The true value of an enlightened conscience may be duly estimated by him, who has enjoyed the luxury of travelling in the dark, with the assistance of a lantern, without a candle. A man, who has a very strong sense of duty, and very little common sense, is apt to be a very troublesome fellow; for he is likely to unite the stupidity of an ass with the obstinacy of a mule. Yet such there are; and, however inconvenient, individually, the evil is immeasurably increased, when they become gregarious, and form a party, for any purpose whatever. Such conscience parties have existed, in every age and nation. A few individuals, of higher intelligence, dissatisfied with their civil, political, military, religious, or literary importance, and fatally bent upon distinction, are necessary to elevate some enormous green cheese high in the firmament, and persuade their followers, that it is neither more nor less than the moon, at full. Herod was the great director of that conscience party, that believed it to be their bounden duty, to murder all the little children in Judea, under a certain age. The terrible sacrifice, on St. Bartholomew’s eve, was conducted by a conscience party. The burnings and starvings, in bloody Mary’s reign, were planned and executed, by a conscience party. In no country has conscience been so very rampant, as in Ireland, from the days of Heremon and King Olam Fodla, to the present hour. Almost every reader is aware how conscientiously Archbishop Sharp was murdered, in presence of his daughter, in Scotland.
The widows of Hindostan, when they attempt to escape from the funeral pile, on which their late husbands are burning, are driven back into the flames, by a conscience party. It is well known, that certain inhabitants of India deposit their aged and decrepit parents, upon the very margin of the river, that the rising waters may bear them away. This is not the act of a few individuals; but the common practice, clearly indicating the existence of a conscience party, who undoubtedly believe they are acting, in a most filial and dutiful manner, and doing the very best thing in the world, for all parties. Infanticide is tolerated in China. Very little account is made of female babies there. This has been doubted and denied. Doubt and denial are of no use. There is a conscience party there, who believeit to be their duty to their male babies, to drown the females, unless they are pretty, and then they have a chance for life, in being sold for concubines. Among the numerous and best modern authorities, on this point, is Gutzlaff, whose voyages, along the coast of China, were published, in London, 1834. “At the beach of Amoy,†says he, “we were shocked, at the spectacle of a pretty, new-born babe, which, shortly before, had been killed. We asked some of the bystanders what this meant; they answered with indifference, ‘it is only a girl.’†On page 174, Gutzlaff remarks, “It is a general custom among them to drown a large proportion of their new-born female children. This unnatural crime is so common, that it is perpetrated, without any feeling, and even in a laughing mood; and, to ask a man of distinction, whether he has daughters, is a mark of great rudeness.†Earle, in his narrative of New Zealand, London, 1832, states that the practice existed there.
The insurrection of Shays, in this Commonwealth, in 1787, was a matter of conscience, beyond all doubt. He and many of his associates believed themselves a conscience party. After General Lincoln had suppressed the rebellion, great lenity was shown to the prisoners—not an individual was executed—and Shays, who died in 1825, at the age of 85, was even pensioned, in his old age, for his prior services in the revolution.
The revolt of the Pennsylvania line, in 1781, was, I admit, less an affair of the conscience, than of the stomach and bowels; for the poor fellows were nearly starved to death. The insurrection under Fries, commonly called the whiskey rebellion, in Western Pennsylvania, in 1792, was a different affair. A conscience party resolved to drink nothing but untaxed whiskey—they conscientiously believed the flavor to be utterly ruined, by the excise. It is certain, that, when General Washington moved against the rebels, there was conscience enough, among them, to make cowards of them all, for they scattered, in all directions.
A conscience party existed, in the early settlement of our country, when our pious ancestors, having fled to the howling wilderness, that they might enjoy liberty of thought, on religious subjects, began to hang the poor Quakers, for the glory of God.
Never before had there been such a conscience party in Massachusetts, as from 1689 to 1693. It was then Cotton Mather exclaimed from the pulpit, that witchcraft was the “most nefandoushigh treason against the Majesty on high.†It was then, that he satisfied himself, by repeated trials, that devils were skilled in Latin, Greek and Hebrew. It was then, that they hanged old women, for riding on broomsticks through the air; a mode of conveyance, which Lord Mansfield declared, long after, to be perfectly lawful, for all who preferred that mode of equitation.
