How shallwedeal with the dead? We have considered the usages of many nations, in different ages of the world. Some of these usages appear sufficiently revolting; especially such as relate to secondary burial, or the transfer of the dead, from their primary resting-places, to vast, miscellaneous receptacles. The desire is almost universal, that, when summoned to lie down in the grave, the dead may never be disturbed, by the hand of man—that our remains may return quietly to dust—unobserved by mortal eye. There is no part of this humiliating process, that is not painful and revolting to the beholder. Of this the ancients had the same impression. Cremation and embalming set corruption and the worm at defiance. Other motives, I am aware, have been assigned for the former. The execution of popular vengeance upon the poor remains of those, whose memory has become odious, during a revolution, is not uncommon. A ludicrous example of this occurred, when Santa Anna became unpopular, and the furious mob seized his leg, which had been amputated, embalmed, and deposited among the public treasures, and cooled their savage anger, by kicking the miserable member all over the city of Montezuma.
In the time of Sylla, cremation was not so common as interment; but Sylla, remembering the indignity he had offered to the body of Marius, enjoined, that his own body should be burnt. There was, doubtless, another motive for this practice among the ancients. The custom prevailed extensively, at one time, of burying the dead, in the cellars of houses. I have already referred to the Theban law, which required the construction of a suitable receptacle for the dead, in every house. Intermentcertainly preceded cremation. Cicero De Legibus, lib. 2, asserts, that interment prevailed among the Athenians, in the time of Cecrops, their first king. In the earlier days of Rome, both were employed. Numa wasburiedin conformity with a special clause in his will. Remus, as Ovid, Fast. iv. 356, asserts, wasburnt. The accumulation of dead bodies in cellars, or subcellars, must have become intolerable. This practice undoubtedly gave rise to the whole system of household gods, Lares, Lemures, Larvæ, and Manes. Such an accumulation of ancestors, it may well be supposed, left precious little room for the amphoræ of Chian, Lesbian, and Falernian.
Young aspirants sometimes inwardly opine, that their living ancestors take up too much room. Such was very naturally the opinion of the ancients, in relation to the dead. Like François Pontraci, they began to feel the necessity of condensation; and cremation came to be more commonly adopted. The bones of a human being, reduced to ashes, require but little room; and not much more, though the decomposition by fire be not quite perfect. Let me say to those, who think I prefer cremation, as a substitute for interment, that I do not. It has found little favor for many centuries. It seems to have been employed, in the case of Shelley, the poet. However desirable, when the remains of the dead were to be deposited in the dwelling-houses of the living, cremation and urn burial are quite unnecessary, wherever there is no want of ground for cemeteries, in proper locations. The funereal urns of the ancients were of different sizes and forms, and of materials, more or less costly, according to the ability and taste of the surviving friends. Ammianus Marcellinus relates, that Gumbrates, king of Chionia, near Persia, burnt the body of his son, and placed the ashes in asilverurn.
Mr. Wedgewood had the celebrated Portland vase in his possession, for a year, and made casts of it. This was the vase, which had been in possession of the Barberini family, for nearly two centuries, and for which the Duke of Portland gave Mr. Hamilton one thousand guineas. In the minds of very many, the idea of considerable size has been associated with this vase. Yet, in fact, it is about ten inches high, and six broad. The Wedgewood casts may be seen, in many of our glass and china shops. This vase was discovered, about the middle of the sixteenth century, two and a half miles from Rome, on the Frescatiroad, in a marble sarcophagus, within a sepulchral chamber. This, doubtless, was a funereal urn. The urns, dug up, in Old Walsingham, in 1658, were quite similar, in form, to the Portland vase, excepting that they were without ears. Some fifty were found in a sandy soil, about three feet deep, a short distance from an old Roman garrison, and only five miles from Brancaster, the ancient Branodunum. Four of these vases are figured, in Browne’s Hydriotaphia; some of them contained about two pounds of bones; several were of the capacity of a gallon, and some of half that size. It may seem surprising, that a human body can be reduced to such a compass. “How the bulk of a man should sink into so few pounds of bones and ashes may seem strange unto any, who consider not its constitution, and how slender a mass will remain upon an open and urging fire, of the carnal composition. Even bones themselves, reduced into ashes, do abate a notable proportion.” Such are the words of good old Sir Thomas.
It was an adage of old, “He that lies in a golden urn, will find no quiet for his bones.” If the costliness of the material offered no temptation to the avarice of man, still, after centuries have given them the stamp of antiquity, these urns and their contents become precious, in the eyes of the lovers ofvertu. There is no security from impertinent meddling with our remains, so certain, as a speedy conversion into undistinguishable dust. Sir Thomas Browne manifestly inclined to cremation. “To be gnawed,” says he, “out of our graves, to have our skulls made drinking bowls, and our bones turned into pipes, to delight and sport our enemies, are tragical abominations, escaped in burning burials.” Such anticipations are certainly unpleasant. An ingenious device was adopted by Alaricus—he appointed the spot for his grave, and directed, that the course of a river should be so changed, as to flow over it.
It has been said, that certain soils possess a preserving quality. I am inclined to think the secret commonly lies, in some peculiar, constitutional quality, in the dead subject; for, wherever cases of remarkable preservation have occurred, corruption has been found generally to have done its full day’s work, on all around. If such quality really exist in the soil, it is certainly undesirable. Those who were opposed to the evacuation of the Cemetery des Innocens, in the sixteenth century, attempted to set up in its favor the improbable pretension, that it consumedbodies in nine days. Burton, in his description of Leicestershire, states, that the body of Thomas, Marquis of Dorset, “was found perfect, and nothing corrupted, the flesh not hardened, but in color, proportion and softness, like an ordinary corpse, newly to be interred,” after seventy-eight years’ burial.
A remarkable case of posthumous preservation occurred, in a village near Boston. The very exalted character of the professional gentleman, who examined the corpse, after it had been entombed, for forty years, gives the interest of authenticity to the statement. Justice Fuller, the father-in-law of that political victim, General William Hull,who was neither a coward nor a traitor, was buried in a family tomb, in Newton Centre. It was ascertained, and, from time to time, reported, that the body remained uncorrupted and entire. Mr. Fuller was about 80, when he died, and very corpulent. About forty years after his burial, Dr. John C. Warren, by permission of the family, with the physician of the village, and other gentlemen, examined the body of Mr. Fuller. The coffin was somewhat decomposed. So were the burial clothes. The body presented, everywhere, a natural skin, excepting on one leg, on which there had been an ulcer. There decomposition had taken place. The skin was generally of a dark brown color, and hard like dried leather; and so well preserved, about the face, that persons, present with Dr. Warren, said they should have recognized the features of Justice Fuller. My business lies not with the physiology, however curious the speculation may be. Were it possible, by any means, to perpetuate the dead, in a similar manner, it would be wholly undesirable. Dust we are, and unto dust must we return. The question is still before us,—How shallwedeal with the dead?
It is commonly supposed, that the burial of articles of value with the dead, is a practice confined to the Indian tribes, and the inhabitants of unenlightened regions; who fancied, that the defunct were gone upon some far journey, during which such accompaniments would be useful. Such is not the fact. Chilperic, the fourth king of France, came to the throne A. D. 456.In 1655 the tomb of Chilperic was accidentally discovered, in Tournay, “restoring unto the world,” saith Sir Thomas Browne, vol. 3, p. 466, “much gold adorning his sword, two hundred rubies, many hundred imperial coins, three hundred golden bees, the bones and horse-shoes of his horse, interred with him, according to the barbarous magnificence of those days, in their sepulchral obsequies.” Stow relates, in his survey of London, that, in many of the funeral urns, found in Spitalfields, there were, mingled with the relics, coins of Claudius, Vespasian, Commodus, and Antoninus, with lachrymatories, lamps, bottles of liquor, &c.
