to the memory of the illustrious dead. Even in other hands
adequate justice could not be done to them, within the limits of this
occasion. Their highest, their best praise is your deep conviction of
their merits, your affectionate gratitude for their labors and their
services. It is not my voice, it is this cessation of ordinary pursuits,
this arresting of all attention, these solemn ceremonies, and this
crowded house, which speak their eulogy. Their fame, indeed, is safe.
That is now treasured up beyond the reach of accident. Although no
sculptured marble should rise to their memory, nor engraved stone bear
record of their deeds, yet will their remembrance be as lasting as the
land they honored. Marble columns may, indeed, moulder into dust; time
may erase all impress from the crumbling stone; but their fame remains;
for with American Liberty it rose, and with American Liberty only can it
perish. It was the last swelling peal of yonder choir: "Their bodies are
buried in peace, but their name liveth evermore." I catch that solemn
song, I echo that lofty strain of funeral triumph, "Their name liveth
evermore."
[Sidenote: Charles Carroll, in 1826 the last of the signers of the
Declaration.]
Of the illustrious signers of the Declaration of Independence there now
remains only Charles Carroll. He seems an aged oak, standing alone on
the plain, which time has spared a little longer after all its
contemporaries have been levelled with the dust. Venerable object! we
delight to gather round its trunk, while yet it stands, and to dwell
beneath its shadow. Sole survivor of an assembly of as great men as the
world has witnessed, in a transaction one of the most important that
history records, what thoughts, what interesting reflections, must fill
his elevated and devout soul! If he dwell on the past, how touching its
recollections; if he survey the present, how happy, how joyous, how full
of the fruition of that hope which his ardent patriotism indulged; if he
glance at the future, how does the prospect of his country's advancement
almost bewilder his weakened conception! Fortunate, distinguished
patriot! Interesting relic of the past! Let him know that, while we
honor the dead, we do not forget the living; and that there is not a
heart here which does not fervently pray that Heaven may keep him yet
back from the society of his companions.
[Sidenote: America's debt to the fathers.]
And now, fellow-citizens, let us not retire from this occasion without a
deep and solemn conviction of the duties which have devolved upon us.
This lovely land, this glorious liberty, these benign institutions, the
dear purchase of our fathers, are ours; ours to enjoy, ours to preserve,
ours to transmit. Generations past and generations to come hold us
responsible for this sacred trust. Our fathers, from behind, admonish
us, with their anxious paternal voices; posterity calls out to us, from
the bosom of the future; the world turns hither its solicitous eyes;
all, all conjure us to act wisely, and faithfully, in the relation which
we sustain. We can never, indeed, pay the debt which is upon us; but by
virtue, by morality, by religion, by the cultivation of every good
principle and every good habit, we may hope to enjoy the blessing,
through our day, and to leave it unimpaired to our children. Let us feel
deeply how much of what we are and of what we possess we owe to this
liberty, and to these institutions of government. Nature has, indeed,
given us a soil which yields bounteously to the hand of industry; the
mighty and fruitful ocean is before us; and the skies over our heads
shed health and vigor. But what are lands, and seas, and skies to
civilized man, without society, without knowledge, without morals,
without religious culture; and how can these be enjoyed, in all their
extent and all their excellence, but under the protection of wise
institutions and a free government? Fellow-citizens, there is not one of
us, there is not one of us here present, who does not, at this moment,
and at every moment, experience, in his own condition, and in the
condition of those most near and dear to him, the influence and the
benefits of this liberty and these institutions. Let us then acknowledge
the blessing, let us feel it deeply and powerfully, let us cherish a
strong affection for it, and resolve to maintain and perpetuate it. The
blood of our fathers, let it not have been shed in vain; the great hope
of posterity, let it not be blasted.
The striking attitude, too, in which we stand to the world around us, a
topic to which, I fear, I advert too often and dwell on too long, cannot
be altogether omitted here. Neither individuals nor nations can perform
their part well until they understand and feel its importance, and
comprehend and justly appreciate all the duties belonging to it. It is
not to inflate national vanity, nor to swell a light and empty feeling
of self-importance, but it is that we may judge justly of our situation,
and of our own duties, that I earnestly urge upon you this consideration
of our position and our character among the nations of the earth. It
cannot be denied, but by those who would dispute against the sun, that
with America, and in America, a new era commences in human affairs.