A conscience party has recently appeared, in this country, which it is not easy to describe. Every other party seems to have contributed to its formation. It is a sort of political mosaic, made up of tag, rag, and bobtail. Some of the prominent members of this party were whigs, but yesterday; and yet they have put forth all their energies, to elect, as president, a man, whom they and all other whigs have hitherto opposed, and denounced, and who, it was manifest, from the beginning, could not possibly be elected. This man has been accounted, by the whigs, a political charlatan; and all that he has done, to obtain the support of this conscience party, such of them at least, as were once whigs, is to avow certain sentiments, on the subject of slavery, the very contrary of those, which he has hitherto maintained, most openly and zealously. No grave and reflecting whig puts any more confidence, in the promises of this political spin-button, than he would put, in the words of Nicholas Machiavelli. Nor could this candidate do more to check the progress of slavery, than every honest whig believes will be done, by the candidate of their party, who certainly resembles Washington, in three particulars; he is himself a slaveholder—he is an honest man—and he wears the same political phylactery, “I will be the president of the people, not of a party.â€
In consideration of the limit of power, neither of these candidates can do more than the other, for the object in view, if they were equally honest, which nobody dreams of, unless he dreams in Sleepy Hollow. If there had been an anti-cholera party, Van Buren might have commanded suffrages, as sensibly, by pledging himself to do all in his power, to prevent its extension. The remaining candidate, it is agreed, would, if elected, have turned the hopes, one and all, of both whig and conscience parties topsy-turvy. His election, it is clear, was made more probable, by every vote, given by a whig to that candidate, whose election was clearly impossible. These irregular whigs, have, therefore, spent their ammunition, as profitably, as the old covenanter spent his, who fired a horse pistol against the walls of Sterling Castle. Such is the conscience party.
When I refer to the universal consent of the whigs, during the former canvass for Martin Van Buren, that he was, politically, the very devil incarnate; and, in making a selection of those, who were the loudest, and longest, and the most vehement of his antagonists, find them to be the very leaders of the present movement, in his favor; I am reminded of Peter Pindar’s pleasant story of the chambermaid and the spider; and, not having my copy of Peter at hand, I will endeavor to relate the tale in prose, as well as I am able.
A chambermaid, in going her rounds, observed an enormous spider, black and bloated, so far from his hole of refuge, that, lifting her broom, she exclaimed, “Now, you ugly brute, I have you! You are such a sly, cunning knave, and have such a happy non-committal way with you, that I never have been able to catch you before; for, the moment I raised my broom, you were out of sight, forsooth, and perfectly safe, in that Kinderhook of a hole of yours—but, now prepare yourself, for your hour has come.†The spider turned every one of his eight eyes down upon the chambermaid, and, extending his two forelegs in a beseeching manner, calmly replied, “Strike, peerless maid, but hear me! I have given you infinite trouble, and have been a very bad fellow, I admit. Crafty and cruel, I have been an unmitigated oppressor of flies, and all inferior insects. I have sucked their blood, and lived upon their marrow. But now my conscience has awakened, and I am in favor of letting flies go free. It is not in quest of flies, that I am here, sweet maid; (and then he seemed perfectly convulsed;) I am changed at heart, and become a new spider. Pardon me for speaking the truth; my only object, in being here, is, from this elevated spot, to survey your incomparable charms.†The chambermaid lowered her broom; and gently said, as she walked away, “Well, a spider is not such a horrid creature, after all.â€
I may be thought, in these remarks, to have offended against the dictum—ne sutor ultra crepidam. Surely I am not guilty—my dealings are withthe dead. Perhaps I am mistaken. The conscience party may not be dead, but cataleptic—destined to rise again—to fall more feebly than before.
Funerals, in the earlier days of Rome, must have been very showy affairs. They were torch-light processions, by night. You will gather some information, on this subject, by consulting a note of Servius, on Virg. Æn. xi. 143. Cicero, de legibus, ii. 26, says, that Demetrius ordered nocturnal funerals, to check the taste for extravagance, in these matters: “Iste igitur sumptum minuit, non solum pœna, sed etiam tempore; ante lucem enim jussit efferri.†A more ancient law, of similar import, will be found recited, in the oration of Demosthenes, against Macartatus, viii., 82, Dove’s London ed. Orat. Attici.Funesorfuniculiwere small ropes or cords, covered with wax or tallow; such were the torches, used on such occasions; hence the wordfunusor funeral. A confirmation of this may be found in the note of Servius, Æn. i. 727. In a later age, funerals were celebrated in the forenoon.
