In April, 1813, about a year after poor Colvin was murdered, by the Boorns, according to the indictment—there came to the house of a Mr. Polhamus, in Dover, Monmouth County, New Jersey, a wandering man—he was a stranger, and Mr. Polhamus was a good man, and took him in—he was hungry, and he fed him—he was ragged, if not absolutely naked, and he clothed him. He was a man of mean appearance, rapid utterance, and disordered understanding. He was harmless withal, perfectly tractable, capable of light service, and grateful for kindness. In the family of Mr. Polhamus, this poor vagrant had continued,to the very time, when the Boorns were convicted of the murder of Russell Colvin.
Not far from Dover, lies the town of Shrewsbury, near Long Branch, the Baiæ of the Philadelphians. There dwelt in Shrewsbury, in the year 1819, Mr. Taber Chadwick, the brother-in-law of Mr. Polhamus, and familiarly acquainted with the domestic affairs of his relative. He also was a man of kind and generous feelings. He had accidentally read in the New York Evening Post, a paper which he rarely met with, the account of the conviction of the Boorns, for the murder of Colvin. The notice in the Rutland Herald, he had never seen. He was firmly persuaded, that the stranger, who arrived at the house of his brother-in-law, some six years before, was Russell Colvin. What reasons he had, for this conviction, the reader will gather from a perusal of the following letter, which appeared in the Evening Post:—
“Shrewsbury, Monmouth, N. J., Dec. 6, 1819. To the Editor of the New York Evening Post: Sir. Having read in your paper of Nov. 26th last, of the conviction and sentence of Stephen and Jesse Boorn, of Manchester, Vermont, charged with the murder of Russell Colvin, and from facts, which have fallen within my own knowledge, and not knowing what facts may have been disclosed on their trial, and wishing to serve the cause of humanity, I would state as follows, which may be relied on. Some years past, (I think between five and ten), a stranger made his appearance in this county: and, upon being inquired of, said his name was Russell Colvin, (which name he answers to at this time)—that he came from Manchester, Vermont—he appeared to be in a state of mental derangement; but, at times, gave considerable account of himself—his connections, acquaintances, &c.—He mentions the names of Clarissa, Rufus, &c.—Among his relations he has mentioned the Boorns above—Jesse as Judge (I think,) &c., &c. He is a man rather small in stature—round favored—speaks very fast, and has two scars on his head, and appears to be between thirty and forty years of age. There is no doubt but that he came from Vermont, from the mention that he has made of a number of places and persons there, and probably is the person supposed to have been murdered. He is now living here, but so completely insane, as not to be able to give a satisfactory account of himself, but the connections of Russell Colvin might know, byseeing him. If you think proper to give this a place in your columns, it may possibly lead to a discovery, that may save the lives of innocent men—if so, you will have the pleasure, as well as myself, of having served the cause of humanity. If you give this an insertion in your paper, pray be so good as to request the different editors of newspapers, in New York, and Vermont, to give it a place in theirs. I am, sir, with sentiments of regard, yours, &c.,
Taber Chadwick.”
To render a certain part of this letter intelligible to the reader, it is proper to state, that Clarissa and Rufus, as it appeared from the evidence, were the names of Colvin’s children; and that “the judge” was a title, or sobriquet, frequently bestowed upon Jesse, by Stephen.
Upon the arrival of a printed copy of Mr. Chadwick’s letter, in Manchester, it produced little or no effect. Very few of the inhabitants gave any credit to the story; and it might have been very reasonably supposed, that St. Thomas had begotten a large majority of the population. Squire Raymond was certain of Stephen’s guilt; and to differ from Squire Raymond, was probably accounted, by the villagers, as one of the presumptuous sins. Besides, if a doubt of their guilt had existed, would not those most learned judges have given the prisoners the full advantage of that doubt! How little the good people of Manchester imagined, that, upon the trial of the Boorns, the well established rules of evidence had been outrageously violated, and a great fundamental principle of criminal jurisprudence shamefully disregarded, by the court! Such, however painful and disgraceful the admission, was manifestly the fact. Judges, who sit thus, in judgment, upon the lives of men, would do well to doff their ermine, and assume the robe, commended by Faulconbridge to Austria. To the enforcement of this simple truth I shall turn hereafter.
Let us now go to the dungeon, taking with us, of course, the newspaper, containing these living lines—these tidings of exceeding great joy. But the details of all that occurred within the prison, are related with great simplicity and power, by the good clergyman, who stood by Stephen Boorn, in his deepest need. Let Mr. Haynes, himself, describe in a few words, the effect of this communication, upon the prisoner—“Mr. Chadwick’s letter was carried to the prison, and read to Stephen. The news was so overwhelming, that, to use his own language, nature could scarcely sustain the shock; but, as there was some doubt as tothe truth of the report, it tended to prevent an immediate dissolution. He observed to me, that, if Colvin had then made his appearance before him, he believed it would have caused immediate death. Even now a faintness was created, that was painful to endure.”
Not a few very charitable people, who shrink, instinctively, from the very thought of giving pain, marvelled at the cruelty of those, who presumed to raise the poor prisoner’s hopes, upon such frail and improbable grounds.
Soon, intelligence arrived in Manchester, that a Mr. Whelpley, of New York, formerly of Manchester, who knew Colvin well, having seen Mr. Chadwick’s letter, had gone to New Jersey, to settle the question of identity. This, according to Mr. Deming’s account, was done, at the instance of the city authorities of New York.
Doubt fell, fifty per cent., in the market of Manchester, when a brief letter, in the well known handwriting of Mr. Whelpley, was received, in that village, immediately upon his return to New York, containing these vital words—“I have Colvin with me!” This letter was immediately followed by another from a Mr. Rempton, who knew him well, in which he says—“while writing, Russell Colvin is before me!” The New York journals now published the notice, thatColvin had arrived, and would soon proceed to Vermont. Doubt dies hard, in the bosoms of those, whose pride of opinion forbids them to recant. Squire Raymond, and his tail, as the Scotch call a great man’s followers, could not believe the story. Their honors, who sentenced the Boorns to death, in one hour, after the verdict had been delivered—were very naturally inclined to take a longer time, for consideration, before they sentenced themselves to merited reproach, for their rash and unjustifiable conduct. Bets were made, says Mr. Haynes, that the man, on his way to Vermont, notwithstanding the positive averments of Whelpley and Rempton, was not the true Colvin, but an impostor.