This era is distinguished by free representative governments, by entire
religious liberty, by improved systems of national intercourse, by a
newly awakened and an unconquerable spirit of free inquiry, and by a
diffusion of knowledge through the community, such as has been before
altogether unknown and unheard of. America, America, our country,
fellow-citizens, our own dear and native land, is inseparably connected,
fast bound up, in fortune and by fate, with these great interests. If
they fall, we fall with them; if they stand, it will be because we have
maintained them. Let us contemplate, then, this connection, which binds
the prosperity of others to our own; and let us manfully discharge all
the duties which it imposes. If we cherish the virtues and the
principles of our fathers, Heaven will assist us to carry on the work of
human liberty and human happiness. Auspicious omens cheer us. Great
examples are before us. Our own firmament now shines brightly upon our
path. Washington is in the clear, upper sky. These other stars have now
joined the American constellation; they circle round their centre, and
the heavens beam with new light. Beneath this illumination let us walk
the course of life, and at its close devoutly commend our beloved
country, the common parent of us all, to the Divine Benignity.[24]
THE MURDER OF CAPTAIN JOSEPH WHITE[25]
FROM AN ARGUMENT ON THE TRIAL OF JOHN FRANCIS KNAPP, AT SALEM,
MASSACHUSETTS, AUG. 3, 1830
Gentlemen, it is a most extraordinary case. In some respects, it has
hardly a precedent anywhere; certainly none in our New England history.
This bloody drama exhibited no suddenly excited, ungovernable rage. The
actors in it were not surprised by any lion-like temptation springing
upon their virtue, and overcoming it, before resistance could begin. Nor
did they do the deed to glut savage vengeance, or satiate long-settled
and deadly hate. It was a cool, calculating, money-making murder. It was
all "hire and salary, not revenge." It was the weighing of money against
life; the counting out of so many pieces of silver against so many
ounces of blood.
An aged man, without an enemy in the world, in his own house, and in his
own bed, is made the victim of a butcherly murder, for mere pay. Truly,
here is a new lesson for painters and poets. Whoever shall hereafter
draw the portrait of murder, if he will show it as it has been
exhibited, where such example was last to have been looked for, in the
very bosom of our New England society, let him not give it the grim
visage of Moloch, the brow knitted by revenge, the face black with
settled hate, and the bloodshot eye emitting livid fires of malice. Let
him draw, rather, a decorous, smooth-faced, bloodless demon; a picture
in repose, rather than in action; not so much an example of human nature
in its depravity, and in its paroxysms of crime, as an infernal being, a
fiend, in the ordinary display and development of his character.
The deed was executed with a degree of self-possession and steadiness
equal to the wickedness with which it was planned. The circumstances now
clearly in evidence spread out the whole scene before us. Deep sleep had
fallen on the destined victim, and on all beneath his roof. A healthful
old man, to whom sleep was sweet, the first sound slumbers of the night
held him in their soft but strong embrace. The assassin enters, through
the window already prepared, into an unoccupied apartment. With
noiseless foot he paces the lonely hall, half lighted by the moon; he
winds up the ascent of the stairs, and reaches the door of the chamber.
Of this, he moves the lock, by soft and continued pressure, till it
turns on its hinges without noise; and he enters, and beholds his victim
before him. The room is uncommonly open to the admission of light. The
face of the innocent sleeper is turned from the murderer, and the beams
of the moon, resting on the gray locks of his aged temple, show him
where to strike. The fatal blow is given! and the victim passes, without
a struggle or a motion, from the repose of sleep to the repose of death!
It is the assassin's purpose to make sure work; and he plies the dagger,
though it is obvious that life has been destroyed by the blow of the
bludgeon. He even raises the aged arm, that he may not fail in his aim
at the heart, and replaces it again over the wounds of the poniard! To
finish the picture, he explores the wrist for the pulse! He feels for
it, and ascertains that it beats no longer! It is accomplished. The deed
is done. He retreats, retraces his steps to the window, passes out
through it as he came in, and escapes. He has done the murder. No eye
has seen him, no ear has heard him. The secret is his own, and it is
safe!
[Sidenote: "Murder will out."]
