Dealings With The Dead Volume I Part 18

As to the b.l.o.o.d.y shillaly, McGammon brot more nor twenty witnesses, and ivery one a Mullowny, to sware it was more like Tooley's own shillaly nor two paas in a pud; and then he had three lunatic doctors, they call'd em, to prove that the O'Shane's were o' the silf-distructive persuashun. As to what Rory had sed about havin Tooley's hart's blud, lawyer McGammon provd that it was a common mode o' spakin in Ballyconnel and all owr the contree, among frinds and neybors, and thin he hinted, in a dillikit wey, that all the Mullownys wuld be after sayin that virry same thing o' the jewry, if thay brot Rory to the gallus by thair vardic, and that he was guilty o' nothin but circ.u.mstanshul ividunce. But the jewry brot in the poor felly guilty o' murther, and its all owr wid poor Rory.

It's no more I can rite--Your sister Betty Macnamarra has nine fine boys, at thraa births it is. From yours ever till the dee,

EYLEY MURPHY.

No impartial reader of Miss Eyley Murphy's letter will hesitate to p.r.o.nounce Rory Mullowny an unfortunate man, and his case another example of the abominable practice of hanging innocent persons, upon circ.u.mstantial evidence.

No. LV.

Poor Eli--as the old man was familiarly called by the Boston s.e.xtons of his time. He was a prime hand, at the shortest notice, in his better days.

He has been long dead--died by inches--his memory first. For a year or more before his death, he was troubled with some strange hallucinations, of rather a professional character--among them, an impression, that he had committed a terrible sin, in putting so many respectable people under ground, who had never done him any harm. He said to me, more than once, while attempting to dissipate this film from his mental vision--"Abner, take my advice, and give up this wicked business, or you'll be served so yourself, one of these days." I was, upon one occasion, going over one of our farms, with the old man--the Granary burying-ground--and he flew into a terrible pa.s.sion, because no grave had been dug for old Master Lovell--the father. We tried to remind him, that Master Lovell, many years before, in 1776, had turned tory, and gone off with the British army; but poor old Eli was past conviction. He took his last favorite walk, among the graves on Copp's Hill, one morning in May--he there met a very worthy man, whom he was so fully persuaded he had buried, twenty years before, that he hobbled home, in the greatest trepidation, took to his bed, and never left it, but to verify his own suggestion, that we are all to be finally buried. During his last, brief illness, his mental wanderings were very manifest:--"Poor man--poor man"--he would mutter to himself--"I'm sure I buried him--deep grave, very--estate's been settled--his sons--very fast young men, took possession--gone long ago--poor weeping widow--married twice since--what a time there'll be--oh Lord forgive me, I'll never bury another." He was eighty-two then, and used to say he longed to die, and get among his old friends, for all, that he had known, were dead and gone.

A feeling, somewhat akin to this, is apt to gather about us, and grow stronger, as we march farther forward on our way, the numbers of our companions gradually lessening, as we go. Our ranks close up--those, with whom we stood, shoulder to shoulder, are cut down by the great leveller--and their places are filled by others. As we grow older, and the friends and companions of our earlier days are removed, we have a desire to do the next best thing--we cannot supply their places--but there are individuals--worthy people withal--whose faces have been familiar to our eyes, for fifty or sixty years--we have pa.s.sed them, daily, or weekly--we chance to meet, no matter where--the ice is broken, by a mutual agreement, that it is very hot, or that it is very cold--very wet, or very dry--an allusion follows to the great number of years we have known each other, by name, and this results, frequently, in a relation, which, if it be not ent.i.tled to the sacred name of friendship, is not to be despised by those, who are deep in the valley:--out of such materials, an old craft, near the termination of its voyage, may rig up a respectable jury-mast, at least, and sail on comfortably, to the haven where it would be.

The old standard merchants, who transacted business, on the Long Wharf, Boston Pier, when I was a boy--are dead--_stelligeri_--almost every one of them; and, if all, that I have known and heard of them, were fairly told, it would make a very readable volume, highly honorable to many of their number, and calculated to operate, as a stimulus, upon the profession, in every age.