Whoever he was, he was soon upon his way. He passed through Albany. The streets, says Mr. Deming, were literally crowded to get a glimpse of the man, who was dead and alive again. He passed through Troy. The Trojan horse could not have produced a greater measure of amazement, in the days of Priam. Dec. 22, he arrived with Mr. Whelpley, at Bennington. The court then in session, suspended business, to look upon him, for several hours.
Towards evening, upon that memorable day, Dec. 22, 1819, the stage was seen, driving into Manchester, and the driving was like the driving of Jehu, for it drove furiously. When the dust cleared away, sufficiently, to enable the excited population to obtain a clearer view, an unusual signal was observed floating above the advancing vehicle. A shout broke forth from the crowd—Colvin has come!Hundreds ran to their houses to communicate the tidings—Colvin has come!The stage drove up to the tavern door; and a little man, of mean appearance, and wild, disordered look, came forth into the middle of the eager multitude. His bewildered eyes turned, rapidly and feverishly, in all directions, encountering eyes innumerable, that seemed to drink him in, with the strong relish of wonder and delight. Hundreds upon hundreds pressed forward, to grasp this poor, little, demented creature, by the hand; and enough of sense and memory remained, to enable him, feebly, to return the smiles of his former neighbors, and to call them, by their names. All was uproar and frantic joy. The people of Manchester believed it to be their bounden duty to go partially mad; and they did their duty to perfection. Guns were fired, amid wild demonstrations of excitement; and Colvin was tumultuously borne to the cell of the condemned. The meeting shall be described by Mr. Haynes—“The prison door was unbolted—the news proclaimed to Stephen, that Colvin had come! The welcome reception, given it by the joyful prisoner, need not be mentioned. The chains, on his arms, were taken off, while those on his legs remained. Being impatient of an interview with him, who had come to bring salvation, they met. Colvin gazed upon the chains, and asked—‘What is that for?’—Stephen answered—‘Because, they say, I murdered you’—‘You never hurt me’—replied Colvin.”
Colvin recognized his children; but marvelled how they came in Manchester, asserting, that he left them, at the house of his kind benefactor, Mr. Polhamus, in New Jersey. Of his wife, who came to see him, he took little notice, asserting, that she did not belong to him. There may have been enough of method, in his madness, to enable him to appreciate, correctly, the value of his marital relation. The breath of Manchester may have blown the truth into his ear. An ingenious person may find some little resemblance between the wanderings of Ulysses and those of Colvin theOudeisof Manchester—but the testimony, upon the trial, peremptorily forbids the slightest comparison, betweenPenelope and Mrs. Colvin, who appears not to have embarrassed her suitors, with the preliminary ordeal of the bow.
There is an admirable painting, in the Boston Athenæum, by Neagle, of Patrick Lyon, the blacksmith, who was long imprisoned, in Philadelphia, for the robbery of a bank, of which crime he was perfectly innocent, as it finally appeared, to the entire satisfaction of the government, by whom he was, consequently, discharged. Lyon is represented, at his forge; and he desired the artist to introduce the Walnut Street prison in the rear, where he had suffered, so unjustly, and so long.
The graphic hand of a master might do something here. I would pay more than I can well afford, for a couple of illustrative paintings—I. The Judges, with tears in their eyes, sentencing Stephen and Jesse to be hanged, for the murder of Colvin—the best books on evidence, before them, and open at the pages where it is expressly stated that extra-judicial confession, under fear of death, and hope of pardon, shall never be received—and the leaf turned down, at the authority of Sir Matthew Hale, that no conviction ought ever to take place, upon trials for murder and manslaughter, till the fact be clearly proven, or thedead bodybe discovered.
II. The dungeon, Dec. 22, 1819, just thirty-six days, before the time, appointed for the execution of Stephen—the murderer and the murdered man, standing face to face, in full life—Squire Raymond still avowing his conviction of Stephen’s guilt, and holding aloft his written confession—Judge Chace seen in the distance, burying the “certified minutes of evidence” in the very hole, pointed out, to Nathaniel Boorn, by Colvin’s ghost—and Judge Doolittle evidently regretting, that he had not done less, in this unhappy transaction, which came so near the consummation of judicial murder.
In the succeeding number, I shall endeavor to present a simple version of the motives and conduct of the parties—and some brief remarks, upon this extraordinary trial.
After a little reflection, the true explanation of this apparent mystery appears to be exceedingly simple. Colvin had becomean object of contempt and hatred to the Boorns; and especially to Stephen. His mental feebleness had produced their contempt—the burdensomeness of himself and his family had begotten their hatred. The poor, semi-demented creature happened, in a luckless hour, to boast, most absurdly, no doubt, of his great importance and usefulness, as a member of this interesting family. This gave a doubly keen edge to the animosity of Stephen; and he berated his brother-in-law, in terms, almost as vulgar and abusive, as those we daily meet with, in so many of our leading political journals, of all denominations.
Forgetful of his inferiority, this miserable worm exemplified the proverb, and turned upon his oppressor, in a feeble way. He struck Stephen with “a small riding stick.” This was accounted sufficient provocation by Stephen; and, in the language of the witness, “Stephen then struck Russell on his neck with a club, and knocked him down.” He rose, and made a slight effort to renew the battle, and then Stephen again knocked him down. Upon this, Colvin rambled off, towards the mountain, and was seen in that region, no more, till he was brought back, after the expiration of seven years, in December, 1819.
He went off without his hat and shoes; whether, in his effort to shake off the dust of that city, he unconsciously shook off his shoes, is unknown. The discovery of the hat, some years after, formed a part of that wretchedrope of sand, for it is not worthy of being called achain of evidence, upon which Stephen and Jesse were sentenced to death. Colvin had, doubtless, long been aware, that he was an object of hatred to the Boorns. The blows, inflicted upon this occasion, undoubtedly, aggravated his insanity; yet enough remained of the instinctive love of life, to teach him, that his safety was in flight. How he found his way to that part of New Jersey, which lies near the Atlantic Ocean, is of little importance. He was, notoriously, a wanderer. It was the spring of the year. He moved onward, without plan, camping out, among the bushes, or sleeping in barns; the world before him, and Providence his guide. He, probably, rambled from Manchester, which is in the southwest corner of Vermont, into the State of New York, which lies very near; and, wandering, in a southerly direction, along the westerly boundary lines of Massachusetts and Connecticut, he would, before many days, have entered the northerly part of New Jersey.