As an old sexton, I have a right to give my advice; and the public have a right to reject it. If I were the owner of a lot, in some well-governed cemetery, I would place around it a neat, substantial, iron fence, and paint it black. In the centre I would have a simple monument, of white marble, and of liberal dimensions; not pyramidal, but with four rectangular faces, to receive a goodly number of memoranda, not one of which should exceed a single line. I would have no other monument, slab, or tablet, to indicate particular graves. I would have a plan of this lot, and preserve it, as carefully, as I preserved my title papers. Probably I should keep a duplicate, in some safe place. When a body came to be buried, in that lot, I would indicate the precise location, on my plan, and engrave the name and the date of birth, and death, and nothing more, upon the monument. If the dryness and elevation of the soil allowed, I would dig the graves so deep, that the remains of three persons could repose in one grave, the uppermost, five or six feet below the surface. After the burial of the first, the grave would be filled up, and an even, sodded surface presented, as before, until re-opened. Thus, of course, those, who had been lovely and pleasant, in their lives, like Jonathan and Saul, would, in death, be not divided. This, so far from being objectionable, is a delightful idea, embalmed in the classical precedents of antiquity. It is a well-known fact, that urns of a very large size were, occasionally, in use, in Greece and Rome, for the reception and commingling of the ashes of whole families. The ashes of Achilles were mingled with those of his friend, Patroclus. The ashes of Domitian, the last, and almost the worst, of the twelve Cæsars, were inurned, as Suetonius reports, ch. 17, with those of Julia.
With the Chinese, it is very common to bury a comb, a pairof scissors to pare the nails, and four little purses, containing the nail parings of the defunct. Jewels and coins of gold are sometimes inserted in the mouths of the wealthy. This resembles the practice of the Greeks and Romans, of placing an obolus, Charon’s fee, in the mouth of the deceased. This arrangement, in regard to the nail parings, seems well enough, as they are clearly part and parcel, of the defunct. Rings, coins, and costly chalices have been found, with the ashes of the dead.
Avarice, curiosity, and revenge, personal or political, have prompted mankind, in every age, to desecrate the receptacles of the dead. The latter motive has operated more fiercely, upon the people of France, than upon almost any other. No nation has ever surpassed them, in that intense ardor, nor in the parade and magnificence, with which theycanonize—no people upon earth can rival the bitterness and fury, with which theycurse. Lamartine, in his history of the Girondists, states, that “dragoons of the Republic spread themselves over the public places, brandishing their swords, and singing national airs. Thence they went to the church of Val de Grace, where, enclosed in silver urns, were the hearts of several kings and queens of France. These funeral vases they broke, trampling under foot those relics of royalty, and then flung them into the common sewer.” And how shallwedeal with the dead?
With a reasonable economy of space, a lot of the common area, at Mount Auburn, or Forest Hills, will suffice, for the occasion of a family of ordinary size, for several generations. In re-opening one of these graves, for a second or third interment, the operative should never approach nearer than one foot to the coffin beneath. The careless manner, in which bones are sometimes spaded up, by grave-diggers, results from their want of precise knowledge of previous inhumations. Common sense indicates the propriety of keeping a regular, topographical account of every interment.
But it is quite time to bring these lucubrations to a close. To some they may have proved interesting, and, doubtless, wearisome to others. The account is therefore balanced. Most heartily do I wish for every one of my readers a decent funeral, and a peaceful grave. I have tolled my last knell, turned down my last sod, and am no longer a Sexton of the Old School.
Some commendatory passages, in your own and other journals, my dear Mr. Transcript, seem very much to me like a theatricalencore—they half persuade me to reappear. There are other considerations, which I cannot resist. Twenty devils, saith the Spanish proverb, employ that man, who employeth not himself. I am quite sensible of my error, in quitting an old vocation prematurely. You have no conception of the severe depression of spirits, produced in the mind of an old sexton, who, in an evil hour, has cast his spade aside, and set up for a man of leisure. It may answer for a short time—a very short time. I can honestly declare, that I have led a wearisome life, since I gave up undertaking. Many have been the expedients I have adopted, to relieve the oppressive tedium of my miserable days. The funeral bell has aroused me, as the trumpet rouses an old war horse. How many processions I have followed, as an amateur! One or two young men of the craft have been exceedingly kind to me, and have given me notice, whenever they have been employed upon a new grave, and have permitted me to amuse myself, by performing a portion of the work.
My own condition, since I left off business, and tried the terrible experiment of living on my income, and doing nothing, has frequently and forcibly reminded me of a similar passage, in the history of my excellent old friend, Simon Allwick, the tallow-chandler, with whom I had the happiness of living, in the closest intimacy, and whom I had the pleasure of burying, about twenty years ago.
Mr. Allwick was a thrifty man; and, having acquired a handsome property, his ambitious partner persuaded him to abandon his greasy occupation, and set up for a gentleman. This was by no means, the work of a day. Mr. Allwick loved his wife—she was an affectionate creature; and, next to the small matter of having her own way in everything, she certainly loved Allwick, as her prime minister, in bringing that matter about. She was what is commonly called a devoted wife. Man is, marvellously, the creature of habit. So completely had Allwick become that creature, that, when his partner, upon the occasion of an excursion, as far as Jamaica Pond, for which Allwick literally tore himself away from the chandlery, could not restrain heradmiration of that pretty, pet lake, he candidly confessed, that he felt nothing of the sort. And, when Mrs. Allwick exclaimed, with uplifted hands and tears in her eyes, that, in a cottage, on the borders of such a lake, she should be the happiest of the happy—“So should I, my dear,” said her husband, with a sigh, so heavily drawn, that it seemed four to the pound—“so should I, my dear, if the lake were a vat of clear melted tallow, and I had a plenty of sticks and wicks.”
Suffice it to say, Mrs. Allwick had set her heart upon the measure. She had a confidential friend or two, to whom she had communicated theprojét: her pride had therefore become enlisted; for she had given them to understand, that she meant to have her own way. She commenced an uncompromising crusade, against grease, in every form. She complained, that grease spots were upon everything. She engaged the services of a young physician, who gave it, as his deliberate opinion, that Mr. Allwick’s headaches arose from the deleterious influence of the fumes of hot grease, acting through the olfactory nerves, upon the pineal gland.
He even expressed a fear, that insanity might supervene, and he furnished an account of an eminent tallow-chandler in London, who went raving mad, and leaping into his own vat of boiling grease, was drawn out, no better than a great candle. It was a perfectcoup de grace, when Mrs. Allwick drove candles from her dwelling, and substituted oil. The chandlery adjoined their residence, in Scrap Court; and it must be admitted, that, with the wind at south, the odor was not particularly savory. Mrs. Allwick was what the world would style a smart woman, and she was in the habit of calling her husband a verywickedman and their mansion the most unclassical villa, though in the very midst ofgrease!