One little narrative spreads itself before my memory, at this moment, which I received from the only surviving son of the individual, to whom it especially refers. A merchant, very extensively engaged in commerce, and located upon the Long Wharf, died February 18, 1806, at the age of 75, intestate. His eldest son administered upon the estate. This old gentleman used pleasantly to say, that, for many years, he had fed a very large number of the Catholics, on the sh.o.r.es of the Mediterranean, during Lent, referring to his very extensive connection with the fishing business. In his day, he was certainly well known; and, to the present time, is well remembered, by some of the "_old ones down along sh.o.r.e_," from the Gurnet's Nose to Race Point. Among his papers, a package, of very considerable size, was found, after his death, carefully tied up, and labelled as follows: "_Notes, due-bills, and accounts against sundry persons, down along sh.o.r.e. Some of these may be got by suit or severe dunning. But the people are poor: most of them have had fishermen's luck.

My children will do as they think best. Perhaps they will think with me, that it is best to burn this package entire._"

"About a month," said my informant, "after our father died, the sons met together, and, after some general remarks, our elder brother, the administrator, produced this package, of whose existence we were already apprized; read the superscription; and asked what course should be taken, in regard to it. Another brother, a few years younger than the eldest, a man of strong, impulsive temperament, unable, at the moment, to express his feeling, by words, while he brushed the tears from his eyes with one hand, by a spasmodic jerk of the other, towards the fireplace, indicated his wish to have the package put into the flames. It was suggested, by another of our number, that it might be well, first, to make a list of the debtors' names, and of the dates, and amounts, that we might be enabled, as the intended discharge was for all, to inform such as might offer payment, that their debts were forgiven. On the following day, we again a.s.sembled--the list had been prepared--and all the notes, due-bills, and accounts, whose amount, including interest, exceeded thirty-two thousand dollars, were committed to the flames."

"It was about four months after our father's death," continued my informant, "in the month of June, that, as I was sitting in my eldest brother's counting-room, waiting for an opportunity to speak with him, there came in a hard-favored, little, old man, who looked as if time and rough weather had been to windward of him, for seventy years. He asked if my brother was not the executor. He replied, that he was administrator, as our father died intestate. 'Well,' said the stranger, 'I've come up from the Cape, to pay a debt I owed the old gentleman.' My brother," continued my informant, "requested him to take a seat, being, at the moment, engaged with other persons, at the desk."

"The old man sat down, and, putting on his gla.s.ses, drew out a very ancient, leather pocket-book, and began to count over his money. When he had done--and there was quite a parcel of bank notes--as he sat, waiting his turn, slowly twisting his thumbs, with his old gray, meditative eyes upon the floor, he sighed; and I knew the money, as the phrase runs, _came hard_--and secretly wished the old man's name might be found, upon the forgiven list. My brother was soon at leisure, and asked him the common questions--his name, &c. The original debt was four hundred and forty dollars--it had stood a long time, and, with the interest, amounted to a sum, between seven and eight hundred. My brother went to his desk, and, after examining the forgiven list attentively, a sudden smile lighted up his countenance, and told me the truth, at a glance--the old man's name was there! My brother quietly took a chair, by his side, and a conversation ensued, between them, which I never shall forget.--'Your note is outlawed,' said my brother; 'it was dated twelve years ago, payable in two years; there is no witness, and no interest has ever been paid; you are not bound to pay this note, we cannot recover the amount.' 'Sir,' said the old man, 'I wish to pay it. It is the only heavy debt I have in the world. It may be outlawed here, but I have no child, and my old woman and I hope we have made our peace with G.o.d, and wish to do so with man. I should like to pay it'--and he laid his bank notes before my brother, requesting him to count them over. 'I cannot take this money,' said my brother. The old man became alarmed. 'I have cast simple interest, for twelve years and a little over,' said the old man. 'I will pay you compound interest, if you say so. The debt ought to have been paid, long ago, but your father, sir, was very indulgent--he knew I'd been unlucky, and told me not to worry about it.'

