I sincerely hope, that Daniel H. Pearson, now in prison, under suspicion of having murdered his wife and twin daughters, at Wilmington, in this Commonwealth, in the month ofApril last, may be proved to be an innocent man. For, should he be convicted, he will certainly be sentenced to be hung; and it is quite probable, that Governor Briggs, and his iron-hearted Council may do, as they recently did, in the case of poor Washington Goode, a most unfortunate man, who, unhappily, committed a most infernal murder, of which, after an impartial trial, he was duly convicted. Will it be believed, in this age of improved contrivances, moral and physical, that the Governor and Council of our Commonwealth have actually refused, to rush between the sentence and the execution, and save this egregious scoundrel from the gallows! They have solemnly decided, not to interfere with the operation of that ancient law of this Commonwealth, which decrees, that he, who kills his fellow man, with malice prepense, shall be hanged, by the neck, till he is dead!
It really seems to me, that the time has arrived when Massachusetts should be governed, by some compassionate person, who will prove himself, upon such unpleasant occasions, the murderer’s friend. I am not unapprized of the fact, that there is a strong opposition to these opinions, among the wisest and best men in the community; and that, irrespectively of the operation of thelex talionisupon the murderer, his death is accounted necessary,in terrorem, for the rest of mankind; as Cicero has said—“ut pœna ad paucos, metus ad omnes perveniat”—that the punishment may reach the few, and fear the many. But Cicero was a heathen. There are also some individuals, having very little of that contempt for old wives’ tales, which characterizes those profound thinkers, our interesting fellow-citizens of the Liberty Party, and who still venture, in these enlightened days, to cite the word of God—WHOSO SHEDDETH MAN’S BLOOD, BY MAN SHALL HIS BLOOD BE SHED. In the present condition of society, when there are so very few of us, who do not feel, that we are wise above what is written, this precept, delivered by God Almighty, to Noah, appears exceedingly preposterous, greatly resembling some of thoseblue laws, which were in operation, in the olden time, in a sister state. What was Noah to Jeremy Bentham! Although I am pained to confess the shortcomings of Jeremy; for, though he did much to meliorate the severity of the British penal code, he went not, by any means, to those happy lengths, which we approve, in shielding the unfortunate murderer from the halter.
There was a very amiable, old gentleman in England, who lived, through the times of Charles I., both Cromwells, and Charles II. He was reputed so wise, and learned, and just, and pious, that his judgment was highly prized, by all men. He was esteemed the greatest lawyer and the most upright, in all England; so much so, that, in 1671, he was created Lord Chief Justice of the realm. I desire to reason impartially, upon this subject, and therefore admit, that this great and good man, Sir Matthew Hale, believed death to be a very just punishment, for certain crimes, inferior to murder. Although Sir Matthew’s crude notions are rapidly going out of fashion, it is but fair, to transcribe his words—“When offences grow enormous, frequent, and dangerous to a kingdom or state, destructive or highly pernicious to civil societies, and to the great insecurity and danger of the kingdom or its inhabitants, severe punishment and even death itself is necessary to be annexed to laws, in many cases, by the prudence of lawgivers.” In all candor, we must admit, that Sir Matthew Hale was notoriously the very reverse of a sanguinary Judge. But Sir Matthew’s days were the days of small things. We cannot sufficiently bless the Great Disposer of human affairs, for raising up the foolish, as He has done, in these latter days, and in such great numbers withal, to confound the wise. It is now no longer necessary, as of old, to pursue a particular course of study, to qualify mankind, for the work of legislation, or the practice of law, or physic, or the exposition of the more subtle points of religion, or ethics, or political economy.
This truly is an age of intuition. He, who learns, or half learns, one profession, is, instanter, competent to perform the duties of all. It is a heavenly stream of universal light and power, somewhat analogous to the miraculous gift of tongues. Nothing, in this connection, is more remarkable, than the rapid turgescence of every man’s confidence, in his own abilities, upon the slightest encouragement, from his neighbor. There has been scarcely a blacksmith in New England, since the remarkable and merited success of Elihu Burritt, who, if you ask his opinion of the efficacy of pennyroyal for the stomach-ache, will not, with your permission, of course, prescribe for any acute or chronic complaint, with which you are afflicted. Tailors, in full measure, nine to a man, will readily solve you a point of theology, which would have been fearfullyapproached, by Tillotston or Horne. And, upon this solemn subject of capital punishment, there is scarcely a man-midwife in the land, who is not ready, with his instruments, to deliver the community of all their scruples at once.
This, certainly, is a blessed condition of things, for which we cannot be sufficiently thankful.
That we may do abundant justice to our opponents, I propose to offer, in this place, a quotation from the Edinburgh Review, vol. 86, p. 216. The article is entitled—“What is to be done with our criminals?” The passage runs thus—“Another circumstance, which renders legislation on this subject peculiarly difficult, is the lamentably perverted sentimentality, which is extensively diffusing itself among the people, and which may soon render it problematical, whether any penal code, really calculated to answer its objects, can be devised; a sentimentality, which weeps over the criminal, and has no tears to spare for the miseries he has caused—which transforms the felon into an object of interest and sympathy, and forgets the innocent sufferers from his cruelty or perfidy. So far as pity for the criminal is consistent with a more comprehensive compassion for those he has wronged, and is limited by the necessity of obtaining them redress and providing for the safety of society—so far as it prompts to a desire to see the statute-book cleared of every needless severity, and that no punishments shall be inflicted for punishment’s sake it is laudable.