Accustomed to his occasional absences, the Boorns,undoubtedly, expected his return, for weeks and months, even though the summer had past, and the harvest had ended. But, after the snows of winter had come, and covered the mountains; and the spring had returned, and melted them away; and Colvin came not; then Stephen Boorn, doubtless, began to fear, that he had, unintentionally, killed him—that he had wandered away, and died of the effects of the blows he had received—and that his bones were bleaching, in some unknown part of the mountain, whither he had wandered, immediately after the occurrence.
Upon this hypothesis, alone, can we explain one remarkable word, in the answer of Stephen to Merrill’s question, in the jail, as certified, by Judge Chace, in his minutes—“I asked him, if he did take the life of Colvin.—He said he did not take themainlife of Colvin. He said no more at that time.”
Does any reflecting man inquire—what could have induced these men to confess the crime, with such a particular detail of minute, and extraordinary, circumstances? The answer has already been given, in part.—Stephen, doubtless, believed it to be quite probable, that he had been the means of Colvin’s death. To explain the motive for confession, more fully, it is only necessary to stand, for one moment, in the prisoner’s shoes. He was assured, by “Squire Raymond,” and others, in whom he confided, that no doubt was entertained of his guilt—that his case was dark—and that his only hope lay in confession.
His mind was brought to the full and settled belief, that he should be hung, before many days,unless he confessed. If he had confessed the simple truth—the quarrel—the blows—the departure of Colvin—all this would have availed him nothing. It was not this, of which “Squire Raymond,” and others, hadno doubt he was guilty. They had no doubt he was guilty of themurderof Colvin. No confession of anything, short ofthe murder of Colvin, would satisfy “Squire Raymond,” and induce him to “petition the legislature in favor” of the prisoner! Stephen well knew, that, if he confessed the murder of Colvin, it would be immediately asked—where he had buried the body—a puzzling question, it must be confessed, for one, who had committed no murder. But it was a delicate moment, for Stephen. It was necessary for him to stand, not onlyrectus in curia—butrectuswith “Squire Raymond,” and all his other attentive patrons. He therefore, to save his life, and secure the patronageof the “Squire,” strung together a terrible tissue of lies, too manifestly preposterous and improbable, even for the credulous brain of Cotton Mather, in 1692. He relieved himself of all embarrassment, in regard to the dead body of thelivingColvin, byconfessing, that he first buried it, in the earth—then took it up and reburied it, under a barn—and, after the barn had been burnt, took up the bones again, and cast them into the Battenkill river.
The confession of Jesse was made, when he was aroused from sleep, at midnight, under the impression, as he stated, at the time, that “something had come in at the window, and was on the bed beside him”—somewhat extra-judicial, this confession, to be sure. This Jesse appears to have been a most unfilial scoundrel; for, instead ofconfessing, as Stephen hadconfessed, that Stephen himself killed Colvin, single-handed and alone; Jesse catered, more abundantly, to the popular appetite for horrors, byconfessingthat his old father, Barney Boorn, “damned” his son-in-law, Colvin, very frequently, and “cut his throat with a small penknife.” All this clotted mass of inconsistent absurdity, extorted by hope and fear, his honor, Judge Chace, received, as legal evidence, and gravely certified up to the General Assembly of Vermont.
It is true, Judge Chace, as we have stated, rejected the written confession of Stephen, because Raymond swore, as follows—“I have heard Mr. Pratt and Mr. Sheldon tell Jesse Boorn, that if he would confess, in case he was guilty, they would petition the legislature for him—I have made the same proposition to Stephen myself, and always told him I had no doubt of his guilt, and that the public mind was against him.” It is needless to expatiate on the gross impropriety of addressing such language to a prisoner, under such circumstances.
But the witness, Farnsworth, was then produced to prove Stephen’s oral confession, that he killed Colvin. It appears, by the minutes, certified by Judge Chace, that he put the preliminary questions, and that the witness swore, “that neither he nor anybody else,to his knowledge, had done anything, directly or indirectly, to influence the said Stephen to thetalkhe was about to communicate.” In vain, the prisoners’ counsel protested, that the evidence was inadmissible, because the “talk” between Stephen and Farnsworth was subsequent to the proposition made to Stephen by Raymond. In vain they pressed the consideration,that if, on this ground, the written confession had been rejected, the oral confession should also be rejected. In vain they offered to prove other proposals and promises, made to the prisoners, at other times,beforethe conversation, now offered to be proved. Nothing, however, would stay their honors, from gibbetting their judicial reputation, in chains, which no time will ever knock off. They suffered Farnsworth to testify; and he swore, that Stephen told him, “about two weeksafterthe written confession, that he killed Colvin,” &c. This must have been about September 10, 1819, and, of course, before the trial, when he was still relying on the promises of Squire Raymond, and others.
The prisoners’ counsel very judiciously moved, for the reception of the written confession, and it was read accordingly. Unable to restrain the judicial antics of the Court, it appeared to be the only course, for the prisoners’ counsel, to throw the whole crude and incongruous mass before the jury, and leave its credibility, or rather, its palpable incredibility, to their decision. It would be desirable, as a judicial curiosity, to possess a copy of Judge Chace’s charge. Of his instructions to the jury he says nothing, in his certified statement to the General Assembly.
Now, apart from the confessions of these men, extorted, so clearly, by the fear of death, and the hope of pardon, there was evidence enough to excitesuspicion, and there was no more: but, the law of our country convicts no man of murder, or manslaughter, uponsuspicion. I shall conclude my remarks, upon this interesting case, in the following number.
The chains of Stephen Boorn were stricken off, and Jesse was liberated from prison. They were men of note. If there were notgiants, there werelions, in those days. Colvin soon became weary of standing upon that dizzy eminence, where circumstances had placed him. He had a painful recollection, no doubt, more or less distinct, of the past: and, after he had served the high purpose, for which he had been brought from New Jersey, he expressed an earnest wish to return to the home of his adoption; where he had found, in the good Mr. Polhamus, afriend, who had considered the necessities and distresses of his body and mind; and, who had been willing, in return for his feeble services, to give him shelter and protection.
The Boorns had, undoubtedly, a fortunate, and, almost a miraculous, escape. So had their honors, the Judges, Chace and Doolittle. Their first meeting, after thedenouement, must have been perfectly tragi-comical.
