Dealings With The Dead Volume II Part 4

Milton was ever Milton still--_nihil tetigit quod non ornavit_. Take a brief extract or two from his work on divorce:--"What therefore G.o.d hath joined let no man put asunder. But here the Christian prudence lies, to consider what G.o.d hath joined. Shall we say that G.o.d hath joined error, fraud, unfitness, wrath, contention, perpetual loneliness, perpetual discord? Whatever l.u.s.t, or wine, or witchery, threat or enticement, avarice or ambition hath joined together, faithful or unfaithful, Christian with anti-Christian, hate with hate, or hate with love--shall we say this is G.o.d's joining?"--"But unfitness and contrariety frustrate and nullify forever, unless it be a rare chance, all the good and peace of wedded conversation; and leave nothing between them enjoyable, but a p.r.o.ne and savage necessity, not worth the name of marriage, unaccompanied with love." Every word of all this was written with an eye to the object of his unlawful pa.s.sion: but the legislature very justly considered the greatest good of the greatest possible number; and would not turn aside, to pa.s.s a bill, for the special relief of John Milton and Miss Davis.

Selden, in his _Uxor Hebraica_, has proved, that polygamy existed, not only among the Hebrews, but among all nations, and in all ages. Mark Anthony is mentioned, as the first, among the Romans, who took the liberty of having two wives. What a gathering there would have been, in the Forum, if the news had been spread, that Mrs. Mark Anthony had taken the liberty of having two husbands! Every body knows, that widows are occasionally burnt, in Hindostan, on the funeral pile with their husbands. Whoever heard of a widower being burnt or even scorched, on a similar occasion?

The Landgrave of Hesse, the most warlike of the Protestant leaders, caused a representation to be made to the theologians, that he must have two wives, and that he would not be denied. A most rampant and outrageous protocol was prepared, and handed to Bucerus, for the ministers at Wittemberg. The substance of this was equally discreditable to the Landgrave, and insulting to Luther and the holy fathers. The Landgrave was no gentleman, for he told the theologians, that his lady got drunk, and was personally disagreeable to him. He calls G.o.d to witness, that, if they do not sanction his polygamy, he will do just what he likes, and the sin will be upon their heads. He particularly wishes information, on one point--why he is not as good as Abraham, Jacob, David, Lamech, and Solomon; and why he has not as good a right to have a spare wife or two, as they had. He asks for two only.

Luther was deeply troubled, and perplexed. The Reformation professed to bring back the world to the Scriptures, in which polygamy was expressly recognized. The Reformers held marriage to be _res politica_, and therefore subject to the law of the State. The matter became worse by delay. The Landgrave was filled with fury, and the theologians with fear.

At last, poor Luther and the rest signed a paper, concluding with these memorable words--"If however your highness is utterly determined upon marrying a second wife, we are of opinion, that it ought to be done secretly. Signed and sealed at Wittemberg, after the feast of St.

Nicholas, in the year 1539. Martin Luther, Philip Melancthon, Martin Bucer, Antony Corvin, Adam John Lening, Justin Wintfert, Dyonisius Melanther."

The detail of all this may be found, in Hazlitt's translation of Michelet's Life of Luther, page 251, Lond. 1846. Bayle, article Luther, observes, that the theologians would have promptly refused to sanction such a thing, had the request come from any private gentleman--or, permit me to add, if it had come from the lady of the Landgrave, for a brace of husbands.

It is my opinion, that great injustice is done to widows. The opinion of St. Jerome, who never was a widow, and knew nothing about it, that they should never marry again, is perfectly absurd; for there are some men, whose const.i.tutional timidity would close the matrimonial highway forever, were it not for that peculiar species of encouragement, which none but widows can ever administer. For my own part, I would have a widow speak out, and spare not; for I am very fearful, that the opposite course is productive of great moral mischief, and tends to perpetuate a system of terrible hypocrisy. But let a sound discretion be exercised. I disapprove altogether of conditional engagements, made _durante vita mariti_.

No. XCIX.

Jonny Moorhead was a man of a kind heart and a pleasant fancy. He came hither from Belfast, in 1727. He became pastor of the Presbyterian Church in Long Lane, in 1730.--_Tempora mutantur_--Long Lane, and Jonny Moorhead, and the little, old, visible temple, and Presbyterianism itself, are like Rachel's first born--they are not. But in 1744, the good people built a new church, for Jonny Moorhead; in due time, Long Lane became Federal Street; and, Jonny's church bore the bell, which had rung so many peals, and the gilded tell-tale, which, for so many years, had done obeisance to all the winds of Heaven, upon the _old_ Brattle Street Church. These, upon the demolition of that church, in 1774, were the gift of John Hanc.o.c.k.