“But we must, with regret, profess our belief, that it has often far transcended these limits; and has exhibited itself in forms and modes, which, if permitted to dictate the tone of our criminal legislation, would tend to the rapid increase of crime. The people in question belong to a class, always numerous, who are led by the imagination, and not by their reason—by emotion rather than reflection. They see the felon in chains, and they are dissolved in commiseration; they do not stop to realize all the miseries, which have at last madehimmiserable—perhaps, in the present apathy of his conscience, much less miserable than many of those whom he has injured.”
This is from an article, ably written, of some fifty-eight pages, published in 1847. I give it a place here, lest I should be suspected of suppressing all arguments, on the other side.
The idea of hanging a murderer, by form of law, instead of placing him for a few years, in someanxious seat, the treadmillor the state prison, where he might be converted perhaps—cutting him off, in the midst of his days, without time allowed for repentance, is a terrible thing. I am perfectly aware, that it will be replied—this is the very thing which he did for his wretched victim.
We are told, that the highest penalty known to the law is demanded.All that a man hath will he give for his life; and we are opposed, in our humane endeavors, by the scriptural edict referred to already. It is averred to be an all-important object in capital punishment, to operate upon the fears of others,ut metus, as we said before,ad omnes perveniat, which would be less likely to be the case, if the halter were abolished. It is true, that, while there is life, there is hope—hope of pardon; hope even of a natural and less horrible death; a fond, fearful hope of cutting the keeper’s throat, and escaping from thraldom! How truly the poor murderer deserves our compassion!
What a revolting spectacle this hanging is! Here, however, I confess, the answer is complete—nobody, but the functionaries, is suffered to see it. It is much less of an entertainment, than it was, in the days of George Selwyn, who was in the habit of feeing the keeper of Newgate, for due notice of every execution, and a reservation of the best seat, nearest the gallows. It has been said, that hanging has become more unpopular, since it ceased to be a public amusement. It may be so—I rather doubt it.
In former times, there were very few inexpensive public amusements, in Boston, beside the Thursday lectures; and a hanging has always been highly attractive, in town and country. I well remember, not very many years ago, while riding into the city, in my chaise, having been compelled to halt, and remain at rest, for twenty minutes, in Washington, near Pleasant Street, while the immense mass of men, women and children rushed by, on their way to the execution of an Irishman, which took place at the gallows, near the grave-yard, on the Neck. The prisoner was in an open barouche, dressed in a blue coat and gilt buttons, white waistcoat, drab breeches, and white top boots, and his hair was powdered. He was accompanied by Mr. Larrassy, the Catholic priest, and the physician of the prison.
During the afternoon of July 30, 1794, on the morning of which day the great fire occurred in Boston, three pirates, brought home in irons, on board the brig Betsey, CaptainSaunders, belonging to Daniel Sargent, were hung on the Common; and three governors, sitting in their chairs, would not have drawn half the concourse, then and there assembled.
There were no humane and gentle spirits, in those days of old, to speak soft words of comfort in the ears of murderers and midnight assassins. Poor fellows! after they had let out the last drop of blood, in the hearts of their innocent victims, and reduced wives to widowhood, and children to orphanage—after the parricide had plunged the dagger in his father’s heart—after the husband had murdered her, whom he had sworn, under the eye of God, to love and to cherish—after the wife, with the assistance of her paramour, had stealthily administered the poisonous draught to her confiding husband—they were respectively indicted—arraigned—publicly and deliberately tried—abundantly defended—and, when duly convicted at last, they were hanged, forsooth, by their necks, till they were dead!
Merciful God! where were the Marys and the Marthas! Was there no political lawyer, in those days, whom the desire of personal aggrandizement could induce to befriend the poor, afflicted cut-throat, by which parade of philanthropy he might ride into notice, as the patriot of the Anti-capital-punishment party! Was there no tender-hearted doctor, whose leisure hours, neither few nor far between, might have been devoted to the blessed work of relieving the murderer, from the gallows, and himself, from the excruciating misery of nothing to do!
Truly we live in a tragi-comical world. During the late trial of John Brown, the other day, for the murder of Miss Coventry, at Tolland, in regard to which the jury could not agree, a requisition arrived from the Governor of New York, for the prisoner, to answer, for the murder of Mrs. Hammond.—Dr. V. P. Coolidge, who murdered Matthews, at Waterville, committed suicide in prison, a few days since.—A precocious boy, eight years old,has, this month, chopped off the head of his sleeping father, with an axe, in the town of Lisle, N. Y.—Matthew Wood is to be hung in New York, June 22, for the murder of his wife.—Alexander Jones is to be hung, in the same State, on the same day, for arson.—Goode is to be hung here, in a few days.—On the 27th day of the last month, a man, named Newkirk, near Louisville, Kentucky, shot and killed his mother, near one hundred years of age.—On the third day of the present month, Mr. Carroll, near Philadelphia, murdered his lady, by choking and pitching her down stairs.—J. M. Riley is to be hung, June 5, for the murder of W. Willis, in Independence, Tennessee.—Vintner is under sentence of death, for murdering Mrs. Cooper, in Baltimore.—Elder Enos G. Dudley is to be hung, in New Hampshire, May 23, for the murder of his wife.—The wife of John Freedly, of Philadelphia, is now in jail, for helping her husband, to murder his first wife.—Pearson is now in prison, under charge of murdering his wife and twin daughters, at Wilmington, in this Commonwealth, in April last.—Mrs. McAndrew has been convicted of murder, for killing her sister-in-law, in Madison, Mississippi.—Elisha N. Baldwin is to be hung, June 5, for the murder of his brother-in-law, Victor Matthews, at St. Louis.—The girl, Blaisdell, is to be hung, in New Hampshire, Aug. 30, for poisoning a little boy, two and a half years old. She was on trial for this act only. She had previously poisoned the child’s grandmother, her friend and protectress, and subsequently attempted to poison both its parents. This “misguided young lady” was engaged to be married, and wanting cash, for an outfit, had forged the note of the child’s father, for four hundred dollars.