It is quite superfluous to say, the point was finally carried—the chandlery was sold—a country house was purchased, not on the lake, but in a sweet spot. There was some little embarrassment about the name, but two wild gooseberry bushes having been discovered, within half a mile, it was resolved, in council, to call it Mount Gooseberry. Since the going forth of Adam from Eden, in misery and shame, never was there such an exodus, as that of poor Allwick from the chandlery. I have not time to describe it. I am glad I have not. It was too much. Even Mrs. Allwick began to doubt the perfect wisdom of herplan. But the die was cast. On they went to their El Dorado. It was a pleasant spot. It was “a bonnie day in June.” The birds were in ecstacies—so was Mrs. Allwick—so were the children—the sun shone—the stream ran beautifully by—the leaves still glistened in the morning dew—there was a sprinkling of lambs on the hills—old Cato was at the door, to welcome them, and Carlo most affectionately covered the white frocks of the children with mud. “Was there ever anything like this?” exclaimed the delighted wife. “Isn’t it a perfect pink, papa?” cried the children. In answer to all this, thejecur ulcerosumof poor Allwick sent forth a deep groan, that shook the very walls of his tabernacle.
The mind of man is a mill, and will grind chaff if nothing more substantial be supplied; and, peradventure, the upper will grind the nether millstone to destruction. For a brief space, Mr. Allwick found employment. Fences were to be completed—trees and bushes were to be set out—the furniture was to be arranged—but all this was soon over, and there was my good old friend, Simon Allwick, the busiest man alive, with nothing to do! Never was there a heart, in the bosom of a tallow-chandler, so perfectly “untravelled.” Poor fellow, he went “up stairs and down stairs, and in my lady’s chamber,” but all to no other purpose, than to confirm him, in a sentiment of profound respect, for that homely proverb,it is hard for an old dog to learn new tricks.
“Where is your father?” said Mrs. Allwick to the children, after breakfast, one awful hot morning, near the end of June. The children went in pursuit—there he was—he had sought to occupy his thoughts, by watching the gambols of some half a dozen Byfield cokies—there he was—he had rested his arms upon the rail of the fence, and had been looking into the sty—his chin had dropped upon his hands—he had fallen asleep! He was mortified and nettled, at being found thus, and continued in a moody condition, through the day. On the following morning, he went to the city, and remained till night. His spirits were greatly improved, on his return; and to some felicitations from his wife and family, he replied—“My dear, I feel better, certainly; and I have made an arrangement, which, I think, will enable me to get along pretty comfortably—I have seen Mr. Smith, to whom I sold the chandlery, and have extended the term of payment. He still dips on Mondays, Wednesdays, andFridays, and has agreed to set a kettle of fat and some sticks for me, in the little closet, near the back door, that I may slip in, and amuse myself, on dipping days.”
I ought to have been warned, by this example; but I had quite forgotten it. It is very agreeable to be thus welcomed back to the performance of my former duties. No one, but he, who is deprived of some long-cherished occupation, can truly comprehend the pleasure of occasionally handling a corpse.
Few things can be imagined, more thoroughly revolting and absurd, than the vengeance of the living, rioting among the ashes of the dead—rudely rolling the stone away from the door of the sepulchre—entering the narrow houses of the unresisting,vi et armis, with the pickaxe and the crowbar—and scattering to the winds the poor senseless remains of those, who were consigned to their resting-places, with all the honors of a former age. This, were it not awful, would be eminently ridiculous. For the execution of such posthumous revenge the French nation has the precedence of every other, civilized and savage. Frenchmen, if not, through all time, from the days of Pharamond to the present, remarkably zealous of good works, are clearly a peculiar people.
The history of the world furnishes no parallel to that preposterous crusade, carried on by that people, in 1794, against the dead bodies of kings and princes, saints and martyrs. This war, upon dead men’s bones, was not projected and executed, by the rabble, on the impulse of the moment. A formal, deliberate decree of the Convention commanded, that the tombs should be destroyed, and they were destroyed, and their contents scattered to the winds, accordingly. Talk not of all that is furious and fantastical, in the conduct of monkeys and maniacs—a nation of chimpanzees would have acted with more dignity and discretion. A colony of grinning baboons, as Shakspeare calls them, bent upon liberty, equality, and fraternity, might have dethroned some tyrannical ourang outang, who had carried matters with too high a hand, and extorted too many cocoa nuts, for the supportof his civil list; but, after having cut off his head, it is not to be believed, that they would have gone about, scratching up the ashes of his ancestors, and wreaking their vengeance upon those unoffending relics.
This miserable onslaught upon the dead began, immediately after December 20, 1794. The new worship commenced on that day, and the goddess of reason then, for the first time, presented herself to the people, in the person of the celebrated actress, Mademoiselle Maillard. St. Genevieve, the patroness of the city of Paris, died in 512, and her remains were subsequently transferred to the church, which bears her name, and which was erected, by Clovis, in 517. The executive agents of the National Convention commenced their legalized fooleries, upon the ashes of this poor old saint. These French gentlemen—the politest nation upon earth—without the slightest regard for decency, or sanctification, or common sense, dug up Madame Genevieve’s coffin, and, to aggravate the indignity, dragged the old lady’s remains to the place of public execution, thePlace de Grève; and, having burnt them there, scattered the ashes to the winds. The gates of bronze, presented by Charlemagne to the church of St. Denis, were broken to pieces. Pepin, the sire of Charlemagne and son of Charles Martel, was buried there, in 768. Nothing remained of Pepin but a handful of dust, which was served in a similar manner. It is stated by Lamartine, that the heads of Marshal Turenne, Duguesclin, Louis XII., and Francis I., were rolled about the pavement; sceptres, crowns, and crosiers were trampled under foot; and the shouts of the operatives were heard, when the blows of the axe broke through some regal coffin, and the royal bones were thrown out, to be treated with senseless insult.
Hugh Capet, Philip the bold, and Philip, the handsome, were buried beneath the choir. The ruthless hands of these modern vandals tore from the corpses those garments of the grave, in which they had reposed for centuries, and threw the relics upon beds of quicklime.
Henry IV. fell by the hands of Ravaillac, the assassin, May 14, 1610. His body, was carefully embalmed, by Italians. When taken from the coffin, the lineaments of the face fully corresponded with the numerous representations, transmitted by the hands of painters and statuaries. That cherished and perfumed beard expanded, as if it had just then received the lastmanipulation of the friseur. The marks were perfectly visible, upon the breast, indicating the first and second thrust of Ravaillac’s stilletto. The popularity of this monarch protected his remains, though for a brief space. He was frank, brave, and humane. For two days, all that remained of this idol of the people—was exhibited to public view.
The exhumed king was placed at the foot of the altar, and a countless multitude passed, in mute procession, around these favored relics. This gave umbrage to Javogues, a member of the Convention. He denounced this partiality, and railed against the memory of Henri le Grand. The multitude, impressible by the slightest impulse, hurled the dead monarch into the common fosse of quicklime and corruption; execrating, under the influence of a few feverish words, from the lips of a republican savage, the memory and the remains of one, cherished by their predecessors, for nearly three hundred years. A similar fate awaited his son and grandson, Louis XIII. and XIV. The vault of the Bourbons was thoroughly ransacked, in the same spirit of desolation. Queens, dauphinesses, and princesses, says the historian of the Girondists, were carried away, in armsful, by the laborers, to be cast into the trench, and consumed by quicklime. In the vault of Charles V., surnamed the wise, besides the corpse were found, a hand of justice and a golden crown. In the coffin of his wife, Jeanne of Bourbon, were her spindles and marriage rings. These relics were thrown into the ditch—the corpses—not the articles of gold, however debased by their juxtaposition. Of the French gentlemen it may be affirmed, as of Madame Gilpin—
“Though on pleasure she was bent,She had a frugal mind.”