Jonny Moorhead had little comfort from that bell, for he died December 3, 1774, and could he have lived to see that Presbyterian weatherc.o.c.k go round, in after-times, it would have broken the tough, old strings of Jonny Moorhead's Irish heart.

About one hundred years ago, Jonny Moorhead, upon a drowsy summer afternoon, gave out the one hundred and eighty-seventh psalm--the chief minstrel, with infinite embarra.s.sment, suggested, that there were not so many in the _Book_--and tradition tells us, that Jonny replied--"_Weel, then, sing as mony as there be_."

My recollection of this anecdote of Jonny Moorhead will be painfully revived, when I send forth the one hundredth number of these dealings with the dead. They have been prepared like patch-work, from such fragments, as my common-place book supplied, and at such broken hours of more than ordinary loneliness, as might otherwise have been snoozed, unconsciously away. I had cast all that I had written into a particular drawer; and great was my surprise, to find, that the hundredth was the last, and that, with that number, I shall have sung--"_as mony as there be_."

One hundred--thought I--is an even number--few individuals care to survive one hundred. When these dealings with the dead had reached the number of four-score, I had serious misgivings, that their _strength_, to my weary reader, might prove nothing better than _labor and sorrow_; notwithstanding the occasional tokens of approbation, from some exceedingly old-fashioned people, who were altogether behind the times.

Having attained this _point d'appui_, which appears well enough adapted for the long home of an old s.e.xton, it occurred to me, that I could not possibly do a better thing, for myself, or a more acceptable thing for the public, than to gather up my tools, as snugly as possible, and quietly give up the ghost. But giving up the ghost, even in the sacristan sense of that awful phrase, is not particularly agreeable, after all. If I look upon each one of these hundred dealings, as a sepulchre of my own digging--I cannot deny, that the employment of my spade has been a particular solace to me. But there are other solaces--I know it--there are an hundred according to the exiled bard of Sulmo--

"----centum solatia curae Et rus, et comites, et via longa dabunt."

Other suggestions readily occur, and are as readily, discarded. Parents, occasionally, experiment upon the sensibility of their children, by fondly discoursing of the uncertainty of human existence, and mingling deep drawn sighs, with shadowy allusions to wills and codicils.

For three-and-thirty years, our veteran, maiden aunt, Jemima Wycherly, at the close of her annual visit, which seldom fell short of six weeks, in its duration, though it seemed much longer, took each of us by the hand, and, with many tears, commended us fervently to the protecting arm of an overruling Providence, and bade us an eternal farewell!

I have always contemplated the conduct of Charles V. in relation to the rehearsal of his funeral obsequies, as a piece of imperial foolery. "He ordered his tomb to be erected, in the chapel of the monastery. His domestics marched thither in funeral procession, with black tapers in their hands. He himself followed, in his shroud. He was laid in his coffin, with much solemnity. The service for the dead was chanted; and Charles joined in the prayers, which were offered for the rest of his soul, mingling his tears with those, which his attendants shed, as if they had been celebrating a real funeral. The ceremony closed, with sprinkling holy water on the coffin, in the usual form, and, all the a.s.sistants retiring, the doors of the chapel were shut. Then Charles rose out of the coffin, and withdrew to his apartment." Such is the statement of Dr. Robertson.[1]

Notwithstanding this high authority, it is comforting, even at this late day, to believe, that a story, so discreditable to the memory of Charles, is without any substantial foundation. It has ever appeared remarkable, that Bayle should not have alluded to this curious anecdote. After bestowing the highest praise, on Richard Ford's Hand Book, for Travellers in Spain, the London Quarterly Review[2] furnishes an extract from the work, in which, after giving a minute and interesting account of the convent of St. Yuste, the final retreat of Charles V., Mr. Ford says--"_the story of his having had the funeral service said over himself, while alive, is untrue; no record, or tradition of the kind existed among the monks_."

There is something, in these drafts upon _posterity_, to be accepted and paid, by the _present generation_, for the honor of the drawer, resembling the conduct of a man, who encroaches on his princ.i.p.al, or who antic.i.p.ates his revenues.

There is, undoubtedly, a species of luxury in leave-taking. We have delighted, to contemplate the edifying history of that gray-headed old rat, who, weary of the world, and determined to spend the remnant of his days, in pious meditation, took a final and affectionate leave of all his relatives and friends, and retired to a quiet hole--_in the recesses of a Cheshire cheese_.