Of Wood’s case I know little more, than that he murdered his wife. Surely he is to be pitied, poor fellow. The case of Elder Enos is deeply interesting. This worthy Elder took his partner out, to give her a sleigh-ride, in life and health, and brought home her lifeless body. She had knocked her head against a tree—such, indeed, was the opinion, expressed by Elder Enos. He was also of opinion that it was not good for an Elder to be alone, for one minute; and he exhibited rather too much haste, perhaps, in taking to himself another partner. The jury were unanimously of opinion, that Elder Enos was mistaken, and that Mrs. Dudley came to her death, by the hands of Elder Enos himself. The Elder and the jury differed in opinion; and therefore, forsooth, Elder Enos must be hanged by the neck till heis dead! How much better to change this punishment, for perpetual imprisonment—and that, after a few years of good behavior, upon a petition, subscribed by hundreds, who care not the value of a sixpence, whether Elder Enos is in the State Prison, or out of it, for a pardon. Then the church will again be blessed with his services, as a ruling Elder; and the present Mrs. Dudley may herself be favored with a sleigh-ride, at some future day.
The case of the “misguided” Miss Blaisdell is truly affecting. It is quite inconceivable how the people of New Hampshire can have the heart to hang such an interesting creature by the neck, till she is dead. I am of opinion, that the remarks, with which Judge Eastman prefaced his sentence, must have hurt Miss Blaisdell’s feelings. It seems that she only made use of the little innocent, as æronauts employ a pet balloon, to try the wind. She wished to ascertain, if her poison was first proof, before she tried it, upon the parents. Although it had worked to perfection, upon the old lady, Miss Blaisdell, who appears to have acted with consummate prudence, was not quite satisfied of its efficacy, upon more vigorous constitutions. It is quite surprising, that Judge Eastman should have talked so unkindly to Miss Blaisdell, in open court—“An experiment is to be made; the efficiency of your poison is to be tried; and the helpless innocent boy is selected. He is left in your care, with all the confidence of a mother. He plays at your feet, he prattles at your side. You take him up, and give him the fatal morphia; and, when you see him sicken and dizzy, and stretching out his little arms to his mother, and trying to walk, your heart relents not. May God soften it.” What sort of a Judge is this, to harrow up the delicate feelings of “a misguided young lady” after this fashion!
It has been proposed, by a medical gentleman, whose philanthropy has assumed the appearance of a violent eruption, breaking out in every direction, that, if this abominable punishment, this destruction of life, which God Almighty has prescribed, in the case of murder, must continue to be inflicted, the “misguided young ladies” and “unfortunate men,” who commit that crime, shall be executed under the influence of ether. This may be considered the happiest suggestion of the age. A tract may be expected from the pen of this gentleman, ere long, entitled “Crumbs of comfort for Cut-throats, or Hanging made easy.” Jeremy Bentham gave his body to be dissected, for thegood of mankind. Oh, that this worthy doctor, who has struck out this happy thought of hanging, under the influence of ether, wouldverify the suggestion!
There are some individuals, who had rather be hanged, than talked to, in such an unfeeling manner, as Judge Eastman talked to the unfortunate and misguided Miss Blaisdell: it has therefore been decided to improve, upon the suggestion of hanging murderers, under the influence of ether; and we propose to apply for an act, authorizing the sponge to be applied to the nostrils of the condemned, by the clerkex officio, during the time, when the judge is pronouncing the sentence. The time of the murderer is short, and there are many little comforts, and even delicacies, which would greatly tend to soften the rigor of his imprisonment. We have it, upon the testimony of more than one experienced keeper of Newgate, that, with some few exceptions, the appetite of the misguided, who are about to be hanged, is remarkably good.
I fully comprehend the objections, which will be made to the use of ether, and granting such other little indulgences, to those, who are about to be sentenced, or are already condemned to be hanged. The Ciceronian argument,—ut metus ad omnes perveniat, will be neutralized. How many, it will be said, are now upon the earth, without God in this world, without the least particle of religious sensibility, disappointed men, desperate, degraded, men of utterly broken hopes, broken hearts, and broken fortunes, to whom nothing would be more acceptable, than an easy transition from this wide-awake world of pain and sadness to that region of negative happiness, which they anticipate, in their fancied state of endless oblivion beyond. They may be, nevertheless, disturbed, in some small degree,in articulo, by that indestructible doubt, which hangs over the mind, even the mind of the most sceptical, and deepens and darkens as death draws near,—suppose there should be a God!—what then! They are therefore unwilling to cut their own throats, however willing to cut the throats of other people. But, if the State will take the responsibility, and furnish the ether, there are not a few, who would very complacently embrace the opportunity.
That fear, which it is desirable to keep before the eyes of all men, say our opponents, is surely not the fear of the easiest of all imaginable deaths—the fear of meeting, not the King of terrors, but the very thing, which all men pray for, a placidexit from a world of care—a welcome spirit—anetherialdeliverer. On the contrary, we wish, say they, to hold up to the world the fear of a terrible, as well as a shameful death: and we desire to give a certainty to this fear, which we cannot do, while the frequent exercise of the power of commutation and of pardon teaches that portion of our race, which is fatally bent upon mischief, that the gibbet is nothing but a bugbear; and that, let them commit as many murders, as they will, there is not one chance, in fifty, of their coming to the gallows, at last.