There were some things done, at ancient funerals, which would be accounted very extraordinary at the present day. What should we say to a stuffed effigy of the defunct, composed entirely of cinnamon, and paraded in the procession! Plutarch says; “Such was the quantity of spices brought in by the women, at Sylla’s funeral, that, exclusive of those carried in two hundred and ten great baskets, a figure of Sylla at full length, and of a lictor besides, was made entirely of cinnamon, and the choicest frankincense.â€
At the head of Roman funerals, came thetibicines, pipers, and trumpeters, immediately following thedesignator, or undertaker, and the lictors, dressed in black. Next came the “præficæ, quæ dabant cæteris modum plangendi.†These were women hired to mourn, and sing the funeral song, who are popularly termedhowlers. To this practice Horace alludes, in his Art of Poetry:
Ut, qui conducti plorant in funere, dicunt,Et faciunt prope plura dolentibus ex animo—
which Francis well translates:
As hirelings, paid for the funereal tear,Outweep the sorrows of a friend sincere.
I once witnessed an exhibition of this kind, in one of the West India Islands. A planter’s funeral occurred, at Christianstadt,the west end of Santa Cruz. After the corpse had been lowered into the grave, a wild ululation arose, from the mouths of some hundred slaves, who had followed from the plantation—“Oh, what good massa he was—good, dear, old massa gone—no poor slave eber hab such kind massa—no more any such good, kind massa come agin.†I noticed one hard-favored fellow, who made a terrible noise, and upon whose features, as he turned the whites of his big eyes up toward heaven, there was a sinister, and, now and then, rather a comical expression, and who, when called to assist in filling up, appeared to throw on the earth, as if he did it from the heart.
After the work was done, I called him aside. “You have lost an excellent master,†said I. The fellow looked warily round, and, perceiving that he was not overheard, replied, in an undertone—“No massa, he bad mule—big old villain—me glad the debble got him.†Having thus relieved himself of his feelings, he hastened to join the gang, and I soon saw him, as they filed off, on their way back to the plantation, throwing his brawny arms aloft, and joining in the cry—“Oh, what kind, good massa he was!†Upon inquiry, I learned, that this planter was a very bad mule indeed, a merciless old taskmaster.
Not more than ten flute players were allowed, at a funeral, by the Twelve Tables. The flutes and trumpets were large and of lugubrious tones; thus Ovid, Fast. vi. 660: Cantabat mœstis tibia funeribus; and Am. ii. 66: Pro longa resonent carmina vestra tuba.
Nothing appears more incomprehensible, in connection with this subject, than the employment of players and buffoons, by the ancients, at their funerals. This practice is referred to, by Suetonius, in his Life of Tiberius, sec. 57. We are told by Dyonisius, vii. 72, that these Ludii, Histriones, and Scurræ danced and sang. One of this class of performers was a professed mimic, and was styledArchimimus. Strange as such a proceeding may appear to us, it was his business, to imitate the voice, manner, and gestures of the defunct; he supported the dead man’s character, and repeated his words and sayings. In the Life of Vespasian, sec. 19, Suetonius thus describes the proceeding: In funere, Favor, archimimus, personam ejus ferens, imitansque, ut est mos, facta ac dicta vivi, etc. This Favor must have been a comical fellow, and is as free with the dead, as Killigrew,Charles the Second’s jester, was, with the living; as the reader will perceive, if he will refer to the passage in Suetonius: for the fellow openly cracks his jokes, on the absurd expense of the funeral. This, we should suppose, was no subject for joking, if we may believe the statement of Pliny, xxxiii. 47, that one C. Cæcillius Claudius, a private citizen, left rather more than nine thousand pounds sterling, by his will, for his funeral expenses.