Ah! gentlemen, that was a dreadful mistake. Such a secret can be safe
nowhere. The whole creation of God has neither nook nor corner where the
guilty can bestow it, and say it is safe. Not to speak of that eye which
pierces through all disguises, and beholds everything as in the splendor
of noon, such secrets of guilt are never safe from detection, even by
men. True it is, generally speaking, that "murder will out." True it is,
that Providence hath so ordained, and doth so govern things, that those
who break the great law of Heaven by shedding man's blood seldom succeed
in avoiding discovery. Especially, in a case exciting so much attention
as this, discovery must come, and will come, sooner or later. A
thousand eyes turn at once to explore every man, every thing, every
circumstance, connected with the time and place; a thousand ears catch
every whisper; a thousand excited minds intensely dwell on the scene,
shedding all their light, and ready to kindle the slightest circumstance
into a blaze of discovery. Meantime the guilty soul cannot keep its own
secret. It is false to itself; or, rather, it feels an irresistible
impulse of conscience to be true to itself. It labors under its guilty
possession, and knows not what to do with it. The human heart was not
made for the residence of such an inhabitant. It finds itself preyed on
by a torment, which it dares not acknowledge to God or man. A vulture is
devouring it, and it can ask no sympathy or assistance, either from
heaven or earth. The secret which the murderer possesses soon comes to
possess him; and, like the evil spirits of which we read, it overcomes
him, and leads him whithersoever it will. He feels it beating at his
heart, rising to his throat, and demanding disclosure. He thinks the
whole world sees it in his face, reads it in his eyes, and almost hears
its workings in the very silence of his thoughts. It has become his
master. It betrays his discretion, it breaks down his courage, it
conquers his prudence. When suspicions from without begin to embarrass
him, and the net of circumstance to entangle him, the fatal secret
struggles with still greater violence to burst forth. It must be
confessed, it will be confessed; there is no refuge from confession but
suicide, and suicide is confession.
THE REPLY TO HAYNE
FROM THE SECOND SPEECH ON FOOT'S RESOLUTION, DELIVERED IN THE SENATE OF
THE UNITED STATES, JAN. 26 AND 27, 1830[26]
MR. PRESIDENT,--When the mariner has been tossed for many days in thick
weather, and on an unknown sea, he naturally avails himself of the first
pause in the storm, the earliest glance of the sun, to take his
latitude, and ascertain how far the elements have driven him from his
true course. Let us imitate this prudence, and, before we float farther
on the waves of this debate, refer to the point from which we departed,
that we may at least be able to conjecture where we now are. I ask for
the reading of the resolution before the Senate.
[Sidenote: The resolution which caused the debate]
[The Secretary read the resolution, as follows:--
"_Resolved_, That the Committee on Public Lands be instructed to inquire
and report the quantity of public lands remaining unsold within each
State and Territory, and whether it be expedient to limit for a certain
period the sales of the public lands to such lands only as have
heretofore been offered for sale, and are now subject to entry at the
minimum price. And, also, whether the office of Surveyor-General, and
some of the land offices, may not be abolished without detriment to the
public interest; or whether it be expedient to adopt measures to hasten
the sales and extend more rapidly the surveys of the public lands."]
We have thus heard, Sir, what the resolution is which is actually before
us for consideration; and it will readily occur to every one, that it is
almost the only subject about which something has not been said in the
speech, running through two days, by which the Senate has been
entertained by the gentleman from South Carolina. Every topic in the
wide range of our public affairs, whether past or present,--everything,
general or local, whether belonging to national politics or party
politics,--seems to have attracted more or less of the honorable
member's attention, save only the resolution before the Senate. He has
spoken of everything but the public lands; they have escaped his notice.
To that subject, in all his excursions, he has not paid even the cold
respect of a passing glance.
[Sidenote: Hayne's "return-shot."]
When this debate, Sir, was to be resumed, on Thursday morning, it so
happened that it would have been convenient for me to be elsewhere. The
honorable member, however, did not incline to put off the discussion to
another day. He had a shot, he said, to return, and he wished to
discharge it. That shot, Sir, which he thus kindly informed us was
coming, that we might stand out of the way, or prepare ourselves to fall
by it and die with decency, has now been received. Under all advantages,
and with expectation awakened by the tone which preceded it, it has been
discharged, and has spent its force. It may become me to say no more of
its effect than that, if nobody is found, after all, either killed or
wounded, it is not the first time, in the history of human affairs, that
the vigor and success of the war have not quite come up to the lofty and
sounding phrase of the manifesto.
The gentleman, Sir, in declining to postpone the debate, told the
Senate, with the emphasis of his hand upon his heart, that there was
something rankling _here_, which he wished to relieve. [Mr. Hayne rose,
and disclaimed having used the word _rankling_.] It would not, Mr.