An economy, perfectly grotesque, mingled with an unmanly desecration. Even the lead was scraped together from these coffins, and converted into balls. In the vault of the Valois no bodies were discovered. The people were very desirous of showing some tokens of their wrath, upon the poor carcass of Louis XI., but it could not be found. Abbés, heroes, ministers of state were indiscriminately cast into the fosse. Upon the exhumation of Dagobert I., and his queen, Matilde, who had been buried twelve hundred years, her skeleton was found without a head. Such is said to have been the case with several other skeletons of the queens of France.
In one of the upper lofts of the cabinet of Natural History of the Jardin des Plantes, among stuffed beasts and birds, surrounded by mixed and manifold rubbish, and covered with dust, there lay a case or package, unexamined and unnoticed, for nine long years. This envelope contained the mortal remains of a Marechal of France, the hero of an hundred battles,—of no other than Henry de la Tour, Viscount de Turenne. He was killed by a cannon ball, July 27, 1675, at the age of 64. All France lamented the death of this great man. The admiration of all Europe followed him to the grave. Courage, modesty, generosity, science have embalmed his memory. The king, Louis le Grand, ordered a solemn service to be performed, for the Marechal de Turenne, in the Cathedral church at Paris, as for the first prince of the blood, and that his remains should be interred in the abbey of St. Denis, the burial-place of the royal personages of France, where the cardinal, his nephew, raised a splendid mausoleum to his memory. So much for glory—and what then? In 1794, the remains of this great man were upon the point of being cast into the common fosse, by the agents of the Convention, when some, less rabid than the rest, smuggled them away; and, for security, conveyed them to the lumber room of the cabinet of Natural History of the Jardin des Plantes. Having reposed, nine years in state, peradventure between a dilapidated kangaroo and a cast-off opossum—these remains of the great Turenne were, at length, committed, in a quiet way, to the military tomb of the Invalids.
Burning dead saints, is a more pardonable matter, than burning living martyrs—the combustion of St. Genevieve’s dry bones, than the fiery trial of Latimer and Ridley—the fantastical decree of the French Convention, than the cruel discipline of bloody Mary. Dark days were they, and full of evil, those years of bitterness and blood, from 1553 to Nov. 17, 1558, when, by a strange coincidence, this hybrid queen, whose sire was a British tyrant, and whose dam a Spanish bigot, expired on the same day with the Cardinal, Reginald Pole. From theremarkable proximity of the events arose a suspicion of poison, of which the public mind has long since been disabused.
In this age of greater intelligence and religious freedom, the outrages, perpetrated, in the very city of London, within five brief years, are credible, only on the strength of well authenticated history. According to Bishop Burnet, two hundred and eighty-four persons were burnt at the stake, during four years of this merciless and miserable reign. Lord Burleigh makes the number of those, who died, in that reign, by imprisonment, torments, famine, and fire, to be near four hundred. Weever, in his Funeral Monuments, page 116, quotes the historian Speed, as saying, “In the heat of those flames, were burnt to ashes five bishops, one-and-twenty divines, eight gentlemen, eighty-four artificers, an hundred husbandmen, servants, and laborers, twenty-six wives, twenty widows, nine virgins, two boys, and two infants; one of them whipped to death by Bonner, and the other, springing out of the mother’s womb from the stake, as she burned, thrown again into the fire.” Here, in passing, suffer me to express my deep reverence for John Weever. I know of no book, so interesting to the craft, as his Funeral Monuments, a work of infinite labor and research. Weever died in 1632, and lies in St. James, Clerkenwell. His epitaph may be found in Strype’s Survey:
Lancashire gave me birth,And Cambridge education;Middlesex gave me death,And this church my humation;And Christ to me hath givenA place with him in heaven.
The structure of these lines will remind the classical reader of Virgil’s epitaph:
Mantua me genuit: Calabri rapuere; tenet nuncParthenope; cecini pascua, rura, duces.
The short and sharp reign of Mary Tudor was remarkable for burning Protestant Christians and wax candles. That fountain of fun, pure and undefiled, that prince of wags, Theodore Hook, was offered, very young, for admission at the University; and, when the chancellor opened the book, and gravely inquired if he was ready to sign the thirty-nine articles, “Yes, sir,” replied the young puppy, “forty, if you please.” Now, in contemplation of the enormous consumption of wax, especiallyupon the occasion of funeral obsequies, during Mary’s reign, it would seem that a belief, in its vital importance, might have formed an additional article, in the Romish creed.
I have never thought well of grafting religion upon the selfishness of man’s nature. Nominal converts, it is true, are readily made, in that way. In Catholic countries, wax chandlers are Romanists, to a man. I always considered the attempt, a few years since, to convert the inhabitants of Nantucket to Puseyism, by a practical appeal to their self interest, however ingeniously contrived, a very wicked thing. And I greatly lauded the good old bishop of this diocese, for rebuking those very silly priests, who promoted a senseless and extravagant consumption of one of the great staples of that island, by burning candles in the day time. He made good use of his mitre as an extinguisher.
On a somewhat similar principle, I have always objected to every attempt to augment the revenues of a state by taxing corpses—not upon the acknowledged principle, that taxation without representation is inadmissible—but because the whole system is a most miserable mingling ofsacra profanis. I may not be understood by all, in this remark: I refer to those acts of Parliament, which, for the purposes of levying a tax, or promoting some particular branch of industry, have attempted to regulate a man’s apparel, and the fitting up of his narrow house, after he is dead. The compulsory employment of flannel, by British statute, is an example of this legislative interference.
Nothing is more common, in Strype’s Ecclesiastical Memorials, than entries, such as these: “1557, May 3. The Lord Shandois was buried with heralds, an herse of wax, four banners of images, and other appendages of funeral honor.” “On the 5th, the Lady Chamberlain was buried with a fair herse of wax.” “May 28, in the forenoon, was buried Mrs. Gates, widow, late wife, as it seems, to Sir John Gates, executed the first year of this queen’s reign. She gave seventeen fine black gowns, and fourteen of broad russet for poor men. There were carried two white branches, ten staff torches, and four great tapers.” “July 10th the Lady Tresham was buried at Peterborough, with four banners, and an herse of wax, and torches.” “1558, September 14th, was buried Sir Andrew Judd, skinner, merchant of Muscovy, and late Mayor ofLondon, with ten dozen of escutcheons, garnished with angels, and an herse of wax.” What is an herse of wax? This will be quite unintelligible to those, who have supposed that word to import nothing else than the vehicle, in which the dead are carried to the grave. Herse also signifies a temporary monument, erected upon, or near, the place of sepulture, and on which the corpse was laid, for a time, in state; and a herse of wax was a structure of this kind, surrounded with wax tapers. This will be made manifest, by some additional extracts from the same author: “1557. The 16th day of July, died the lady Anne, of Cleves, at Chelsey, sometime wife and queen unto King Henry VIII., but never crowned. Her corpse was cered the night following.” “On the 29th began the herse at Westminster, for the Lady Anne of Cleves, consisting of carpenters’ work of seven principals, being as goodly an herse as had been seen.” “On the 3d of August the body of the Lady Anne of Cleves was brought from Chelsey, where her house was, unto Westminster, to be buried—men bore her, under a canopy of black velvet, with four black staves, and so brought her into the herse, and there tarriedDirge, remaining there all night, with lights burning.” “On the 16th day of August the herse of the King of Denmark was begun to be set up, in a four-square house. August 18, was the King of Denmark’s herse in St. Paul’s finished with wax, the like to which was never seen in England, in regard to the fashion of square tapers.” And on the 23d, also was the King of Denmark’s herse, at St. Paul’s, “taken down by the wax chandlers and carpenters, to whom this work pertained, by order of Mr. Garter, and certain of the Lord Treasurer’s servants.” These herses were, doubtless, very attractive in their way. “Aug. 31, 1557. The young Dutchess of Norfolk being lately deceased, her herse began to be set up on the 28th, in St. Clements, without Temple bar, and was this day finished with banners, pensils, wax, and escutcheons.”