After the archimimus, came the freemen of the deceased,pileati; that is, wearing their caps of liberty. Men, not unfrequently, as a last act, to swell their funeral train, freed their slaves. Before the corpse, were carried the images of the defunct and of his ancestors, but not of such, as had been found guilty of any heinous crime. Thus Tacitus, ii. 32, relates, that the image of Libo was not permitted to accompany the obsequies of any of his posterity.
The origin of the common practice of marching at military funerals, with arms reversed, is of high antiquity. Thus Virgil xi. 93, at the funeral of Pallas—versis Arcades armis: and upon another occasion,versi fascesoccur in Tacitus iii. 2, referring to the lictors.
In our cities and large towns, the corpse is commonly borne to the grave, in a hearse, or on the shoulders of paid bearers. Originally it was otherwise. The office of supporting the body to the grave was supposed to belong, of right, and duty, to relatives and friends; or, in the case of eminent persons, to public functionaries. Thus, in Tacitus, iii. 2, we find the expression,tribunorum centurionumque humeris cineres portabantur: and, upon the death of Augustus, Tac. i. 8, it was carried by acclamation, as we moderns say,corpus ad rogum humeris senatorum ferendum.
The conduct of both sexes, at funerals, was, in some respects, rather ridiculous, in those days. Virgil says of King Latinus, when he lost his wife,
————it, scissa veste, Latinus,Canitiem immundo perfusam pulvere turpans;
which means, in plain English, that the old monarch went about, with his coat torn, defiling his white hair with filthy dust.
Cicero, in his Tusculan Questions, iii. 26, is entirely of this opinion: detestabilia genera lugendi, pædores, muliebres lacerationes genarum, pectoris, feminum, capitis percussiones—detestablekinds of mourning, covering the body with filth, women tearing their cheeks, bosoms, and limbs, and knocking their heads. Tibullus, in the concluding lines of his charming elegy to Delia, the first of his first book, though he evidently derives much happiness, from the conviction, that she will mourn for him, and weep over his funeral pile, implores her to spare her lovely cheeks and flowing hair. No classical reader will censure me, for transcribing this very fine passage:
Te spectem, suprema mihi quum venerit hora,Te teneam moriens, deficiente manu.Flebis et arsuro positum me, Delia, lecto.Tristibus et lacrymis oscula mixta dabis.Flebis; non tua sunt duro præcordia ferro,Vincta, nec in tenero stat tibi corde silex.Illo non juvenis poterit de funere quisquamLumina, non virgo, sicca referre domum.Tu manes ne læde meos: sed parce solutisCrinibus, et teneris, Delia, parce genis.
Thesuttee, or sacrifice of the widows of Hindostan, on the funeral pile of their husbands, was not more a matter of course, than the laceration of the hair and cheeks, among Roman women. It was undoubtedly accounted disreputable, for a widow to appear in public, after the recent funeral of her husband, with locks unpulled and cheeks unscratched. To such extremity had this absurd practice proceeded, that the fifth law of the tenth of the Twelve Tables, to which reference has been made, in a former number, was enacted to prevent it—mulieres genas ne radunto.
No discreet matron perpetrates any such absurdity, in modern times. The hair and cheeks of the departed have, occasionally, given evidence of considerable laceration, from some cause unknown; but neither the law of the Tables, nor the pathos of a Tibullus is commonly required, to prevent a Christian widow, from laying violent hands, upon her cheeks or her hair.
The cholera seems to be forgotten—but without reason—for the yellowest and most malignant of all yellow fevers is down upon us, proving fatal to the peace of many families, and sweepingaway our citizens, by hundreds. The distemper appears to have originated in California, and to have been brought hither, in letters from Governor Mason and others. It is deeply to be deplored, that these letters, which are producing all this mischief, had not been subjected to the process of smoking and sprinkling with vinegar; for the disease is highly contagious. This fever differs entirely from thefebris flava—thetyphus icteroidesofSauvages. The symptoms are somewhat peculiar. The pulse is quick and fluttering—the head hot—the patient neglects his business, bolts his food, and wanders about—sometimes apparently delirious, and, during the paroxysms, calls furiously for a pickaxe and a tin pan. But the most certain indication, that the disease has entered into the system, is, not that the patient himself becomes yellow, but that everything, upon which he turns his eyes, assumes the yellow appearance of gold. The nature of this distemper will, however, be much better understood, by the presentation of a few cases of actual occurrence.