President, be safe for the honorable member to appeal to those around
him, upon the question whether he did in fact make use of that word. But
he may have been unconscious of it. At any rate, it is enough that he
disclaims it. But still, with or without the use of that particular
word, he had yet something _here_, he said, of which he wished to rid
himself by an immediate reply. In this respect, Sir, I have a great
advantage over the honorable gentleman. There is nothing _here_, Sir,
which gives me the slightest uneasiness; neither fear, nor anger, nor
that which is sometimes more troublesome than either, the consciousness
of having been in the wrong. There is nothing, either originating
_here_, or now received _here_ by the gentleman's shot. Nothing
originating here, for I had not the slightest feeling of unkindness
towards the honorable member. Some passages, it is true, had occurred
since our acquaintance in this body, which I could have wished might
have been otherwise; but I had used philosophy and forgotten them. I
paid the honorable member the attention of listening with respect to his
first speech; and when he sat down, though surprised, and I must even
say astonished, at some of his opinions, nothing was farther from my
intention than to commence any personal warfare. Through the whole of
the few remarks I made in answer, I avoided, studiously and carefully,
everything which I thought possible to be construed into disrespect.
And, Sir, while there is thus nothing originating _here_ which I have
wished at any time, or now wish, to discharge, I must repeat, also, that
nothing has been received _here_ which _rankles_, or in any way gives me
annoyance. I will not accuse the honorable member of violating the rules
of civilized war; I will not say that he poisoned his arrows. But
whether his shafts were or were not dipped in that which would have
caused rankling if they had reached their destination, there was not, as
it happened, quite strength enough in the bow to bring them to their
mark. If he wishes now to gather up those shafts, he must look for them
elsewhere; they will not be found fixed and quivering in the object at
which they were aimed.
[Illustration: THE REPLY TO HAYNE]
The honorable member complained that I had slept on his speech. I must
have slept on it, or not slept at all. The moment the honorable member
sat down, his friend from Missouri rose, and, with much honeyed
commendation of the speech, suggested that the impressions which it had
produced were too charming and delightful to be disturbed by other
sentiments or other sounds, and proposed that the Senate should adjourn.
Would it have been quite amiable in me, Sir, to interrupt this excellent
good feeling? Must I not have been absolutely malicious, if I could have
thrust myself forward, to destroy sensations thus pleasing? Was it not
much better and kinder, both to sleep upon them myself, and to allow
others also the pleasure of sleeping upon them? But if it be meant, by
sleeping upon his speech, that I took time to prepare a reply to it, it
is quite a mistake. Owing to other engagements, I could not employ even
the interval between the adjournment of the Senate and its meeting the
next morning, in attention to the subject of this debate. Nevertheless,
Sir, the mere matter of fact is undoubtedly true. I did sleep on the
gentleman's speech, and slept soundly. And I slept equally well on his
speech of yesterday, to which I am now replying. It is quite possible
that in this respect, also, I possess some advantage over the honorable
member, attributable, doubtless, to a cooler temperament on my part;
for, in truth, I slept upon his speeches remarkably well.
[Illustration: _Thomas H. Benton._]
[Sidenote: Thomas H. Benton's part in the debate.]
But the gentleman inquires why _he_ was made the object of such a reply.
Why was _he_ singled out? If an attack has been made on the East, he, he
assures us, did not begin it; it was made by the gentleman from
Missouri. Sir, I answered the gentleman's speech because I happened to
hear it; and because, also, I chose to give an answer to that speech,
which, if unanswered, I thought most likely to produce injurious
impressions. I did not stop to inquire who was the original drawer of
the bill. I found a responsible indorser before me, and it was my
purpose to hold him liable, and to bring him to his just responsibility,
without delay. But, Sir, this interrogatory of the honorable member was
only introductory to another. He proceeded to ask me whether I had
turned upon him, in this debate, from the consciousness that I should
find an overmatch, if I ventured on a contest with his friend from
Missouri. If, Sir, the honorable member, _modestiæ gratia_, had chosen
thus to defer to his friend, and to pay him a compliment, without
intentional disparagement to others, it would have been quite according
to the friendly courtesies of debate, and not at all ungrateful to my
own feelings. I am not one of those, Sir, who esteem any tribute of
regard, whether light and occasional, or more serious and deliberate,
which may be bestowed on others, as so much unjustly withholden from
themselves. But the tone and manner of the gentleman's question forbid
me thus to interpret it. I am not at liberty to consider it as nothing
more than a civility to his friend. It had an air of taunt and
disparagement, something of the loftiness of asserted superiority, which
does not allow me to pass it over without notice. It was put as a
question for me to answer, and so put as if it were difficult for me to
answer, whether I deemed the member from Missouri an overmatch for
myself in debate here. It seems to me, Sir, that this is extraordinary
language, and an extraordinary tone, for the discussions of this body.
[Sidenote: A Senate of equals.]