The office of an undertaker, in those days, was no sinecure. He was anarbiter elegantiarum. A funeral was a festival then. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow you die, was the common phylactery.
“The funeral baked meatsDid coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.”
Baked meats shall be the subject of my next.
Pliny, xviii. 30, refers to a practice among the Romans, very similar to that, in use among certain unenlightened nations, of depositing articles of diet upon tombs and graves, such as beans, lettuces, eggs, bread, and the like, for the use of ghosts. The stomachs of Roman ghosts were not supposed to be strong enough for flesh meat. Hence the lines of Juvenal, v. 85:
Sed tibi dimidio constrictus cammarus ovoPonitur, exigua feralis cæna patella.
Thesilicerniumorcæna funebriswas a very different, and more solid affair. At first blush—to use a common and sensible expression—there seems no respectable keeping, between the art of burying the dead, and that of feasting the living. Depositing those, whom we love, in their graves, is certainly the very last relish for an appetite. Something of this was undoubtedly done, of old, under the promptings of Epicurean philosophy—upon thedum vivimus vivamusprinciple—and, in that spirit which teaches the soldier, when he turns from the grave, to change the mournful, for the merry strain. The desire of equalling or excelling others, in the magnificence of funereal parade, has ever been a powerful motive. The eyes of others destroy us, said Franklin, and not our own. Grief for the departed, and sympathy with the bereaved, were not deemed sufficient, to insure an imposing parade. Games and festivals were therefore provided, for the people. Among other attractions, masses of uncooked meat were bestowed upon all comers. This was thevisceratioof the Romans. This word seems to have a different import;viscera, however, signifies all beneath the skin, as may be seen by consulting Serv. in Virg., Æn. i., 211. Suetonius Cæs. 39, and Cicero de Officiis ii. 16, refer to this practice. It was by no means very common, but frequently adopted by those, who could afford the expense, and were desirous of the display.
Marcus Flavius had committed an infamous crime. He was popular, and the ædiles of the people had fixed a day for his absolution. Under pretence of celebrating his mother’s funeral, he gave avisceratioto the people: Populo visceratio data, a M. Flavio, in funere matris. Erant, qui, per speciem honorandæ parentis, meritam mercedem populo solutaminterpretarentur; quod eum, die dicta ab ædilibus, crimine stupratæ matris familæ absolvisset. Liv. viii. 22. A note upon this passage, in Lemaire’s edition, fully explains the nature of this practice.
This was a very different affair from thesilicernium, or feast for the friends, after the funeral. Upon such occasions, the Falernian flowed, and boars were roasted whole. The reader, by opening his Livy, xxxix. 46, will find an account of the funeral of P. Licinius: avisceratiowas given to the people; one hundred and twenty gladiators fought in the arena; the funeral games lasted three days; and then followed a splendid entertainment. On that occasion, a tempest drove the company into the forum; this occurred, in the year U. C. 569. Through all time, the practice has prevailed, more or less, of providing entertainments, for those, who gather on such occasions. In villages, especially, and within my own recollection, the funeral has been delayed, to enable distant friends to arrive in season; and the interval has been employed, in the preparation of creature comforts, not only for such as attended, and observed the ceremonial of an hour, but for such, as came to the bereaved, like the comforters of the man of Uz, “every one from his place, and sat down with him, seven days and seven nights.” Animal provision must surely be required, to sustain such protracted lamentation.
In the age, when Shakspeare wrote, and for several ages before and after, “baked meats,” at funerals, were very common. So far, from contenting themselves with the preparation of some simple aliment, for such as were an hungered, the appetites of all were solicited, by a parade of the rarest liquors and the choicest viands. Tables were spread, in the most ample manner, and the transition was immediate from the tomb to the festal board. Therequiescat in pacewas scarcely uttered, before the blessing was craved, on the baked meats. It matters little, from what period of history we select our illustrations of this truth. Suppose we take our examples from the reign, preceding that, in which Shakspeare was born; comprehend some other incidents in our collection; and rely, for our authority, on good old John Strype, who was himself born in 1643. There is no higher authority. I will present a few specimens from his Ecclesiastical Memorials: “1557, May 5. Was the Lady Chamberlain buried. At the mass preached Dr. Chadsey. A great dole of money given at the church, and after, a greatdinner. May 29, was buried Mrs. Gates; after mass a great dinner. June 7, began a stage play at the Grey Friars of the passion of Christ. June 10.—This day Sir John, a chantry priest, hung himself with his own girdle. The same day was the storehouse in Portsmouth burnt, much beer and victual destroyed. A judgment, perhaps, for burning so many innocent persons. June 29.—This same day was the second year’s mind (i. e. yearlyobit) of good master Lewyn, ironmonger; at his dirge were all the livery. After, they retired to the widow’s place, where they had a cake and wine; and besides the parish, all comers treated.” Aug. 3.—After giving a long account of the funeral of Ann of Cleves, Strype adds, “and so they went in order to dinner.” After reciting the particulars of the King of Denmark’s funeral, in London, Aug. 18, 1557, he adds: “After the dirge, all the heralds and all the Lords went into the Bishop of London’s place, and drank. The next day was the morrow-mass, and a goodly sermon preached, and after, to my Lord of London’s to dinner.”
The account of the funeral of Thomas Halley is entitled to be presented entire: “On the 24th of this month, August, Mr. Thomas Halley, clarentieux, king-at-arms, was buried, in St. Giles’s parish, without Cripplegate, with coat, armor, and pennon of arms, and scutcheons of his arms, and two white branches, twelve staff torches, and four great tapers, and a crown. And, after dirge, the heralds repaired unto Greenhill, the waxchandler, a man of note (being waxchandler to Cardinal Pole) living hard by; where they had spice-bread and cheese, and wine, great plenty. The morrow-mass was also celebrated, and sermon preached; and after followed a great dinner, whereat were all the heralds, together with the parishioners. There was a supper also, as well as a dinner.” After a long account of the funeral of the Countess of Arundel, Oct. 5, 1557, follow the customary words—“and, after, all departed to my Lord’s place to dinner.” “Nov. 12, Mr. Maynard, merchant, was buried; and after, the company departed to his house, at Poplar, to a great dinner.” “Oct. 19, died the Lord Bray; and so he went by water to Chelsea to be buried, &c. &c. Many priests and clerks attended. They all came back to this Lord’s place, at Blackfriars, to dinner.” At the funeral of Richard Capet, Feb. 1, “All return to dinner.” “On the 16th, Mr. Pynohe, fishmonger, and a brother of Jesus, was buried. All being performed at thechurch, the company retired to his house to drink.” On the 24th, “a great dinner,” after the funeral of Sir George Bowers. This testimony is inexhaustible. After the funeral of Lady White, March 2, Strype says “there was as great a dinner as had been seen.” I will close with two examples. “Aug. 3, 1588. The Lady Rowlet was buried; and after mass, the company retreated to the place to dinner, which was plentifully furnished with venison, fresh salmon, fresh sturgeon, and many other fine dishes. On the 12th, died Mr. Machyl, alderman and clothesworker.” After a sermon by a grey friar, “the Lord Mayor and Aldermen, and all the mourners and ladies went to dinner, which was very splendid, lacking no good meat, both flesh and fish, and an hundred marchpanes.”