It is not easy to answer this argument, upon the spur of the moment; and it has been referred to a committee of our society, with instructions to prepare a reply, in season for the next execution.
We have the satisfaction of knowing, that no efforts have been spared by us, to save Washington Goode, one of the most interesting of murderers, from the gallows. We have endeavored to get up an excitement in the community, by posting placards, in numerous places—“A MAN TO BE HANGED!” By this we intended to put an execution upon the footing of a puppet-show or play, and thereby to excite the public indignation. But, most unfortunately, there is too much common sense among the people of Boston, and too little enthusiasm altogether, for the successful advancement of our philanthropic views. However, importunity, if we faint not, will certainly prevail. The right of petition is ours. Let us follow, in the steps of Amy Darden and William Vans. The Legislature, at their last session, indefinitely postponed the consideration of the subject of the abolition of capital punishment. The Legislature is made of flesh and blood, and must finally give way, as a matter of course.
It cannot be denied, that gentlemen make use, occasionally, of strange arguments, while opposing our efforts, in favor of thosemisguidedpersons, whounfortunatelycommit rape, treason, arson, murder, &c. A few years since, when a bill was before our House of Representatives, for the abolition of capital punishment, in the case of rape, while it was proposed to retain it in the case of highway robbery—“Let us go home, Mr. Speaker,” exclaimed an audacious orator, “and tell our wives and our daughters, that we set a higher value upon our purses, than upon the security of their persons, from brutal violation.”
To my anonymous correspondent who inquires, through the medium of the post-office, in what respect my “dealings with extortioners” can fairly be entitled “dealings with the dead,” I reply, because they arealiveunto sin, anddeadunto righteousness.
In Lord Bacon’s Life of Henry VII., London edition of 1824, vol. v. 51, the Lord Chancellor Morton says to the Parliament—“His Grace prays you to take into consideration matters of trade, as also the manufactures of the kingdom, and to repress the bastard and barren employment of moneys to usury and unlawful exchanges, that they may be, as their natural use is, turned upon commerce, and lawful, and royal trading.” Henry VIII. came to the throne, in 1509, and the rate of interest was fixed, in 1545, the 37th of that king’s reign; and that rate was ten per cent. per annum. Before that time, no Christian was allowed to take interest for money; and the Jews had the matter of usury, all to themselves. It was shown, before Parliament, that, in 1260, two shillings was the rate, demanded and given, for the loan of twenty shillings for one week; and Stowe states, that the people were so highly excited against the Jews, on account of their extortion, as to massacre seven hundred of them, in London, in 1262. In 1274, a law was passed, compelling every Jew, lending money on interest, to wear a plate on his breast, signifying, that he was an usurer, or to quit the realm. What an exhibition we should have, in State Street, and the alleys, if this edict should be revived, against those, whose uncircumcision would avail them nothing, to disprove their Levitical propinquity.
In 1277, two hundred and sixty-seven Jews were hung, in London, for clipping the coin. Their usurious practices, at last, so highly exasperated the nation, that, according to Rapin, Lond., 1757, vol. iii. 246, 15,000 were banished the realm, in 1290. They had obtained great privileges from King Edward; but, says Rapin, “lost all these advantages, by not curbing their insatiable greediness of enriching themselves, by unlawful means, as usury, &c.” I find Sir Edward Coke denies the fact of their banishment. His version is this: “They were not banished, but their usury was banished, by the statute,enacted in this parliament, and that was the cause they banished themselves into foreign countries, where they might live by their usury; and because they were odious to the nation, that they might pass out of the realm in safety, they made a petition to the king, that a certain day might be prefixed for them to depart the realm, that they might have the king’s writ to his sheriffs, for their safe conduct.” 2d Institute, 507. Hume, nevertheless, Oxford ed., ii. 210, reaffirms the statement of Rapin.
Hume says, ibid., the practice of usury was afterwards carried on, “by the English themselves upon their fellow-citizens, or by the Lombards and other foreigners;” and he adds—“It is very much to be questioned, whether the dealings of these new usurers were equally open and unexceptionable with the old.” Perhaps it may be questioned, whether the community would not fare better, at the present day, if some of the circumcised could be imported hither, from the Jews’ Quarter, in Istampol. The following remark of Hume, on the same page, is of importance to the political economist:—“But as the canon law, seconded by the municipal, permitted no Christian to take interest, all transactions of this kind must, after the banishment of the Jews, have become more secret and clandestine, and the lender, of consequence, be paid both for the use of his money,and for the infamy and danger, which he incurred by lending it.” This is not from Aristotle, nor one of the school divines, but from David Hume, whose liberality is sufficiently notorious.
The English usurers, in those days, were more excusable, because they were not permitted to takeany interest whatever, for the loan of money, while money lenders here have not the same excuse for being usurers, as they may lawfully take six per cent. per annum, or one per cent. above the legal rate of Great Britain, as established in 1714, the 13th of Queen Anne, and which has remained unaltered, to the present day.