"My brother then set the whole matter plainly before him, and, taking the bank bills, returned them to the pocket book, telling him, that, although our father left no formal will, he had recommended to his children, to destroy certain notes, due-bills, and other evidences of debt, and release those, who might be legally bound to pay them. For a moment the worthy old man appeared to be stupefied. After he had collected himself, and wiped a few tears from his eyes, he stated, that, from the time he had heard of our father's death, he had raked, and sc.r.a.ped, and pinched and spared, to get the money together, for the payment of this debt.--'About ten days ago,' said he, 'I had made up the sum, within twenty dollars. My wife knew how much the payment of this debt lay upon my spirits, and advised me to sell a cow, and make up the difference, and get the heavy burden off my spirits. I did so--and now, what will my old woman say! I must get back to the Cape, and tell her this good news. She'll probably say over the very words she said, when she put her hand on my shoulder as we parted--_I have never yet seen the righteous man forsaken, nor his seed begging bread_.'

After a hearty shake of the hand, and a blessing upon our old father's memory, he went upon his way rejoicing.

"After a short silence--taking his pencil and making a cast--'there,' said my brother, 'your part of the amount would be so much--contrive a plan to convey to me your share of the pleasure, derived from this operation, and the money is at your service.'"

Such is the simple tale, which I have told, as it was told to me.

No. LVI.

"_Take heed that ye do not your alms before men, to be seen of them; otherwise ye have no reward of your Father which is in Heaven. Therefore when thou doest thine alms, do not sound a trumpet before thee, as the hypocrites do, in the synagogues, and in the streets, that they may have glory of men. Verily I say unto you, they have their reward. But when thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth. That thine alms may be in secret: and thy Father, which seeth in secret, himself shall reward thee openly._"

This ancient word--_alms_--according to its derivative import, comprehends not only those _oboli_, which are given to the wandering poor, but all bestowments, great and small, in the blessed cause of charity.

In the present age, how limited the number, whose moral courage and self-denial enable them to do their alms in secret, and without sounding a trumpet, as the hypocrites do! How many, impatient of delay, prefer an immediate reward--_to have glory of men_--rather than a long draft, upon far futurity, though G.o.d himself be the paymaster!

The ability, to plan a magnificent, prospective charity, to provide the means for its consummation, to preserve inviolate the secret of this high and holy purpose, except from some confidential friend perhaps, until the n.o.ble and pure-minded benefactor himself is beyond the reach of all human praise--this is indeed a celestial and a rare accomplishment.

My thoughts have been drawn hitherward, by the public announcement of certain testamentary donations of the late Theodore Lyman--ten thousand dollars to the Horticultural Society--ten thousand dollars to the Farm School--and fifty thousand dollars to the Reform School at Westborough.

The public have been long in doubt, who was the secret patron of that excellent establishment, upon which he had previously bestowed two and twenty thousand dollars.--While we readily admit, that, in these unostentatious and posthumous benefactions, there is every claim upon the grateful respect of the community--while we delight to cherish a sentiment of reverence, for the memory of a good man, who would not suffer the sound of his munificence to go forth, till he had descended to that grave, where there is no device, nor work, and where his ears must be closed forever to the world's applause--still there are some, who, doubtless, will marvel at these magnificent, noiseless, and posthumous appropriations. With a very small portion of the amounts, bestowed upon these inst.i.tutions, what glory might have been had of men, aye, and in his own life time! By distributing the aggregate into comparatively petty sums--by the exercise of rather more than ordinary vigilance and cunning, in the selection of fitting opportunities, what a reputation Mr. Lyman might have obtained! He would not only have been preceded, by the sound of a trumpet, but every penny paper would have readily converted itself into a penny trumpet, to spread the fame of his showy benefactions. His name would have been in every mouth--aye, and on every omnibus and engine. Add to all this a very small amount--a few hundred dollars, devoted to the procurement of plaster casts of himself, to be skilfully distributed, and verily he would have had his reward.