It is certain, that all this appears to us now to have been in very bad taste; and it is not easy to comprehend the principle, which conducted to the perpetration of such sensual absurdities; unless we suppose it to have been the design of all concerned, to felicitate the heir, upon his coming to possession; the widow, upon the fruition of an ample dower and abundant leisure; or the widower, upon the recovery of his liberty. This is not the only occasion, upon which man’s features are required, from the extreme suddenness of the change, to undergo a process of moral distortion, amounting to grimace. Thus, grief, for the death of one monarch, is rudely expressed, by turbulent joy at the succession of another. Suffer me to conclude, in the words of father Strype—“The same day queen Mary deceased, in the morning between 11 and 12, the Lady Elizabeth was proclaimed queen: in the afternoon all the churches in London rang their bells; and at night were bonfires made, and tables set in the streets, and the people did eat, and drink, and make merry.”
Among the dead—the mighty dead—there is one, in regard to whom, our national dealings may be fairly set forth, in the words of Desdemona—
In faith, ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange;’Twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful:She wish’d she had not heard it.
Forty-nine years have passed, since the interment of George Washington. Forty-nine years ago, “the joint committee,” says Chief Justice Marshall, “which had been appointed to devise the mode, by which the nation should express its feelings, on this melancholy occasion, reported” a series of resolutions, among which was the following: “That a marble monument be erected, by the United States, at the city of Washington, and that the family of General Washington be requested to permit his body to be deposited under it; and that the monument be so designed, as to commemorate the great events of his military and political life.” To the letter, transmitting the resolutions to Mrs. Washington, she replied, as follows: “Taught by the great example, which I have so long had before me, never to oppose my private wishes to the public will, I must consent to the request made by Congress, which you have had the goodness to transmit to me; and, in doing this, I need not, I cannot, say what a sacrifice of individual feeling I make, to a sense of public duty.”
All this is very fine. The nation requested permission to remove the remains—Mrs. Washington consented—but that monument! The remains have slumbered quietly, where they first were interred, for nine and forty years—and the monument is like Rachel’s first born—it is not! There is something better in prospect. Such, however, is the record thus far. It is very true he needs no monument. No immortal can say more justly, from his elevated sphere, to every inhabitant of this vast empire,si monumentum quæris, circumspice!
This fact, however, so far from taking the tithe of a hair from the balance of this account, illustrates the national delinquency. It may be matter of amusing speculation, to contrast the zeal, which prevails, especially in England, in relation to the most trifling memorials of Shakspeare, and the popular indifference, in regard to certain relics, known to have been the property of Washington, and to have been personally used by him.
All are familiar with the recent excitement, on the subject of Shakspeare’s house—that mulberry tree—a hair of him, for memory.
Washington’s library has lately been sold, for just about the price of four shares in one of the cotton mills at Lowell. A few years since, the cabinet of medals, struck at different times, inhonor of the Father of his country, and which had become the property of one of his representatives, was sold by him, for five hundred dollars, and purchased by an individual citizen of Massachusetts. There are some things, seemingly so vast—so very—very national—that one can scarcely believe it possible for any private cabinet to contain them gracefully.
Soon after the destruction of the Bastile, July 14, 1789, La Fayette sent its massive key to Washington—his political father—as the first fruits of those principles of liberty, which were then supposed to be bourgeoning forth, in afreeFrench soil. This colossal key was suspended, in the front entry, at Mount Vernon. A short time ago, an aged friend, residing in a neighboring town, and once intimate in the family of Washington, told me he had often seen that famous key, in its well known position. This also became the property of Washington’s representatives. A few years since, I saw it stated, in the public journals, that, among other effects, this key of the Bastile was sold at auction, and purchased for seventy-five cents, by a gentleman, who had the good taste to return it to some member of the family.
Eminent men, as they arise, are occasionally compared to Washington. Points of resemblance, now and then, may assuredly be found; but there never breathed a man, whose mental and moral properties combined, could endure a rigid comparison with his. Whoever attempts to run this parallel, between him and any other, will readily acknowledge the truth of the proverb,nullum simile quatuor pedibus currit. Select the example from the present, or the past, from our own or from other lands, and inquire, to which of them all would Erskine, so chary of his praise, so slow of faith in his fellow, have applied those memorable words, inscribed, in the presentation copy of his work, transmitted to Washington—You, sir, are the only individual, for whom I ever felt an awful reverence. Of whom else would Lord Brougham have pronounced this remarkable passage—“It will be the duty of the historian and the sage, in all ages, to omit no occasion of commemorating this illustrious man; and, until time shall be no more, will a test of the progress, which our race has made in wisdom and virtue, be derived, from the veneration paid to the immortal name of Washington.”
I have not yet met with any gentleman of our calling, who is not decidedly in favor of the election of General Taylor, or who would not gratuitously attend, in a professional way, uponMessieurs Cass and Van Buren. We perceive a resemblance between the first president and the present candidate, in their willingness to draw long bills on posterity for fame, in preference to numerous drafts, at sight, without grace, for daily applause. But we behold, in Washington, the image and superscription, not of Cæsar, but of a peerless mortal—of one, created, verily, a little lower than the angels—
“A combination, and a form, indeed,Where every god did seem to set his seal,To give the world assurance of a man.”
No men have done more to bedim the reputation of Washington, than Jefferson and Randolph. Verily they have their reward. In no portion of our country has the memory of that great man been more universally cherished and beloved, than in New England. A sentiment, not only of reverence for his character, but of affection for his person, was very general, in this quarter; and manifested itself, in a remarkable manner, upon the occasion of his death. Nothing could have been more unexpected, than the announcement of that event, in Boston. I will close this article, with a simple illustration of the popular feeling, when the sad tidings arrived. At the close of that year, 1799—I was a small boy then—I was returning from a ride on horseback, to Dorchester Point—there was no bridge, and it was quite a journey. As I approached the town, I was very much surprised, at the tolling of the bells. Upon reaching home, I saw my old father, at an unusual hour for him, the busiest man alive, to be at home, sitting alone in our parlor, with his bandanna before his eyes. I ran towards him, with the thoughtless gayety of youth, and asked what the bells were tolling for. He withdrew the handkerchief from his face—the tears were rolling down his fine old features—“Go away child,” said he, “don’t disturb me; do you not know, that Washington is dead?”