I have heard of a fellow, who, upon being asked, after conviction of larceny, if he did not regret his conduct, replied, with an air of great sincerity, that he certainly did—for, instead of stealing a few pieces of gold, as he had done, he might easily have stolen enough, to bribe the court and jury. The Jews were wiser in their day and generation—they never suffered themselves to be placed in a predicament, which might cause them to suffer from any such regret. For many years, theresubsisted a delightful understanding, between them and Edward I. Longshanks. Longshanks granted them many and various indulgencies; by his permission, they even had a synagogue in London. On their part, they were willing to relieve the necessities of Longshanks. In short, Longshanks was, vicariously, and upon the principle, thatqui facit per alium facit per se, the very Apollyon of all usurers. He countenanced the extortion of the Jews, and shared the spoils. Sir Edward Coke, in his Second Institute, 506, states that, in seven years, covering portions of the reigns of Henry III. and Edward I., the Crown had four hundred and twenty thousand pounds, fifteen shillings, and four pence from the Jews.
After treating of the advantages and disadvantages of taking interest, on money loans, and arriving at the sensible conclusion, that it is impossible for society to get along without them, Lord Bacon remarks, ii. 354—“Let usury (the term for interest in those days) in general be reduced to five in the hundred, and let the rate be proclaimed to be free and current: and let the State shut itself out to take any penalty for the same. This will preserve borrowing from any stop or dryness. This will ease infinite borrowers in the country, &c.” Lord Bacon was therefore in favor of an universal rate of interest, established by law. Of usury, in the opprobrious sense of the word, the taking of excessive and unlawful interest, this great man speaks in his tract on Riches, ii. 340, in no very complimentary terms—“Usury is the certainest means of gain, though one of the worst, as that whereby a man doth eat his bread, insudore vultus alieni,” by the sweat of another’s brow.
I have heard it said of a rural governor of Massachusetts, now sleeping with his fathers, that, although addicted to the practice of virtual usury, he scrupulously abstained from lending money, at any rate, beyond six per cent. It became a by-word, in his district, however, when a farmer became straitened for a little money, and was inquiring among his neighbors—that it was quite likely his excellency might have a yoke of cattle, that he did not care to winter over! The cattle were sold at a high price to the needy man, who sold them forthwith, at auction, or otherwise, for a small one, giving the worthy governor his note in payment, and a mortgage on his farm, if required. The note was payable in six months, or a year, with “lawful interest.”
This moral manœuvre appears to have been of ancient origin.There is the draught of a law for the punishment of it, in Lord Bacon’s works, iv. 285. The preamble runs thus—“Whereas it is an usual practice, to the undoing and overthrowing of many young gentlemen and others, that where men are in necessity, and desire to borrow money, they are answered, that money cannot be had, but that they may have commodities sold unto them, upon credit, whereof they may make money, as they can: in which course it ever comes to pass, not only that such commodities are bought at extreme high rates, and sold again far under foot, at a double loss; but also that the party which is to borrow, is wrapt in bonds and counter bonds; so that upon a little money, which he receiveth, he is subject to penalties and suits of great value.” Then follows the statute, taking away legal remedy, and punishing the broker or procurer with six months’ imprisonment, and the pillory.
It has been commonly understood, that, before the act of 37th Henry VIII., though Christians were forbidden to take any interest for money, the Jews were not restrained; yet Lord Chief Baron Hale, Hard. 420, says that Jewish usury was forbidden, at common law, being forty per cent. and upwards, per annum, but no other. Lea, C. J., Palm. 292, says, that the usury, condemned at common law, was the “biting usury” of the Jews. To comprehend this expression, it must be understood, that, among the Jews, of old, there were two Hebrew words, signifyingusury,terebit, which meant simplyincrease, andNeshec, which meantdevouringorbiting usury. Of this distinction, an account may be found in Calmet, vol. iii. Fragment 46.
When the statute of James I. was passed, in 1623, reducing the rate from ten to eight per cent., Orde says, in his Law of Usury, p. 5, that the Bishops “would not, at first, agree to it, for the sole reason, that there was no clause that disgraced usury, as in former statutes; and then the clause at the end of that statute was added, for their satisfaction.” Usury was punished more severely in France, than in England. For the first offence, the usurer “was punished by a public and ignominious acknowledgment of his offence, and was banished. His second offence was capital, and he was hanged.” Coke’s 3d Institute, 152.
Our society, whose object is nothing less than the entire and unqualified abolition of capital punishment, have derived the greatest advantage, from an ample recognition of the rights of women—not only by a free participation of counsel with the softer sex, after the example of certain other societies, the value of whose services can never be understood, by the present generation; but by assigning equally to both sexes, all offices of honor and trust. We have adhered to this principle, with the most perfect impartiality, in the composition of our committees. Thus, our committee, for visiting the condemned, consists of the Rev. Mr. Puzzlepot, and the five Miss Frizzles—the committee on public excitement, prior to an execution, consists of Dr. Omnibus, Squire Farrago, Mrs. Pickett, and her daughters, the Misses Patience and Hopestill Pickett. In like proportion, all our committees are constructed.
We think proper, in this public manner, to express our warmest acknowledgments to Mrs. Negoose, Madam Moody, and Squire Bodkin, for their able report, on the iniquity of presumptive or circumstantial evidence. The notes, appended to this report, are invaluable—their authorship cannot be mistaken—every individual, acquainted with the peculiar style of the gifted author, will recognize the powerful hand of the justly celebrated Mrs. Folsom.
This committee are of opinion, that, under the show or pretence of punishing murder, our legal tribunals are constantly committing it. Theypresume, forsooth, that is, they guess, that the prisoner is guilty, and therefore take the awful responsibility of hanging him by the neck, till he is dead! This, says Mrs. Negoose, ispresumptionwith a vengeance.