Their escape from an awful precipice may admonish all, who sit, in judgment, upon the lives of their fellow-men, to administer the law, with extreme caution, and with a high and holy regard, for those well-established principles, and rules, which can never be disregarded, with impunity. God forbid, that any humble phraseology of mine should, for an instant, be perverted, to mislead the meanest understanding—to foster those principles, which, for the purpose of extending mercy, undeserved, to the murderer, would heap gross injustice and cruelty, upon the whole community—to break down the positive law of God, which Jesus Christ declared, that he came to confirm; and, in its place and stead, to erect the sickly decrees of a society of philandering puppets, whose wires are notoriously pulled, by certain professional and political managers.
In the commencement of my remarks, upon this romance of real life, I endeavored to forefend, against the suspicion of undervaluing that species of evidence, which is called presumptive, or circumstantial. It is accounted, by the most able writers, on this branch of jurisprudence, of the highest quality. Thus, in his admirable work, on Evidence, vol. i. sec. 13, Professor Greenleaf remarks, that, in both civil and criminal cases, “a verdict may well be founded on circumstances alone; and these often lead to a conclusion, far more satisfactory than direct evidence can produce.”
The errors, committed by the Judges, upon the trial of the Boorns—and those errors were egregious—were twofold—the admission of extra-judicial confessions, manifestly extorted by hope and fear—and suffering a conviction to take place, before the dead body of the person, alleged to have been murdered, had been discovered.
The rule, on the subject of confessions, is sufficiently plain. “Deliberate confessions of guilt,” says Mr. Greenleaf, ibid. sec. 215, “are among the most effectual proofs in the law.” But they should be received and weighed with caution; for, as heremarks, sec. 214—“it should be recollected, that the mind of the prisoner himself, is oppressed by the calamity of his situation, and that he is often influenced by motives of hope or fear, to make an untrue confession.” Mr. Greenleaf then proceeds to say, in a note on this passage—“of this character was the remarkable case of the two Boorns,” &c., and proceeds to give a summary of the case.
“In the United States,” says Mr. Greenleaf, ibid. sec. 217, “the prisoner’s confession, when thecorpus delictiis not otherwise proved, has been held insufficient, for his conviction; and this opinion, certainly, best accords with the humanity of the criminal code, and with the great degree of caution, applied in receiving and weighing the evidence of confessions, in other cases; and it seems countenanced by approved writers, on this branch of the law.”
Again, ibid. sec. 219, he remarks—“Before any confession can be received, in evidence, in a criminal case, it must be shown, that it wasvoluntary. * * * * ‘A free and voluntary confession,’ said Eyre, C. B., ‘is deserving of the highest credit, because it is presumed to flow from the strongest sense of guilt, and therefore it is admitted as proof of the crime, to which it refers; but a confession forced from the mind, by the flattery of hope, or by the torture of fear, comes in so questionable a shape, when it is to be considered as the evidence of guilt, that no credit ought to be given to it; and therefore it is rejected.’” Unfortunately, Judges Chace and Doolittle thought otherwise; and brought themselves and the condemned, upon the very threshold of a terrible catastrophe.
Mr. Greenleaf, in the note, above referred to, alludes to an article, in the North American Review, vol. 10, p. 418, in which this case of the Boorns is examined. It was from the pen of a gentleman, whose high professional prospects were blasted, by an early death. This writer had seen nothing, however, but “a very imperfect report of the trial.” His article was published, in April, 1820, about four months after the discovery of Colvin. The conclusions, at which he arrives, that the confessions ought not to have been admitted, would have gained additional strength, had he inspected thecertified minutes, taken on the trial, by the Chief Justice.
Had he seen those certified minutes of the evidence, he would scarcely have described the utter inconsistency of the twoconfessions, by the inadequate phrase—“there are differences between them:” for Stephen’s claims the whole act of killing to himself—while Jesse’s charges the father, who was notoriously not present, with cutting Colvin’s throat, while he was yet living, and after Stephen had given him a blow.
This writer relies strongly, upon the humane caution of Sir Matthew Hale, to which I have alluded, that no conviction in case of murder or manslaughter should ever take place, till the fact were proved—or the dead body had been discovered.
A perfect horror of induction seems to have settled down, like a dense cloud, upon the southwestern corner of Vermont. Judges and jurymen appear to have been stupefied, by its power. The importantconsequence, vital to the whole, they assumed to be true, without trial or experiment. I have looked, attentively, into every document, that I could lay my hands upon, connected with this subject; and I cannot discover, that any effort whatever was made, by any one,till after the trial, to discover thelivingbody of Colvin. The interesting ramble of Jesse and Judge Skinner, upon the mountain, was in search of Colvin’sdeadbody! But, upon the publication of the notice, in the Rutland Herald, Nov. 26, 1819, stating the facts, and calling for information, in regard to Colvin, and a similar notice, of the same date, in the New York Evening Post—in ten days, that is, Dec. 6, the most ample and satisfactory information was published, by Mr. Taber Chadwick, in regard to thelivingbody of Russell Colvin!
The great caution of Sir Matthew Hale was meant, not less for the prisoner, than for the whole community; no one of whom can be sure, through a long life, of escaping from the oppressive influence of circumstances, accidentally, or purposely, combined against him. Hisdiscreethumanity spread no mantle of imitation charity or morbid philanthropy over the guilty. He was a bold practitioner—too bold, by far, occasionally, as in the case of Cullender and Duny. But this great, good man, well knew, that prisoners, charged with murder, were entitled to all the benefit ofreasonabledoubt. He well knew, that no judicial caution could go farther, to save, than the fierce suspicion of an excited community would go, to destroy. He well knew, that, with not a small number, the very enormity of the crime seems to supply the want of legal evidence; and, that, in many cases, to be suspected is to be condemned. We have all heard of thejury, who, having convicted a prisoner of murder, in direct opposition to the Judge’s instructions, and being questioned and reproved—replied, that an enormous crime had been committed, and ought to be atoned for; and they saw no good reason, why the prisoner, the only personsuspected, should not be selected, as the victim!
Sir Matthew Hale’s forbearance extended to cases of reprieve, after conviction, before another judge. Thus in H. P. C., vol. ii. ch. lvi., he says—“I have generally observed this rule, that I would never give judgment, or award execution, upon a person, reprieved by any other judge but myself, because I could not know, upon what ground or reason he reprieved him.”