The Hon. Theodore Lyman is dead, and, today, my grateful and respectful dealings are with his memory. The practical benevolence of this gentleman has been well known to me, for years. There are quiet, un.o.btrusive charities, which are not likely to figure, in the daily journals, or to be known by any person, but the parties. For such as these I have occasionally solicited Mr. Lyman, and never in vain. On the other hand, there are individuals, whose names are forever before the public, in connection with some work, to be seen of men; but whose gold and silver, unless they are likely to glitter, _in transitu_, before the eye of the community, are parted with, reluctantly, if at all.

This great public benefactor, upon the present occasion, seems to have said, in the gentle, un.o.btrusive whisperings of his n.o.ble spirit--"A portion of that, which G.o.d has permitted me to gather, I believe it is my bounden duty to return, into the treasury of the Lord. This will I do. The secret shall remain, while I live, between G.o.d, who gives me this willing heart, and myself. And, when the world shall, at last, become unavoidably apprized of the fact, I shall have taken sanctuary in the grave, where the fulsome applause of the mult.i.tude can never reach me."

Between such apostolic charity as this, and certain flashy munificence, whose authors seem to be forever drawing drafts, at sight, and always _without grace_, upon the public, for fresh laudation--more votes of thanks--additional resolutions of all sorts of societies--and a more copious supply of vapid editorial adulation--between these, I say, there is all that real difference which exists, between the "gem of purest ray serene," and the wretched Bristol imitation--between the flower that blooms and sends abroad its perfume in secret, and that corruption whose veritable character can never be concealed; and I may be suffered to say, as truly as Jock Jabos of his professional relations, that one of my calling may be supposed to know something of corruption, by this time.

----"My ear is pained, My soul is sick with every day's report"

of _ad captandum_ benefactions. Today, that generous benefactor, Mr.

Pipkin, endows some village Lyceum, which is destined forever to glory in the euphonious name of Pipkin. Tomorrow our ill.u.s.trious fellow-citizen, Mr. Snooks, presents a bell to some village church, and, the very next week, we are told, that the bell was cracked, while ringing peals in honor of the munificent Snooks. Even the Tonsons, whose ubiquity is a proverb, and whose inordinate relish for all sorts of notoriety surpa.s.ses their powers of munificence, are always in, for a pen'worth of this species of t.i.tillating snuff, at small cost.

The Hon. Theodore Lyman was born in Boston, in 1792. His father was Theodore Lyman, a shrewd, enterprising, and eminently successful merchant of this city. His mother's maiden name was Lydia Williams. She was a sister of Samuel Williams, the celebrated London Banker. The subject of this brief notice received his preparatory education, at Phillips Exeter Academy, under the charge of the venerable Dr. Abbott. He entered Harvard University in 1806, and took his degrees in the usual course.

In 1812, Mr. Lyman went to England, upon a visit to his maternal uncle, Mr. Williams, and, during his absence, travelled on the continent, with Mr. Edward Everett, visiting Greece, Palestine, &c., and remaining abroad, until 1816. He was in Paris, when the allied armies entered that city. Of this event he subsequently published an account, in a work, very pleasantly written, ent.i.tled _Three Weeks in Paris_.

In 1820, or very near that period, Mr. Lyman married Miss Mary Henderson of New York, a lady of rare personal beauty and accomplishments, who died in 1836. The issue of this marriage were three daughters and a son, Julia, Mary, Cora and Theodore. The two last survive. The elder children, Julia and Mary, in language of beautiful significancy, have "gone before."

Mr. Lyman published an octavo volume, on Italy, and compiled two useful volumes, on the Diplomacy of the United States with Foreign Nations. In 1834 and 1835, Mr. Lyman was Mayor of the City of Boston. He brought to that office the manners of a refined and polished gentleman; the independence of a man of spirit and of honor; a true regard for justice and the rights of all men; a lofty contempt for all time-serving policy; talents of a highly respectable order; a mind well stored and well balanced; and a cordial desire, exemplified in his own personal and domestic relations, and by his encouraging word and open hand, of promoting the best interests of the great temperance reform.