The committee refer to the statement of Sir Matthew Hale, as cited by Blackstone, iv. 358-9, that he had known two cases, in which, after the accused had been hung for murder, the individuals, supposed to have been murdered, had re-appeared, in full life. Upon this, the committee reason, with irresistible force and acumen. How many judges, say they, there have been, since the world began, we know not.Two cases, in which innocent persons were executed, on presumptive or circumstantial evidence, are proved to have occurred, within the knowledge ofone judge. It is reasonable, say the committee, to conclude that, at a moderate calculation,three casesmore, remaining undiscovered, occurred within the jurisdiction of thatone judge. Now, we have nothing to do, but to ascertain the number of judges, who have ever existed, and then multiply that number byfive; and thus, say the committee, “by the unerring force of figures, which cannot lie, we have the sanguinary result.” “Talk not of ermine,” exclaims Mrs. Negoose, the chairwoman of the committee, in a gush of scorching eloquence, “these blood-stained judges, gory with the blood of the innocents, let them be stripped of their ermine, and robed with the skins of wild cats and hyenas.”
It has excited the highest indignation in the society, that Sir Matthew Hale, who has ever borne the name of a humane and upright judge, should have continued to decide questions, involving life, upon circumstantial evidence, after the cases, referred to above, had come to his knowledge, and in the very same manner, that he had been accustomed to decide them, in earlier times. Mrs. Moody openly expresses her opinion, that he was no better than he should be; and Squire Bodkin only wishes, that he could have had half an hour’s conversation with Sir Matthew. The only effect, produced upon the mind of Sir Matthew Hale, by these painful discoveries, seems to have been to call forth an expression of opinion, that circumstantial evidence should be received with caution; and that, in trials for murder and manslaughter, no person should ever be convicted, till the body of the individual, alleged to have been killed, had been discovered.
An opinion, often repeated, as having been expressed by Chief Justice Dana, after the conviction of Fairbanks, for the murder of Miss Fales, at Dedham, in 1801, has frequently been a topic of conversation, among the members of our society, and Mrs. Negoose is satisfied, that if Chief Justice Dana expressed any such opinion, he must have been out of his head. Fairbanks was convicted and hung, on circumstantial evidence entirely. The concatenation, or linking together, of circumstances, in that remarkable case, was very extraordinary.
The sympathy for Fairbanks was very great, and began to exhibit itself, almost as soon, as the spirit had fled from the body of his victim. After his condemnation, his zealous admirers, for such they seemed to be, assisted him successfully, to break jail.He was retaken, on the borders of Lake Champlain; and, as the jail in Boston was of better proof, than the jail in Dedham, he was committed to the former. The genealogy of Fairbanks was shrouded in a sort of mystery. Ladies, of respectable standing, visited him, in his cell, and one, in particular, of some literary celebrity, in our days of small things, was supposed to have supplied him with a knife, of rather expensive workmanship, for the purpose of self-destruction. This knife was found upon his person, after her visits. There was no positive proof, to establish the guilt of Jason Fairbanks—not a tittle. Yet a merciless jury found him guilty, by a process, which our society considers mereguess work,—and after the execution, Judge Dana is reported to have said, that he believed Fairbanks murdered Miss Fales, more certainly, from the circumstantial evidence, produced at the trial, than if he had had the testimony of his own eyesight, at a short distance, in a dusky day. What sort of a Judge is this? cried Mrs. Negoose—sure enough, exclaimed Madam Moody.
I have no objection to give our opponents all the advantage, which they can possibly derive from a full and fair exposition of their arguments. When a witness, for example, swears, directly and unhesitatingly, that he saw the prisoner inflict a wound, with a deadly weapon, upon another person—that he saw that other person instantly fall, and die shortly after, this ispositive evidence of something. Yet the act may be murder, or it may be manslaughter, or it may be justifiable homicide. Murder consists of three parts, the malice prepense, the blow inflicted or means employed, and the death ensuing, within a time prescribed by law. There can be nomurder, if either of these parts be absent. Now, it is contended, by such as deem it lawful and right to hang the unfortunate, misguided, upon circumstantial evidence, that, howeverpositivethe evidence may be, upon the two latter points—the act done and the death ensuing—it is necessary, from the nature of things, in every case to depend oncircumstantialevidence, to prove the malice prepense.
One or more of the senses enable the witness to swear positively to either of the two latter points. But the malice prepense must beinferred, from words, deeds, andcircumstances. Upon this Dr. Omnibus sensibly observes, that this very fact proves the impropriety of hanging upon all occasions: and Mrs. Negoose remarks, that she is of the same opinion, on the authority of that ancient dictum, the authorship of which seems to be equallyascribed to Solomon and Sancho Panza—that “circumstancesalter cases.”
It is really surprising, that so grave and sensible a man, as Mr. Simon Greenleaf, should have made the remark, which appears on page 74, vol. i., of his Treatise on Evidence,—“In both cases(civil and criminal)a verdict may well be founded on circumstances alone; and these often lead to a conclusion far more satisfactory than direct evidence may produce.” Mr. Greenleaf refers, for illustration of this opinion, to the case of Bodine, N. Y. Legal Observer, vol. iv. p. 89, et seq. Lawyer Bodkin’s work on evidence will, doubtless, correct this error.