Upon this, there is the following pertinent note—“The usefulness of this caution may be seen, from what is observed, by Sir John Hawles, in his remarks on Cornish’s trial, where he relates the case of some persons, who had been convicted of the murder of a person absent, barely by inferences from foolish words and actions; but the judge, before whom it was tried, was so unsatisfied in the matter, because the body of the person, supposed to be murdered, was not to be found, that he reprieved the persons condemned; yet, in a circuit afterwards, a certain unwary judge, without inquiring into the reasons of the reprieve, ordered execution, and the persons to be hanged in chains, which was done accordingly; and afterwards, to his reproach, the person, supposed to be murdered, appeared alive.”
The death of the person, alleged to have been murdered, is, manifestly, not less a constituent part of the crime, than the malice prepense, or the employment of the means. These three things are necessary to constitute murder, in the eye of the law. Thus, an acquittal has taken place, where themurderwas alleged to have been committed,on the high seas; and themaliceand theblowonly were proved to have occurredon the high seas—and thedeath, in the harbor of Cape François. Such was the case of the U. S. against McGill, reported in Dallas. This extreme particularity appears, to some persons, exceedingly ridiculous; but not quite as much so, as certain commentaries, upon legal proceedings which we sometimes meet with, in the ordinary journals of the day.
Aaron Burr, whom I desire not to quote, too frequently, once shrewdly remarked—“he, who despises forms, knows not what he despises.” To infer the death, from the malice, and the employmentof the means, in all cases, would be absurd. If one man maliciously knocks another into the sea, here is, certainly, a violent assault and battery—perhaps an assault with intent to kill. But, before we join, in the popularhutesium et clamor, we have two important points to settle, beyond allreasonabledoubt—first, if the person, knocked overboard, be dead, for he may have swum to land, or have been picked up, at sea, alive, in which case, unless he die of the blow, within the time prescribed, there can be neither murder nor manslaughter. And, secondly, if he be proved to have died of the injury within that time, we must duly weigh the previous circumstances and the provocation, to ascertain, if the act done be manslaughter or murder.
Those, who vociferate, most loudly, against the law, for its hesitancy, and demand the immediate descent of the executioner’s axe, upon the neck of the victim, will be the very first fervently to supplicate, for the law’s most merciful carefulness of life, should a father, a brother, or a son be charged with crime, and involved in the complicated meshes of presumptive evidence.
The transition state, when the confidence of youth begins to give place to that wholesome distrust, which is the usual—by no means, the invariable—accompaniment of riper years, is often a state of disquietude and pain. It is no light matter to look upon the visions of our own superiority, and imaginary importance, as they break, like bubbles, one after another, and leave us abundantly convinced, that we are of yesterday, and know nothing.
The confidence of ignorance, however venial in youth, is not altogether so excusable, in full grown men. Its exhibitions, however ridiculous and absurd, are daily manifested, by mankind, in relation to those arts and sciences, which have little or nothing in common with their own respective vocations. The physician, the lawyer, the clergyman, the deeper they descend into their respective, professional wells, where truth is proverbially said to abide, proceed with increasing caution. Yet it is quite amazing, to witness the boldness, with which they dive into the very depths, that lie entirely beyond their professionalprecincts. The physician, who proceeds, in the cure of bodies, with the extremest caution, seems to be quite at home, in the cure of souls; and has very little doubt or difficulty, upon points, which have perplexed the brains of Hale and Mansfield. The lawyer, who, in his own department, moves warily; weighs evidence with infinite care; and consults authorities, with great deliberation—looks upon physic and theology, as rather speculative matters, and of easy acquirement. The clergyman frequently practises physic gratuitously; and holding the doctrine in perfect contempt, that theviginti studia annorumare necessary to make a tolerable lawyer, he rather opines, that, asmajus implicat minus, so his knowledge of the Divine law necessarily comprehends a perfect knowledge of mere human jurisprudence.
This confidence of ignorance is nowhere more perfectly, or more briefly, expressed, than in four oft-repeated lines, in Pope’s Essay on Criticism:
“Alittlelearning is a dangerous thing;Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring:These shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,And drinking largely sobers us again.”
The editors of public journals are, in many instances, men of education and highly respectable abilities—men of taste and learning—men of integrity, and refinement, cherishing a just regard for the rights of individuals, and of the community. There is a very different class of men, who, however incompetent to improve the minds or the manners of the public, have a small smattering of knowledge; hold a reckless, rapid pen; and, by the aid of the scavengers, whom they employ, to rake the gutters for slander and obscenity, cater, daily, to the foulest appetites of mankind. There are some, who descend not thus, to the very nadir of all filth and corruption, but whose columns, nevertheless, are ever open, like the mouths of so manycloacæ, for the filthy contributions of every dirty depositor; and who are ever on hand, like the Scotch cloak-man, inAuld Reekie, to serve the occasions of a customer.
The very phraseology of the craft has a tendency to the amplification of an editor; and to give confirmation to the confidence of ignorance. The broken merchant, the ambitious weaver, the briefless lawyer, the literary tailor are speedily sunk, in “we,” and “our sheet,” and “our columns,” and “our-self.”
This confidence of ignorance has rarely been manifested, more extensively, upon any occasion, than in connection with the indictment, trial, and condemnation of Dr. Webster, for the murder of Dr. George Parkman.
The indictment was no sooner published, than threereligiousjournals began to criticise thislegalinstrument, which had been carefully, and, as the decision of the learned Chief Justice and of the Court has decided, sufficiently, prepared, by the Attorney General of the Commonwealth. This indictment contained several counts, a thing by no means unusual, the object of which is well understood, by professional men. “If the crime was committed with a knife, or with the fists, how could it be committed with a hammer?” It would not be an easy task to convince these worthy ministers of the Gospel, how exceedingly ridiculous such commentaries appear, to men of any legal knowledge.
Judge, Jurymen, and Counsellors are severely censured, for the parts they have borne, in the trial and condemnation of Dr. Webster. By whom? By the editors of certain far-away journals, upon the evidence,as it has reached them. The evidence has been very variously reported. A portion of the evidence, however deeply graven upon the hearts, and minds, and memories of the highly respectable jury, and of the court, and of the multitude, present at the trial, is, from its peculiar nature, not transferable. I refer to the appearance, the air, the manner, the voice of the prisoner, especially, when, in opposition to the advice of his counsel, he fatally opened his mouth, and said precisely nothing, that betokened innocence.
I do not believe there was ever, in the United States, a more impartial trial, more quietly conducted, than this trial of Dr. Webster. Party feeling has had no lot, nor share, in this matter. The whole dealing has been calmly and confidingly surrendered to the laws of the land. With scarcely an exception, from the moment of arrest to the hour of trial, the public journals, in this vicinity, have borne themselves, with great forbearance to the prisoner. The family connexions of Dr. Parkman have held themselves scrupulously aloof, unless summoned to bear witness to facts, within their knowledge.