The reader has surmised, that the worthy old man had sipped at the fountain of executive patronage. Not at all. He had never seen Washington, and never held an office civil or military, saving under Hancock’s commission, as justice of the peace, which was accounted a very pretty compliment, in those days. No. He was nothing but an American, and he shed those American tears, upon the death of one, whose character and conduct had filled his heart with sentiments of pride, and love, and “awful reverence.”
I am rather inclined to suspect, that man is a selfish animal. A few days ago, I administered a merited rebuke to a group of young sextons, who had gathered together, after a funeral, and were seated upon a barrow bier, before an unclosed tomb. They had been discussing the subject of capital punishment, and were opposed to it unanimously. They frankly admitted, that they were not influenced, by any consideration of humanity, but looked simply to the fact, that, as the bodies of executed criminals went, commonly, to the surgeons, every execution deprived us of a job. One observed, that Boston was dreadfully healthy—another remarked, that homœopathy had proved a considerable help to us. Several compliments were paid to Thompson, Brandreth, and Mrs. Kidder. But they appeared to anticipate emolument from no source, so certainly, as from the approaching cholera.
I was greatly shocked, and expressed my opinion very freely. I reminded them of the primitive dignity of the sacristan’s office. I should deeply regret, to see our calling reduced to the level of a mere trade, with its tariff—shrouds all rising—coffins looking up! We have a fair share of funerals, and the members of our profession have no just cause for complaint. Steam has helped us prodigiously. It has been said, that, comparing the amount of steam travel with the amount of ante-steam travel, i. e., the present with the past, the relative amount of deaths, from accident, is about the same. Suppose it to be so; the cheapness and facility of locomotion, at present, stimulate a much larger number to move—there is a vast increase of frivolous and pleasure travel—cars are filled with women, crates with bandboxes, and death is to be averaged over the integer—I therefore repeat, that steam has helped our profession. If steam had been known, in ancient Rome, it would have been reckoned a deity, whose diet, like the sacrifice of Juggernaut, would have been flesh and blood.
There is a very natural sensibility, on the part of steamboat and railroad proprietors, to the announcement of disasters, by steam. There is a wonderful eagerness to persuade the public to contemplate these catastrophes, with the larger end of the telescope toward the eye. This also is a great help to our profession. There is really no lack of business, and it is quiteabominable, for thoughtless young sextons to pray for the advent of the cholera.
We dwell in a region of the earth, seldom touched by this besom of destruction. Pestilence and famine have rarely come nigh unto us. It would be impious to envy the denizens of milder climes.
“With gold and gems if Chilian mountains glow,If bleak and barren Scotia’s hills arise;There plague and poison, lust and rapine grow,Here peaceful are the vales and pure the skies.”
I thank heaven, I was not an undertaker, in London, in 1665, when there were scarcely enough of the living to bury the dead. When I used to wrap myself up, in the pages of Robinson Crusoe, how little I suspected, that Daniel Defoe was the writer of some twenty volumes beside. His inimitable history of the plague, of 1665, is admirable reading, for the members of our craft.
At irregular periods, plague, yellow fever, sweating sickness, and cholera have visited the earth, with terrible effect. Let us take a cursory view of these awful visitations. A. D. 78, 10,000 perished daily at Rome. The plague returned there A. D. 167. Terrible plague in Britain A. D. 430. A dreadful plague spread over Europe, Asia and Africa, A. D. 558, and continued, for several years. 200,000 died of the plague in Constantinople, A. D. 746. This plague raged for three years, and extended to Calabria, Sicily and Greece. William of Malmsbury states, that A. D. 772, an epidemic disease carried off 34,000 in Chichester, England. 40,000 died of pestilence in Scotland, A. D. 954. Hollingshed gives an account of a terrible plague among cattle, A. D. 1111, and in Ireland A. D. 1204. In this year a general plague raged in Europe. In London 200 persons were buried daily, in the Charterhouse yard. A dreadful mortality prevailed in London and Paris, A. D. 1362 and ’7. Great pestilence in Ireland A. D. 1383. Endemic destroyed 30,000 in London A. D. 1407. Great numbers died of plague in Ireland, following famine, A. D. 1466. Dublin was severely visited with plague A. D. 1470. Rapin and Salmon give an account of the plague at Oxford, A. D. 1471, and throughout England A. D. 1478.
The sweating sickness,sudor Anglicus, first appeared, in England, in 1483, in the army of Henry VII., on his landing atMilfordhaven. A year or two after, it travelled to London, and remained there, with intermissions, for forty years. It then passed over to the continent, and overran Holland, Germany, Flanders, France, Denmark, and Norway. It continued in those countries, from 1525 to 1530; it then returned to England; and was last known there, in 1551. It was a malignant fever, accompanied with very great thirst, delirium, and excessive sweat. Dr. Caius called it “a contagious, pestilential fever of one day, prevailing with a mighty slaughter, as tremendous as the plague of Athens.” Dr. Willis says, “Its malignity was so extreme, that as soon as it entered a city, it made a daily attack, on five or six hundred persons, of whom scarcely one in a hundred recovered.” Strype says, “The plague of sweat this summer, 1551, was very severe, and carried away multitudes of people, rich and poor, especially in London, where, in one day, July 10th, died an hundred people, and the next, one hundred and twenty. From the 8th of this month to the 19th, there died in London, of this sweat, 872.”
Stowe says that, in the 9th year of Henry VII., 1517, half the population, in the capital towns of England, died of the sweating sickness: and that it proved fatal, in three hours. In the year 1500, Stowe also says, that the plague was so terrible in London, that Henry VII. and his court went over to Calais. The plague prevailed in England and Ireland, in 1603, and in London 30,000 persons died. In 1611, 200,000 died of pestilence, in Constantinople; 35,000 persons died of an epidemic in London, in 1625. In 1632 a general mortality prevailed in France; 60,000 died in Lyons. The plague was brought from Sardinia to Naples, in 1656, and 400,000 of the Neapolitans died, in six months. In the great plague of London, of 1665, described by De Foe, 68,596 persons died. In 1720, 60,000 perished of the plague at Marseilles.
An account is given, by the Abbe Mariti, of one of the most awful plagues ever known, which prevailed in Syria, in 1760. In Persia, 80,000 inhabitants of Bassorah, died of the plague, in 1773. In 1792, the plague destroyed 800,000 persons in Egypt. In 1799, 247,000 died of the plague at Fez; and in Barbary, 3000 daily, for several days. In 1804 and ’5, an immense number were destroyed, by the plague, in Gibraltar. At the same place, in 1828, many were swept away, by an epidemic fever, scarce distinguishable from the plague. Verily the vocation ofan undertaker is anything but a sinecure! But, in such terrible emergencies, as were hourly occurring, during the prevalence of the great plague of London, such an operator as Pontraci would have cast aside all thoughts of shrouds and coffins. In one single night 4000 died. The hearses were common dead carts; and the continued cry,bring out your dead, rang through every heart. Defoe rates the victims of the plague of 1665, at 100,000.
At present, we have a deeper interest in the pestilence of modern times, though by some accounted of great antiquity. The Indian or Asiatic cholera traversed the north, east and south of Europe, and the countries of Asia, and, in two years, prostrated 900,000 victims. It subsequently appeared in England, at Sunderland, Oct. 26, 1831; in Scotland, at Edinburgh, Feb. 6, 1832; in Ireland, at Dublin, March 3, 1832. The mortality was great, but much less than upon the continent. Between March and August, 1832, 18,000 died of cholera, in Paris. In July and August, 1837, it reappeared in Rome, the Two Sicilies, Genoa, Berlin, and some other cities. Its ravages, in this country, were far less notable, than in many others. It is very wise to cast about us, and determine what we will do, if it should come again, and it is very likely to take us in its progress. But let us not forget, that it will most easily approach us, through our fears; and probably, in no disease, are fear and grief more fatalavant couriers, than in affections of the abdominal viscera.