Let us reason impartially. Compunction, in a dying hour, we cannot deny it, has established the fact, that innocent persons have been hung, now and then, uponpositiveevidence, the false witness confessing himself the murderer,in articulo mortis. Well, says Madam Moody, here is fresh proof of the great sinfulness of hanging.—To be sure.—But let our opponents have fair play. A. is found dead, evidently stabbed.—B. is seized upon suspicion.—C. heard B. declare he would have the heart’s blood of A.—D. saw B. with a knife in his hand, ten minutes before the murder.—E. finds a knife bloody, near the place of the murder.—F. recognizes the knife as his own, and by him lent to B. just before the time of the murder.—G. says the size of the wound is precisely the size of the knife.—H. says, that, when he arrested B. his hand and shirt-sleeve were bloody.—I. says he heard B. say, just after the murder, “I’ve got my revenge.” In the case supposed, C. D. E. F. G. H. and I. swearpositively, each one to a particular fact. Here are seven witnesses. Here then is a chain of evidence, whereof each witness furnishes a single link. It is the opinion of Peake, Chitty, Starkie, Greenleaf, and all other writers, on the law of evidence, that this chain is often as strong or stronger, than it would be, were it fabricated by one man only. I will not deny, that Dr. Omnibus and Mrs. Negoose think differently.
An extraordinary example of circumstantial evidence, in a capital case, was related by Lord Eldon. A man was on trial for murder. The evidence against him, which was wholly circumstantial, was so very insufficient, that the prisoner, confident of acquittal, assumed an air of easy nonchalance. The officer, who had arrested the prisoner, and conducted the customary search, had exhibited, in court, the articles, found upon hisperson, at the time of his capture—a few articles of little value, and, among them, a fragment of a newspaper. The surgeon, who examined the body of the victim after death, produced the ball, which he had extracted from the wound, precisely as he found it. Enveloped in a wrapper of some sort, and with the blood dried upon it, it presented an almost unintelligible mass.
A basin of warm water was brought into court—the mass was softened—the wrapper carefully detached—it was the fragment of a newspaper, and fitted like the counterpart of an indenture to the fragment, taken by the officer from the prisoner’s person. He was hung. Dear me! says Mrs. Negoose, what a pity!
I regret to learn from the late London papers, that Mr. Horace Twiss is recently dead. No one, I am confident, will fail to join in this feeling of regret, who has enjoyed, as I have done, the perusal of his truly delightful work, “The Public and Private Life of Lord Chancellor Eldon.”
A pleasant anecdote is related by Nichols, of Dean Swift, who, when his servant apologized for not cleaning his boots, on a journey, because they would soon be dirty again, directed him to get the horses in readiness immediately: and, upon the fellow’s remonstrance, that he had not eaten his breakfast, replied, that it was of little consequence, as he would soon be hungry again.
The American Irish are, undoubtedly, a very sweet people, when they are thoroughly washed; but they rarely think of washing themselves or their children—they are so soon dirty again. Hydrophobia is an Irish epidemic; and there are also some of the Native American Party, I fear, who have not been into water, since the Declaration of Independence.
When Peter Fagan applied to me, a few days since, to read for him a letter, from his cousin, Eyley Murphy, of Ballyconnel, in the county of Cavan, he was so insufferably filthy, that I gave him a quarter of a dollar, to be spent in sacrificing to the graces, that is, in taking a warm bath. While he was absent, I examined the letter; and found it to be a very interesting account ofthe execution of Fagan’s fourth cousin, Rory Mullowny, for murder. As I thought its publication might be of importance here, at this time, I obtained Mr. Fagan’s permission to place it before the community. I was, at first, disposed to correct the spelling, and give it rather more of an English complexion, but have, upon the whole, decided to publish it, as it is. Fagan tells me, that Eyley Murphy was the daughter of the hedge school-master, at Ballyconnel. The letter is written in a fair hand, and directed, “For Misther Pether Fagan, these—Boston, Capital of Amerriky.”
Ballyconnel, Cavan, March 19, 1849.—Fagan dear, bad news and thrue for ye it is; Rory Mullowny, your own blood cousin o’ the forth remove, by the mither’s side, was pit up yestreen for the murther o’ Tooley O’Shane, and there was niver a felly o’ all that’s been hung in Ballyconnel, with sich respictable attindance. The widdy Magee pit the divle into both the poor fellies, no more nor a waak arter the birril o’ her forth husband, and so she kipt a flarting wid the one and the tither, till she flarted um out o’ the warld this away.
Poor Rory—what a swaat boy he was—jist sax foot and fore inches in his brogans—och, my God! it’s myself that wush’d I’d bin pit up along wid im. But he’s claan gane now; whin we was childer togither how we used to gather the pirriwincles by the brook, and chase the fire-flaughts in the pasture o’ a June evening—och my God—Pether—Pether—but there’s no use waaping anyhow, so I’ll be telling ye the shtory.
Poor Mullowny was found guilty o’ what they call sircumstanshul ividunce. A spaach it was he made whin the cussid sherry was pittin im up, and he swore he died more innisent o’ the crime nor the mither o’ God, and he called God to witness what he sed. Himself it was that was rather hasty onyhow, in makin a confission to father Brian Bogle o’ this very murther, and some other small mathers, a rape or too, may be, and sich like.
But the socyety that’s agin pittin a body up—God bliss their sowls—they perswaded im to spaak at the gallows, and till the paaple how it was, and they rit im a spaach, in wich he toult ’em a body’s last wull was the only wull that was gud in the law, and sure it was a poor body’s last words and dyin spaach that was gud anunder the tree. And whin he had dun, the cursed divelsbird o’ a sherry, wid a hart as coult as bog mud, swung im off in a minnit. It was himsilf was spaakin; and Ijist pit my apurn to my face to wipe aff the saut wather, whin I heerd a shreek and a howl, louder and wilder nor ten thousand keenas at a birril, whin I lookd up and saw poor, daar Mullowny a swingin in the air. The like o’ that yersilf niver saad, Pether Fagan, nor the mither that brot ye into this world o’ care and confushon. The wimmin scraamed loud enuff to friten the little childer claan away in Ballymahon. The min swung their shillalies owr their heds. Father Brian Bogle was crossing himself, and a stone hurld by Jimmy Fitzgerald at the infarnal sherry, knocked father Bogle’s taath down his throte. By the same token ye see, they was pit in for im the dee afore at considerable cost. Father Brian fell back, head foremost, ye see, on top o’ Molly Mahoney’s little bit table o’ refrishments, and twas the wark o’ a minnit.