However gratified we may be, to witness the second, or third coming of an able, ardent, and ambitious politician, it is not in the gravest nature to restrain a smile, while we contrast that vehemence, which no time can temper--that _vis vivida vitae_--ready for all things, in the forum or the field--that unquenchable fire, brightly burning, beneath the frost of more than seventy winters--with those sad infirmities of ace--those silver hairs--that one foot in the grave--the necessity of turning from all sublunary things, and making way for Heaven, under the pale rays of life's parting sun--those senatorial adieus--and long, last farewells--those solemn prayers and fervent hopes for the happiness of his a.s.sociates, whom he should meet no more, on this side of the eternal world--those _esto perpetuas_ for his country! How touching these things would be, but for their frequency! What more natural, or more excusable, having enjoyed the luxury of leave-taking, than a desire--after a reasonable interval--to repeat the process, which afforded so much pleasure, and inflicted so little pain!

As to my own comparatively humble relation to the public--_parvis componere magna_--I am of opinion, that I should gain nothing, by affecting to retire, or by pretending to be dead. As to the former, it may be as truly averred of s.e.xtons, as it was, by Mr. Jefferson, of office-holders--"_few die and none resign_;" and, in respect to the latter, I not only despise the idea of such an imposition upon the public, but have some little fear, that the affectation might be too suddenly followed, by the reality, as Dr. Robertson, rightly or wrongly, affirms it to have been, in the case of Charles the Fifth.

I am now fairly committed, for the first number, at least, of another hundred, but for nothing more. I pretend not to look deeper into futurity, than six feet, which is the depth of a well-made grave. When I shall have completed the second hundred, and commenced upon a third, I shall be well nigh ready to exclaim, in the words of Ovid--

"Vixi Annos bis centum: nunc tertia vivitur aetas."

A relation of liberty and equality is decidedly the best, for my reader and for me--I am not constrained to write, nor he to read--if he cannot lie cozily, in a grave of my digging--I do not propose to detain him there--to bury him alive. Dealing with the dead has not hardened my heart.

I am a s.e.xton of very considerable sensibility; and have, occasionally, mingled my tears with the earth, as I shovelled it in.

In less figurative phrase, it is my desire to write, for my amus.e.m.e.nt, till one of us, the reader or myself, gives in, or gives out, and cries _enough_. I have a perfect respect for the old proverb, _de gustibus_, and by no means antic.i.p.ate the pleasure of pleasing every body--

Men' moveat cimex Pantilius? aut cruciet, quod Vellicet absentem Demetrius? aut quod ineptus Fannius Hermogenis laedat conviva Tigelli?

There are some readers, for example, who seem to look upon a cla.s.sical quotation, as a personal affront. I conceive this objection to be scarcely equitable, from those, whose hybrid English, it is quite as hard to bear.

There are mortals--offenders in some sort--whom it is difficult to please, like the culprit who cried _higher_ and _lower_, under the lash, till the Irish drummer's patience was perfectly exhausted, and he exclaimed--"_By Jasus, there's no plasing ye, strike where I will_."

No. C.

The sayings of eminent men, in a dying hour, are eminently worthy of being gathered together--they are often ill.u.s.trative of the characters of the dead, and impressive upon the hearts of the living. Not a few of these parting words are scattered, over the breadth and length of history, and might form a volume--a _Vade Mec.u.m_, for the patriot and the Christian--a casket of imperishable jewels.

As an example of those sayings, to which I refer, nothing can be more apposite, than that of the Chevalier Bayard, while dying upon the field of battle. "He received a wound," says Robertson, "which he immediately perceived to be mortal, and being unable any longer to continue on horseback, he ordered one of his attendants to place him under a tree, with his face toward the enemy; then fixing his eyes on the guard of his sword, which he held up, instead of a cross, he addressed his prayers to G.o.d; and, in this posture, which became his character, both as a soldier and as a Christian, he calmly awaited the approach of death." Bourbon, who led the foremost of the enemy's troops, found him in this situation, and expressed regret and pity, at the sight. "_Pity not me_," cried the high-spirited chevalier, "_I die, as a man of honor ought, in the discharge of my duty; they indeed are objects of pity, who fight against their king, their country, and their oath_."

How significant of the life of that great military phlebotomist, who, from the overthrow of the council of five hundred, in 1799, to his own in 1815, delighted in blood, and in war, were those wild, wandering words of the dying Napoleon--_tete d'armee!_

We have the last words of consciousness, that were uttered, by the younger Adams, when stricken by the hand of death in the capitol--_the last of earth!_ We have also those of his venerable father, who expired, on the anniversary of that day, which he had so essentially contributed to render glorious, so long as the annals of our country shall continue to be preserved. On the morning of that day, the dying patriot, at the age of ninety-one, was awakened, by the customary pealing of bells, and the roar of artillery. Upon being asked, if he recognized the day, he replied--"_it is the glorious Fourth--G.o.d bless the day--G.o.d bless you all_."

