Chapter XIII: Part 13

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."

I awoke, sorely disturbed--Martin had vanished.

No. LXXVIII.

I know not why, but the idea of another meeting with Martin Smith, notwithstanding my affectionate respect, for that good old man, disturbed me so much, that I resolved, to be out of his way, by keeping awake. But, in defiance of my very best efforts, strengthened by a bowl of unsugared hyson, at half past eleven, if I err not, I fell into a profound slumber; and, at the very appointed moment, found myself, at the Chapel door. At the third knock, it opened, with an almost alarming suddenness--I quietly entered--and the old man closed it softly, after me.

"In ten minutes," said he, "the congregation will assemble."--"What," I inquired, "at this time of night?"--"Be silent," said he, rather angrily, as I thought; and, drawing me, by the arm, to the north side of the door, he shoved me against the Vassal monument, with a force, that I would not have believed it possible, for any modern ghost to exert. "Be still and listen," said he. "In 1782, my dear, old pastor, Dr. Freeman, came here, as Reader; and became Rector, in 1787. Dr. Caner was inducted, in 1747, and continued Rector, twenty-nine years; for, as I told you, he went off with the plate, in 1776. There were no Rectors, between those two. Brockwell and Troutbeck were Caner's assistants only: the first died in 1755, and the last left, the year before Dr. Caner."

"Well," continued the old man, "never reveal what I am about to tell you, Abner Wycherly--the Trinitarians have never surrendered their claims, upon this Church; and, precisely at midnight, upon every Sabbath, since 1776, Dr. Caner and the congregation have gathered here; and the Church service has been performed, just as it used to be, before the revolution. They make short work of it, rarely exceeding fifteen minutes--hush, for your life--they are coming!"

A glare of unearthly light, invisible through the windows, as Martin assured me, to all without, filled the tabernacle, in an instant--exceedingly like gas light; and, at the same instant, I heard a rattling, resembling the down-sitting, after prayers, in a village meeting-house, where the seats are clappers, and go on hinges. Observing, that my jaws chattered, Martin pressed my hand in his icy fingers, and whispered, that it was nothing but Dr. Caner's congregation, coming up, rather less silently, of course, than when they were in the flesh.

Being the first Sunday in the month, all the communion plate, that Caner carried off, was paraded, on the altar. I wish the twelve apostles could have seen it. It glittered, like Jones, Ball & Poor's bow-window, viewed from the old, Donnison corner. The whole interior of the Chapel was marvellously changed. I was much struck, by a showy, gilt crown, over the organ, supported by a couple of gilt mitres. This was the famous organ, said to have been selected by Handel, and which came over in 1756.

At this moment, a brief and sudden darkness hid everything from view; succeeded, instantly, by a brighter light than before; and all was changed. The organ had vanished; the monuments of Shirley and Apthorp, and the tablet of Price, over the vestry door, were gone; I looked behind me, for the Vassal monument, against which I had been leaning; it was no longer there. Martin Smith perceived my astonishment, and whispered, that Dr. Caner was never so partial to the Stone Chapel, which was opened in 1754, as he was to the ancient King's Chapel, in which he had been inducted in 1747, and in which we then were.