To the duties of this office, in which there is something less of glory than of toil, he devoted himself, during those two years, with great personal sacrifice and privation to those, whom he loved most. The period of his mayoralty was, by no means, a period of calm repose. Those years were scored, by the spirit of misrule, with deep, dark lines of infamy.

Those years are memorable for the Vandal outrage upon the Ursuline Convent, and the Garrison riot; in which, a portion of the people of Boston demonstrated the terrible truth, that they were not to be outdone in fury, even by the most furious abolitionist, who ever converted his stylus into a harpoon, and his inkhorn into a vial of wrath.

Mr. Lyman, even in comparatively early life, filled the offices of a Brigadier and Major General of our Militia; and was in our Legislative Councils.

The temperament of Mr. Lyman was peculiar. Frigid, and even formal, before the world, he was one of the most warm-hearted men, among the noiseless paths of charity, and in the closer relations of life. I have sometimes marvelled, where he bestowed his keen sensibility, while going through the rough and wearying detail of official duty. In the spring of 1840 we met accidentally, at the South--in the city of Charleston. He was ill. His mind was ill at ease. He seemed to me, at that time, a practical ill.u.s.tration of the truth, that it is not good for man to be alone. Yet he had been long stricken then, in his domestic relation. His chief anxiety seemed to be about the health of his little boy. He told me, that he lingered there on his account. I never knew a more devoted father.

A gentleman, well-known to the community, by his untiring practical benevolence, to whom I applied for information, has sent me a reply, from which I must be permitted to extract one pa.s.sage, for the benefit of the world--"I have known much of his benevolent acts, having been the frequent almoner of his bounty, with the injunction, '_Keep it to yourself_.' He often called, and spent one or two hours, to converse on temperance, and the poor, and would spend a long winter evening in my office, to learn of me what my situation enabled me to communicate, and always left a check for $50 or $100, to give to the Howard, or some other society. In the severe winter weather, I remarked that he would say, '_This weather makes one feel for the poor_.' He often sent his man with provisions to the houses of the dest.i.tute, and had a heart to feel for others' woe."

He has gone! But the memory of this good man shall never go! It shall be embalmed in the grateful tears of the reformed, from age to age.

Thousands, now unborn, shall be s.n.a.t.c.hed, like brands from the burning, through the agency of this heavenly charity; and, as they turn from the walls of this n.o.ble inst.i.tution, in a moral sense, regenerate, they shall bless the name of their n.o.ble benefactor; and thus raise and perpetuate, to the memory of THEODORE LYMAN, the _monumentum aere perennius_.

No. LVII.

It is scarcely credible, for what peccadilloes, life was forfeited, by the laws of England, within the memory of men, now living. One hundred and sixty offences, which may be committed by man, have been declared, by different acts of parliament, to be felony, without benefit of clergy; that is, punishable with death. It is truly wonderful, that, in the eighteenth century, it should have been a capital offence, in England, to break down the mound of a fish pond--to cut down a cherry tree in an orchard--or to be seen, for one month, in the company of those, who called themselves Egyptians.

We constantly refer to the laws of Draco, the Archon of Athens, as a code of unequalled cruelty; under whose operation, crimes of the highest order, and the most trifling offences, were punished, with equal severity. Draco punished murder with death, and he punished idleness with death. The laws of England punished murder with death, and they punished theft, over the value of twelve pence, with death. What is the necessity of going back to the time of Draco, 624 years before Christ, for examples of inhuman, and absurdly inconsistent legislation?

The Marquis of Beccaria, in his treatise, _De Delitti e Delle Pene_, seems to have awakened legislators from a trance, in 1764, by propounding the simple inquiry--_Ought not punishments to be proportioned to crimes, and how shall that proportion be established?_ A matter, so apparently simple, seems not to have been thought of before.

Sir Samuel Romilly, Sir James Mackintosh, and Sir Robert Peel are ent.i.tled to great praise, for their efforts to soften and humanize the criminal code of Great Britain.