It has been asserted, in one or more journals, that even the body of Dr. Parkman has not been discovered. The reply is short, and germain—the coroner’s jury, twenty-four grand jurors, and twelve jurors in the Supreme Judicial Court have decided,that the mutilated remains were those of the late George Parkman; and that John White Webster was his murderer; and the Court has gravely pronounced the opinion, that the verdict is a righteous verdict, and in accordance with the law and the evidence. This opinion appears to meet with a very general, affirmative response, in this quarter. The jury—and the members of that panel, one and all, after twelve days’ concentration of thought, upon this solemn question of life and death, appear to have been conscientious men—the jury have not recommended the prisoner, as a person entitled to mercy.
In view of all this, the editor of a distant, public journal may be supposed to entertain a pretty good opinion of his qualifications, who ventures to pronounce his ex-cathedral decree, either that Dr. Webster is innocent, or, if guilty, that, on technical grounds, he has been illegally convicted. There is something absolutely melancholy in the contemplation of such presumption as this. But, under all the circumstances of this heart-sickening occurrence, it is impossible to behold, without a smile, the extraordinary efforts of some exceedingly benevolent people, in the city of New York, who are circulating a petition to the Governor of Massachusetts, not merely for a commutation of punishment, but for a pardon. This, to speak of it forbearingly, may be safely catalogued among the works of supererogation.
If the Governor of Massachusetts needs any guidance from man, upon the present occasion, his Council is at hand. The highest judicial tribunal of the Commonwealth, entirely approving the verdict of an impartial and intelligent jury, has sentenced Dr. Webster to be hung, for a murder, as foul and atrocious, as was ever perpetrated, within the borders of New England. Talents, education, rank aggravate the criminality of the guilty party. “To kill a man, upon sudden and violent resentment, is less penal than upon cool deliberate malice.”
If there be any substantial reasons, for pardon or commutation of punishment—any new matter, which has not been exhibited, before the court and jury—those reasons will be duly weighed—that matter will be gravely considered, by the Governor and Council. But, if the objections to the execution of the sentence, upon the present occasion, rest upon any imaginary misdirection, on the part of the Court, or any misunderstanding, on the part of the jury, those objections must be unavailing. After a careful comparison of the evidence, in the caseof Dr. Webster, with the evidence, in the case of Jason Fairbanks, who was executed, for the murder of Betsy Fales, theconcatena—the chain of circumstances—seems even less perfect in the latter case. Yet, after sentence, in that memorable trial, Chief Justice Dana, who sat in judgment, upon that occasion, was reported to have said, that he believed Fairbanks to be the murderer, more firmly, upon the evidence before the court, than he should have believed the very same thing, upon the evidence of his own eyesight, in a cloudy day—the first could not have deceived him—the latter might.
If an application, for pardon or commutation, be grounded, on the objection to all capital punishment, that objection has been too recently disposed of, in the case of Washington Goode. The majesty of the law, the peace of society, the decree of Almighty God call for impartial justice—WHOSO SHEDDETH MAN’S BLOOD BY MAN SHALL HIS BLOOD BE SHED!
With the eye of mercy turned upon all—aye upon all—who have any relation to the murderer, the better course is Christian submission to the decrees of God and man. What may be the value of a few more years of misery and contempt! God’s high decree, that the murderer shall die, is merciful and just. His judgment upon Cain was far more severe—not that he should die—butthat he should live!—that he should walk the earth, and wear the brand of terrible distinction forever—“And now thou art cursed from the earth, which hath opened her mouth to receive thy brother’s blood from thy hand. When thou tillest the ground, it shall not henceforth yield unto thee her strength; a fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be upon the earth. And Cain said unto the Lord, my punishment is greater than I can bear. Behold thou hast driven me out, this day, from the face of the earth; and from thy face shall I be hid; and I shall be a fugitive and a vagabond in the earth; and it shall come to pass, that every one that findeth me shall slay me. And the Lord said unto him, therefore whosoever slayeth Cain, vengeance shall be taken on him seven fold. And the Lord set a mark upon Cain, lest any one finding him should slay him.”
It may be said of a proud, poor man—especially, if he be a fearless, godless man, as Dirk Hatteraick said of himself, to Glossin—that he is “dangerous.” It is quite probable, there are men, even in our own limited community, of an hundred and thirty thousand souls, who would rather die an easy death, than signify abroad their inability to maintain, any longer, their expensive relations to the fashionable world.
What will not such a man occasionally do, rather than submit gracefully, under such a trial, to the will of God? He will beg, and he will borrow—he will lie, and he will steal. Is there a crime, in the decalogue, or out of it, which he will not, occasionally, perpetrate, if its consummation be likely to save him from a confession of his poverty, and from ceasing to fill his accustomed niche, in thebeau monde? Not one—no, not one!
Well may we, who profess to be Republicans, adopt the wisdom and the words of Montesquieu—“The less luxury there is in a Republic, the more it is perfect. * * * * Republics end with luxury.”
A significant illustration of these remarks will readily occur, to every reader of American History, in the conduct and character of Benedict Arnold. Among the dead, who, with their own hands, have prepared themselves graves of infamy, there are men of elevated rank, who have made shipwreck of the fairest hopes, in a similar manner. But, far in advance of them all, Arnold is entitled to a terrible preëminence.
The last turn of the screw crushes the victim—it is the last feather, say the Bedouins, that breaks the camel’s back—and the train, which has been in gradual preparation for many years, may be exploded, in an instant, by a very little spark, at last.
There are periods, in the lives of certain individuals, when, upon the approach of minor troubles—baleful stars, doubtless, but of the third or fourth magnitude—it may be said, as Rochefoucault said of the calamities of our friends, that there is something in them, not particularly disagreeable to us. A man, whose afflictions, especially when self-induced, are chafing, at every turn, against his already lacerated pride, and who is seeking some apology, for deeds of desperation, often discovers, witha morbid satisfaction, in some petty offence, or imaginary wrong, ample excuse, for deeds, absolutely damnable.