Molly, who jist afore was wall to do in the warld, was a brukken marchant, immadiately, all claan gane; tumblers o’ whiskey, cakes, custards, and cookies was all knocked in the shape o’ bit o’chalk; and all the pennies she had took since bick o’dee—for more nor ten thousan was on the spot to see poor Rory pit up afore dee—was scattered and clutched up, by hunders o’ little childher that was playing prop and chuck farding anunder the gallus. A jug o’ buthermilk was capsized ower the widdy Magee’s bran new dress, that was made for the hanging precesely, and ruinated it pretty considerably intirely. It was not myself that pittied the hussy—she to be there, as naar to the gallus as she could squaze hersel, and the very cause o’ the dith o’ poor Rory, and Tooley O’Shane into the bargin.
Och, Fagan, niver ye see was the likes o’ it in Ballyconnel afore. Whin the sherry was for cuttin the alter and littin the corps o’ poor, daar Mullowny down into the shell, that was all riddy below, the Mullownys swore they would have the body, for a riglar birrill, and a wake, and a keena, ye see—and the O’Shanes swore it should go to the risirictioners, to be made into a menotomy. Then for it, it was—sich a cursin and swaring and howling—sich a swingin o’ shillalies, sich a crackin o’ pates, sich callin upon Jasus and the blissid mither, sich a scramin o’ wimmin and childer, niver was herd afore in county Cavan. The sherry he gat on Molly Mahoney’s little table to read the ryot act, and whin he opunt his mouth Phelim Macfarland flung a rottun egg atwaan his taath preceesly, and brot im to a spaady conclushon.
Poor Rory’s vinrable oult mither was carried aff and murthered in the side o’ the hid, wid a stone mint for the sherry, o’ which she recovered diricly. They tried to kaap her quiet in her shanty, but she took on so gravous, that they let her attind the pittin up—poor ould sowl—she sed she had attinded the last moments o’ her good man, and both her childer, Patrick and Pether, whin they wur pit up the same way, and it was not the like o’ her to hart poor daar Rory’s faalings onyhow.
Dolly Macabe was saved by a myrrikle, ye see. She took out wid her her siven childer, leading little Phelim by the hand, wid her babe at the brist, and hersilf in a familiar way into the bargin. She was knocked ower and trampled under the faat o’ the fellies as was yellin and fitin, and stunted out o’ her raason intirely. Only jist think o’ it, Fagan daar, when she kim too, not one o’ the childher was hart in the laast, nor Dolly naather; and the first thing she asked wos, whose was the two swaat babes, lyin together, and they toult her they war her own. Ye see, Patrick O’Shane and some more trod upon Dolly Macabe and hastened matters a leetle, and she was delivered o’ twins, widout knowin anything about it. They gied her a glass o’ whiskey, and O’Flaherty, the baker, pit the swaat babes in his brid cart, and Dolly, who priffird walking, wint home as well as could be expected. All the Macabes have ixcillint constitushons, and make no moor o’ sich thrifles, than nothing at all.
But its for tellin the petiklars I’m writin. As I toult ye, twas about the widdy Magee. Rory toult more nor fifty, for a waak afore, that he’d have Tooley’s hart’s blood. When Tooley was found, it was ston ded he was, and his hed was bate all to paces, and Rory was o’ tap o’ im houltin im by the throte, wid a shillaly nigh by, covered wid blud, and the blood was rinnin out o’ his eyes, and nose, and aars. Lawyer McGammon definded Rory, the poor unfortunit crathur, and he frankly admitted, that it was onlocky for him to be found jist that away, but he toult the jewry, that as he hoped for salvashun, Rory was an innysunt man, and he belaaved the foreman as guilty nor he. He brot half Ballyconnel to prove that Tooley was liable to blaad fraly at the nose, and was apt to have a rush o’ blood to the hed, and he compared Rory to the good Summeritan, and sed he was there by the marest axidunt in thewarld, and was tryin to stop the flow o’ blud by houltin Tooley by the throte.
As to the bloody 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 circumstanshul 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 pronounce Rory Mullowny an unfortunate man, and his case another example of the abominable practice of hanging innocent persons, upon circumstantial evidence.
Poor Eli—as the old man was familiarly called by the Boston sextons 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 flewinto a terrible passion, 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 passed 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 entitled 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 veryreadable 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 shores 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 shore,” 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 shore. 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 assembled—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 glasses, 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 God, 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 havebeen 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 scraped, 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.
“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 thoseoboli, 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 God 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 noble 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 institutions, 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! Hewould 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, unobtrusive 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, unobtrusive whisperings of his noble spirit—“A portion of that, which God 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 God, 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 multitude 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 alwayswithout 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”
ofad captandumbenefactions. Today, that generous benefactor, Mr. Pipkin, endows some village Lyceum, which is destined forever to glory in the euphonious name of Pipkin. Tomorrow our illustrious 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 surpasses their powers of munificence, are always in, for a pen’worth of this species of titillating 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, entitledThree 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 wasMayor 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 illustration 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.