I am half inclined to the opinion of a charming old lady of my acquaintance, who, after listening to a learned discussion, as to the seat of the soul—the fountain of sensibility,—and whether or not it was seated in the conarion—the pineal gland—gave her decided opinion, that it was seated in the bowels.
The dead speak from their coffins—from their very graves—and verily the heart of the true mourner hath ears to hear. Gloves and rings are the valedictories of the dead—theirvales, or parting tokens, received by the mourners, at the hand of some surviving friend. This appropriated word,vale, as almost everyone knows, is the leave-taking expression of the mourners; and, when anglicised, and used in the plural number, as one syllable, signifies thosevalesor vails, tokens, in various forms, from shillings to crown pieces, bestowed by parting visitors, on domestics, from the head waiter to the scullion. They are intended as leave tokens. Every servant, in the families of the nobility, from the highest to the lowest, expects avale, not in the classical sense of Menalcas—Longum, formose, vale, vale, but in lawful money, intelligible coin. This practice had become so oppressive to visitors, in the early part of the reign of George III., that Sir Jonas Hanway, remarkable, among other things, for his controversy with Dr. Johnson, on the subject of tea drinking, wrote and published eight letters to the Duke of Newcastle, against the custom of giving vails, in which he relates some very amusing anecdotes. Mr. Hanway, being quietly reproached, by a friend, in high station, for not accepting his invitations to dinner, more frequently, frankly replied, “Indeed, my Lord, I cannot afford it.” He recites the manner of leaving a gentleman’s house, where he had dined; the servants, as usual, flocked around him—“your great coat, Sir Jonas”—a shilling—“your hat, sir:” a shilling—“stick, sir:” a shilling—“umbrella, sir:” a shilling—“sir, your gloves”—“well, keep the gloves, they are not worth the shilling.” A remarkable example of the insolence of a pampered menial was related to Mr. Hanway, by Sir Timothy Waldo. He had dined with the Duke of Newcastle: as he was departing, and handing over his coin to the train of servants, that lined the hall, he put a crown into the hand of the chief cook, who returned it, saying, “I never take silver, sir.” “Indeed”—Sir Timothy replied, returning the piece to his pocket, “I never give gold.”
Sir Jonas was an excellent man; and, whatever objections he may have had to the practice of giving extravagant vails to servants, I think he would have little or nothing to say, against the practice of giving such vails, as the dead may be supposed, vicariously, to bestow upon the living, in the form of rings and gloves. The dead, it must be conceded, seem not so much disposed to give vails, at present, as they were, one hundred years ago. In such dispensations, in the olden time, the good man, the clergyman, was seldom forgotten. Gloves and rings were showered down, upon the Lord’s anointed, at weddings, christenings, and funerals. When a child, I was very much puzzled,upon two points; first, what became of all the old moons, and, secondly, what the minister did with his gloves and rings. If he had had the hands of Briareus, he could not have worn them all.
An interesting little volume is now lying upon my table, which explains the mystery, not at all, in relation to the moons, but most happily, in respect to rings and gloves. It is the Astronomical Diary or Almanac of Nathaniel Ames, Boston, New England, printed by J. Draper, for the booksellers, 1748. This little book is interleaved; and the blank leaves are written over, in the hand-writing of good old Andrew Eliot, who, April 14, 1742, was ordained pastor of the new North Church, in Boston, as colleague with Mr. Webb, where, possessing very little of the locomotive or migratory spirit of the moderns, this excellent man remained, till his death, Sept. 13, 1778. If gall and wormwood are essential to the perfection of Christian theology, Dr. Eliot was singularly deficient, as a teacher of religion. His sermons were very full of practical godliness, and singularly free from brimstone and fire. He was elected President of Harvard University, but his attachment to his people caused him to decline the appointment. After this passing tribute, let us return to the little Almanac of 1748. On the inside of the marble cover the first entry commences thus: “Gloves, 1748, January.” The gloves, received by Dr. Eliot, are set against particular names, and under every month, in the year. Certain names are marked with asterisks, doubtless denoting, that the parties were dead, orstelligeri, after the fashion of the College catalogue; and thus the good doctor discriminated, between funerals, and weddings and christenings. Although a goodly number of rings are enrolled, together with the gloves, yet a page is devoted to rings, exclusively, in the middle of the book. This is not arranged, under months, but years; and commences, in 1741, the year before he was ordained, as colleague with Mr. Webb. At the bottom of the record, the good man states how many pairs were kid; how many were lambswool; and how many were long or women’s gloves, intended, of course, for the parson’s lady.
These rings and gloves were sold, by the worthy doctor, with the exception of such, as were distributed, in his own household, not a small one, for he left eleven children. A prejudice might have prevailed, an hundred years ago, against dead men’s gloves, similar to that, recorded in the proverb, against dead men’s shoes; certain it is, these gloves did not meet with a very ready market.It appears by the record, in the doctor’s own hand, that Mrs. Avis was entrusted with fifteen pairs of women’s and three dozen of men’s; and returned, unsold, eight pairs of women’s, and one dozen and ten pairs of men’s. A dozen pairs of men’s were committed to Mrs. Langstaff; half a dozen women’s to Mr. Langdon, and seventeen pairs to Captain Millens. What a glove and ring market the dear Doctor’s study must have been. In thirty-two years, he appears to have received two thousand nine hundred and forty pairs of gloves, at funerals, weddings, and baptisms. Of these he sold to the amount of fourteen hundred and forty one pounds, eighteen shillings, and one penny, old tenor, equal to about six hundred and forty dollars. He also sold a goodly number of his rings. From all this, the conclusion is irresistible, that this truly good man and faithful minister must have been, if I may use the common expression, hand and glove with his parishioners. The little volume before me contains the record of other matters, highly interesting, doubtless, in their day but of precious little moment, at the present hour. Of what importance can it be, I beg leave to inquire, for any one to know, on what precise day, one hundred years ago, the worthy pastor borrowed a box of candles of Deacon Langdon, or a loaf of sugar of his own father, or ten shillings, old tenor, of Deacon Grant! Who, of the present generation, cares, on what day, one hundred years ago, he repaid those three pounds to Deacon Barrett! Of what consequence to any living mortal can it be, that, on the thirteenth day of April, one hundred years ago, Betty Bouvè came to live at the manse, as a maid! It is past. The last of that box of candles has burnt down into the socket, long ago. That sugar has dissolved, and lost its sweetness. And Betty Bouvè! The places that knew her know her no more. Her sweeping days are over; for time, with its irresistible broom, hath swept her from the face of the earth, and given her the grave for a dustpan.
The good old man himself has been called to the account of his stewardship. “It was a pleasant day,” saith Father Gannett, on the fly-leaf of his almanac, “Sept. 15, 1778, when near four hundred couples and thirty-two carriages followed the remains of Dr. Andrew Eliot from his house, before the south side of his meeting-house, into Fore Street, up Cross Street, through Black Horse Lane, to Corpse Hill.” I adopt Mr. Gannett’s orthography, though rather less accurate than applicable.