Such were the influences, at work, in the case of Benedict Arnold. In 1780, in obedience to the sentence of a court martial, he was reprimanded by the Commander-in-Chief; but in terms so highly complimentary, that it is impossible to read them, without a doubt, whether this official reprimand were a crown of thorns, or a crown of glory. At that very time, Arnold’s pecuniary embarrassments were overwhelming. Without the rightful means of supporting a one-horse chaise, he rattled up and down, in the city of Philadelphia, in a chariot and four. The splendid mansion, which he occupied, had, in former times, been the residence of the Penns. Here he gave a sumptuous repast to the French ambassador, and entertained the minister and his suite, for several days.
Hunger, it is said, will break through stone walls; even this is a feeble illustration of that force and energy, which characterized Arnold’spassionfor parade. To support his career of unparalleled extravagance and folly, he resorted to stratagems, which would have been contemptible, in a broker of the lowest grade—petty traffic and huckstering speculation—the sale of permits, to do certain things, absolutely forbidden—such were among the last, miserable shifts of this “brave, wicked” man, when his conscience came between the antagonist muscles of poverty and pride. For some of these very offences, he had been condemned, by the court martial. Even then, he had secretly become, at heart, a scoundrel and a renegade; and, covertly, under a feigned name, had already tendered his services to the enemy.
The sentence of the court, sheer justice, but so graciously mingled with mercy, as scarcely to wear the aspect of punishment, supplied him with the very thing he coveted—a pretence, for complaining of injustice and oppression. He sought the French ambassador; and, after a plain allusion to his own needy condition, shadowed forth, in language, not to be mistaken, his willingness to become the secret servant of France. The prompt reply of the French minister is of record, most honorable for himself, and sufficiently humiliating to the spirit of the applicant.
The result is before the world—Arnold became a traitor, detested by those, whose cause he had forsaken, and utterly despised by those, whose cause he affected to espouse—trusted bythem, only, because they well knew he might safely be employed against an enemy, who would deal with him, if captured, not as a prisoner of war, but as a traitor. I have, thus briefly, alluded to the career of Arnold, only for the purpose of illustration.
No truth is more simple—none more firmly established by experience—none more universally disregarded—than, that the growth of luxury must work the overthrow of a republic. As the largest masses are made up of the smallest particles, so the characteristic luxury of a whole people consists of individual extravagance and folly. The ambition to be foremost becomes, ere long, the ruling, and almost universal, passion—in still stronger language, “it is all the rage.” In a certain condition of society, talent takes precedence of virtue, and men would rather be called knaves than fools: and, where luxury abounds, as the poorer and the middling classes will imitate the wealthier, there must be a large amount of indebtedness, and many men and women of desperate fortunes. We cannot strut about, in unpaid-for garments, nor ride about, in unpaid-for chariots, nor gather the world together, to admire unpaid-for furniture, without an inward sense of personal degradation.
It would be a poor compliment to our race, to deny the truth of this assertion. True or false, the argument goes steadily forward—for, if not true, then that callous, case-hardened condition of the heart exists, which takes off all care for the common weal, and turns it entirely upon one’s self, and one’s own aggrandizement. Nothing can be more destructive of that feeling of independence, which ever lies, at the bottom of republican virtue.
This condition of things is the very hot-bed of hypocrisy,—and it makes the heart a forcing-house, for all the evil and bitter passions, envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness. Pastors, of all denominations, may well unite, in the chorus of the churchman’s prayer, and cry aloud—Good Lord deliver us!
A very fallacious and mischievous estimate of personal array, equipage, and furniture has always given wonderful preëminence to this species of emulation. It is perfectly natural withal. Distinction, of some sort, is uppermost, in most men’s minds. It is comforting to many to know there is atapis—“the field of the cloth of gold”—on which the wealthy fool is more than a match, for the poor, wise man; and, as this world contains such anoverwhelming majority of the former class, the ayes have it, and luxury holds on,vires acquirens eundo.
None but an idiot will cavil, because a rich man adorns his mansion, with elegance and taste, and receives his friends in a style of liberal hospitality. Even if he go beyond the bounds of republican simplicity, and waste his substance, it matters not, beyond the circle of his creditors and heirs; if the example be not followed by thousands, who are unable, or unwilling, to be edified, by Æsop’s pleasant fable of the ox and the frog.
But it never can be thus. The machinery is exceedingly simple, in these manufactories, from which men of broken fortunes are annually turned out upon the world.
When once involved in the whirl of fashion, extrication is difficult and painful—the descent is wonderfully easy—sed revocare gradum! The maniac hugs not his fetters, more forcibly, than the devotee of fashion clings, with the assistance, occasionally, of his better half, to hisposition in society.
These remarks are, by no means, exclusively applicable to those, who move in the higher circles. This is a world of gradation, and there are few so humble, as to be entirely without their imitators.
What shall we do to be saved? This anxious inquiry is not always offered, I apprehend, in relation to the concerns of a better world. How often, and how oppressively, the spirit of this interrogatory has agitated the bosom of the impoverished man of fashion! What shall I do to be saved, from the terrible disgrace of being exposed, in the court of fashion, as being guilty of the awful crime ofpoverty, and disfranchised, as one of thebeau monde? And what will he not do, to work out this species of salvation, with fear and trembling? We have seen how readily, under the influence of pride and poverty, treason may be committed by men of lofty standing. It would be superfluous, therefore, to inquire, if there be any crime, which men, heavily oppressed by their embarrassments, and restrained thereby, from drinking more deeply of that luxury, with which they are already drunk, will hesitate to commit.
There is a popular notion, that sumptuary laws are applicable to monarchies—not to republics. The very reverse is the truth. Montesquieu says, Spirit of Laws, book vii. ch. 4, that “luxury is extremely proper for monarchies, and that, under this government, there should be no sumptuary laws.”
Sumptuary laws are looked upon, at present, as the relics of an age gone by. These laws, in a strict sense, are designed to restrain pecuniary extravagance. It has often been attempted to stigmatize the wholesome, prohibitory laws of the several States, in regard to the sale of intoxicating liquor, by calling themsumptuary laws. The distinction is clear—sumptuary laws strike at the root of extravagance—the prohibitory, license laws, as they are called, strike, not only at the root of extravagance, but at the root of every crime, in the decalogue.
Theleges sumptuariæof Rome were numerous. The Locrian law limited the number of guests, and the Fannian law the expense, at festivals. The Didian law extended the operation of all these laws over Italy.