On the ninth day of July, 1850, another patriot died, at his post, and in the service of his country, whose parting words will long remain, engraven at full length, upon the broad area of the whole American heart,--I AM PREPARED--I HAVE ENDEAVORED TO DO MY DUTY! Here, in this comprehensive declaration of General Taylor, are embodied all, and more than all, contained in the long cherished words of the departing patriot--ESTO PERPETUA!

"And you brave Cobham, to the latest breath, Shall feel your ruling pa.s.sion, strong in death: Such in those moments, as in all the past; 'O save my country, Heaven!' shall be your last."

The ninth day of July is, with the Swiss, the day of their National Independence. On that memorable day, in 1836, they fought, and won the great battle of Sempach, against Leopold, Duke of Austria, which victory established the liberties of Switzerland.

Upon the anniversary of that very day, just ninety-five years ago, Washington was signally preserved, from the sweeping and indiscriminate carnage of Indian warfare, for those high destinies, which he fulfilled so gloriously. The ninth day of July, 1755, was the day of General Braddock's defeat--the battle, as it is sometimes called, of Fort du Quesne.

Hereafter, it will be noted, as a day of gloom, in our national calendar.

A great--good man has fallen--in a trying hour--in the very midst of his labors--a wiser, a worthier could not have fallen, at a moment of deeper need. From sea to sea--from the mountain tops to the valleys below--from the city and from the wilderness--from the rich man's castle, and from the hunter's cabin--from the silver-haired and from the light-hearted, what an acclaim--what a response, as the voice of one man--has already answered to that dying declaration--I AM PREPARED--I HAVE ENDEAVORED TO DO MY DUTY!

As an entire people, we know it--we feel it--and may G.o.d, in his infinite wisdom and goodness, enable us to profit, by a dispensation, so awfully solemn, and so terribly severe.

The spirit of this great, good man is now by the side of that sainted shade, which once animated the form of the immortal Washington. They are looking down upon the destinies of their country. Who is so dull of hearing, as not to catch the context of those dying words? _I am prepared_--_I have endeavored to do my duty_--AND MAY MY DEATH CEMENT THAT UNION, WHICH I SO CHEERFULLY DEVOTED MY LIFE TO PRESERVE!

It is finished. The career of this good man has closed forever.

Ingrat.i.tude and calumny to him are nothing now. After days and nights of restless agitation, he has obtained one long, last night of sweet repose, reserved for those, who die _prepared, and who have endeavored to do their duty_. He has gone where the wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary are at rest. No summons to attend the agitating councils of the Cabinet shall disturb his profound repose--no sarcastic commentaries upon his honest policy, from the over-heated leaders of the Senate or the House, shall give him additional pain. Party malignity can no longer reach that ear. Even the h.o.a.ry-headed, political Zoilus of the age can scarcely find a motive, base enough, among the recesses of an envenomed heart, for posthumous abuse. In view of this solemnizing event, the raving abolitionist and the Utopian non-resistant may be expected to hold their incomparably senseless tongues, at least till these obsequies be past.

If I do not greatly mistake, the death of General Harrison and the death of General Taylor, so very soon after entering upon the performance of their presidential duties, will not fail to present before the whole American people, for their learning, a first and a second lesson, so perfectly legible, that he, who runs, may read.

It perfectly comports with a respect, sincere and profound, for the memories of these excellent men, solemnly to inquire, if, upon certain well known and universally acknowledged principles, it would not be as wise, and even more wise, to select a statesman, whose conduct in the cabinet had made him preeminently popular, and to place him, with a sword, in his unpractised hand, at the head of the armies of the Republic--than to place, in the Presidential chair, a great soldier, universally and deservedly popular, for his success in war--however strong his common sense--however inflexible his integrity--however pure and devoted his patriotism--unless he also possesses that skill, and knowledge of affairs, which never came to man, by intuition; and which cannot be acquired, but by the laborious training and experience of years? This is a solemn question, for the people; and it may well be put, irrespectively of the public weal, and with a reference, directly, to the happiness, and even to the continued existence, of those, who may be so unfortunate as to become the objects of the popular favor. Is there any doubt, that all the battles, in which General Taylor has ever been engaged, have occasioned less wear and tear of body and mind, than have been produced, by the numberless trials and anxieties of the Presidential relation? It is a popular saying, and, perhaps, not altogether unworthy of general acceptation, that both General Harrison and General Taylor were _killed, not by kindness, but by care_.

It may readily be supposed, that a gallant soldier would rather encounter the brunt of a battle, than such torrents of filth, as have been poured, professionally, upon the chief magistrate of the nation, from week to week, by the great scavenger, and his auxiliaries, at Washington. All this would have been borne, with comparative indifference, by a practised statesman, whose training had been among the contests of the forum, and whose moral cutis had been thickened, by time and exposure.