The laws of the Edwards III., and IV., and of Henry VIII., against shoes with long points, short doublets, and long coats, were not repealed, till the first year of James I. Camden says, that, “in the time of Henry IV., it was proclaimed, that no man should wear shoes, above six inches broad, at the toes.” He also states, “that their other garments were so short, that it was enacted, 25 Edward IV., that no person, under the condition of a lord, should wear any mantle or gown, unless of such length, that, standing upright, it might cover his buttocks.”
Diodorus Siculus, lib. xii. cap. 20, gives an amusing account of the sumptuary laws of Zeleucus, king of the Locrians. His design appears to have been to accomplish his object, by casting ridicule upon those practices, against which his laws were intended to operate. He decreed, that no free woman should have more than one maid to follow her, unless she was drunk; nor should she stir out of the city by night, nor wear jewels of gold, or an embroidered gown, unless she was a professed strumpet. No men, but ruffians, were allowed to wear gold rings, nor to be seen, in one of those effeminate vests of the manufacture of Miletum.
The very best code of sumptuary laws is that, which may be found in the common sense of an enlightened community. Nothing, that I have ever met with, upon this subject, appears more just, than the sentiments of Michael De Montaigne, vol. i. ch. 43—“The true way would be to beget in men a contempt of silks and gold, as vain and useless; whereas we add honor and value to them, which sure is a very improper way to create disgust. For to enact, that none but princes shall eat turbot, nor wear velvet or gold lace, and interdict these things to the people, what is it, but to bring them into greater esteem, and to set every one more agog to eat and wear them?”
No truth has been more amply demonstrated, than that a republic has more to fear from internal than from external causes—less from foreign foes, than from enemies of its own household.
To the ears of those, who have not reflected upon the subject, it may sound like the croaking note of some ill bodingab ilice cornix—but I look upon extravagant parade, and princely furniture of foreign manufacture, the introduction of courtly customs, transatlantic servants in livery,et id genus omne nugarum, as so many premonitory symptoms of national evil—as part and parcel of that luxury, which may justly be called the gangrene of a republic.
But does any one seriously fear, that an extravagant fandango, now and then, will lead to revolution, or produce a change in our political institutions? Probably not. But it will provoke a spirit of rivalry—of emulation, not unmingled with bitterness, and which will cost many an aspirant a great deal more, than he can afford. It will lead the community to turn their dwellings into baby houses, and to gather vast assemblies together, not for the rational purposes of social intercourse, but for the purpose of exhibiting their costly toys and imported baubles. It will tend to harden the heart; and render us more and more insensible to the cries of the poor; for whose keen occasions we cannot afford one dollar, having, just then, perhaps, invested a thousand, in some glittering absurdity. It will, ultimately, produce numerous examples of poverty, and fill the community with desperate men.
The line of distinction, between the liberality of a patrician and the flashy, offensive ostentation of a parvenu, at Rome, or at Athens, was as readily perceived, as the difference between the manners of a gentleman, and those of a clown.
Every rank of society, like the troubled sea, casts forth upon the strand, from year to year, its full proportion of wrecked adventurers—men, who have gone beyond their depth; lived beyond their means; and who cherish no care,ne quid detrimenti Respublica caperet; but, on the contrary, who are quite ready for oligarchy, or monarchy; and some of whom would prefer even anarchy, to their present condition of obscurity and poverty.
Law and order are of the first importance to every proprietor; for, on their preservation, the security of his property depends; but they are of no importance to those, who are thus, virtually, denationalized, through impoverishment, produced by a career of luxury. Such, if not already the component elements of Empire clubs, are always useless, and often dangerous men.
It was a well known saying of Jefferson’s, thatgreat citiesweregreat sores. “In proportion,” says Montesquieu, “to the populousness of towns, the inhabitants are filled with notions of vanity, and actuated by an ambition of distinguishing themselves, by trifles. If they are very numerous, and most of them strangers to one another, their vanity redoubles, because there are greater hopes of success.” According to the apothegm of Franklin, it is the eyes of others, and not our own, that destroy us.
“Every body agrees,” says Mandeville in his Fable of the Bees, i. 98, “that, as to apparel and manner of living, we ought to behave ourselves suitable to our conditions, and follow the example of the most sensible and prudent, among our equals in rank and fortune; yet how few, that are not either universally covetous, or else proud of singularity, have this discretion to boast of? We all look above ourselves, and, as fast as we can, strive to imitate those that, some way or other, are superior to us.”
“The poorest laborer’s wife in the parish, who scorns to wear a strong wholesome frize, will half starve herself and her husband, to purchase a second-hand gown and petticoat, that cannot do her half the service, because, forsooth, it is more genteel. The weaver, the shoemaker, the tailor, the barber, has the impudence, with the first money he gets, to dress himself like a tradesman of substance; the ordinary retailer, in the clothing of his wife, takes pattern from his neighbor, that deals in the same commodity by wholesale, and the reason he gives for it is, that, twelve years ago, the other had not a bigger shop than himself.The druggist, mercer, and draper, can find no difference, between themselves and merchants, and therefore dress and live like them. The merchant’s lady, who cannot bear the assurance of those mechanics, flies for refuge to the other end of the town, and scorns to follow any fashion, but what she takes from thence. This haughtiness alarms the court—the women of quality are frightened to see merchants’ wives and daughters dressed like themselves. This impudence of the city, they cry, is intolerable; mantua-makers are sent for; and the contrivance of fashions becomes all their study, that they may have always new modes ready to take up, as soon as those saucy cits shall begin to imitate those in being. The same emulation is contrived through the several degrees of quality, to an incredible expense; till, at last, the prince’s great favorites, and those of the first rank, having nothing else left, to outstrip some of their inferiors, are forced to lay out vast estates in pompous equipages, magnificent furniture, sumptuous gardens, and princely palaces.”
Like an accommodating almanac, the description of Mandeville is applicable to other meridians, than that, for which it was especially designed.
The history of all, that passes in the bosom of a proud man, unrestrained by fixed religious and moral principles, during his transition from affluence to poverty, must be a very edifying history. With such an individual the fear of God is but a pack-thread, against the unrelaxing, antagonist muscle of pride. The onlyHades, of which he has any dread, is that abyss of obscurity and poverty, in which a man is condemned to abide, who falls from his high estate, among the upper ten thousand. What plans, what projects, what infernal stratagems occasionally bubble up, in the overheated crucible! Magnanimity, and honor, and humanity, and justice are unseen—unfelt. The dust of self-interest has blinded his eyes—the pride of life has hardened his heart.
If the energies of such men are not mischievously employed, they are, at best, utterly lost to the community.