I. Jeduthan Smink—a carpenter, having a wife and two children, residing at No. 9 Loafer’s Lane. This is a strongly marked case. Mr. Smink, who is about five and twenty years of age, has always entertained the opinion, that work did him harm, and that drink did him good—labors—the only way in which he will labor—under the delusion, that all is gold that glistens—packed up his warming pan and brass kettle, to send them to the mint.
II. Laban Larkin, a farmer—caught the fever of a barber, while being shaved—persuaded that the unusual yellowness of his squashes and carrots can only be accounted for, by the presence of gold dust—turned a field of winter rye topsy turvy, in search of it—believes finally, in the sliding qualities of subterraneous treasure—thinks his gold has slipped over into his neighbor’s field of winter rye—offers to dig it all up, at the halves—excited and abusive, because his neighbor declines the offer—told him he was a superannuated ass, and behind the times.
III. Molly Murphy resides, when at home, which is seldom, in Shelaly Court, near the corner, easily found by any one, who will follow his nose; has a husband and one child, a dutiful boy, who vends matches and penny papers, on week days, and steals, on Sundays, for the support of the family. Mollycan read; has read what Gov. Mason writes about pigs rooting up gold, by mistake, for groundnuts—her brain much disturbed—has an impression, that gold may be found almost anywhere—with a tin pan, and no other assistance but her son, Tooley Murphy, she has actually dug over and washed a pile of filth, in front of her dwelling, which the city scavengers have never been able materially to diminish—urges her husband to be “aff wid the family for Killyfarny, where the very wheelbarries is made out of goold.†Dreams of nothing but gold dust, and firmly believes it to be the very dust we shall all return to—while asleep, seized her husband by the ears, and could scarcely be sufficiently awakened, to comprehend that she had not captured the golden calf.
Let us be grave. I shall not inquire, if Bishop Archelaus was right in the opinion, that the original golden calf was made, not by the Israelites, but by Egyptians, who were the companions of their flight; nor if the modern idol be a descendant in the right line. It is somewhat likely, that the golden calf of 1848, will grow up to be a terrible bull, for some of the adventurers.
That there is gold in California, no one doubts. Governor Mason’s standard of quantity is rather alarming—there is gold enough, says he, in the country, drained by the Sacramento and Joaquin rivers, and more than enough, “to pay the cost of the present war with Mexico, a hundred times over.†This is encouraging, and may lead us to look upon the prospect of another, with more complacency; though the whole of this treasure will not buy back a single slaughtered victim—not one husband to the widow—nor one parent to an orphan child—nor one stay and staff, the joy and the pride of her life, to the lone mother.N’importe—we have gold and glory! “The people,†says Mr. Mason, “before engaged in cultivating their small patches of ground, and guarding their herds of cattle and horses, have all gone to the mines. Laborers of every trade have left their work benches, and tradesmen their shops. Sailors desert their ships, as fast as they arrive on the coast.â€
There is a marvellous fascination in all this, no doubt; and as fast and as far as the knowledge radiates, thousands upon thousands will be rushing to the spot. The shilling here, however, which procures a given amount of meat, fire and clothes, is equal to the sum, whatever it may be, which, there procuresthe same amount and quality. Loafers and the lovers of ease and indolence, who are tobacco chewers, to a man, are desirous of flying to this El Dorado. Let them have a care: an ounce of gold dust, valued at $12 there, though worth $18 here, is said to have been paid, for a plug of tobacco. A traveller in Caffraria, having paid five cowries, (shells, the money of the country) for some article, complained, that forty were demanded, for a like article, in a village, not far off; and inquired if the article was scarce; “no,†was the reply, “but cowries are very plenty.â€
Our adventurers intend to remain, perhaps, only till they obtain a competency. Even that is not the work of a day; and will be longer, or shorter, in the ratio of the consumption of means, for daily support, during the operation. There will, doubtless, be some difference also, as to the meaning of the word competency. An intelligent merchant, of this city, once defined it to mean a little more, in every individual’s opinion, than he hath. Like the lock of hay, which Miss Edgeworth says is attached to the extremity of the pole, and which is ever just so far in advance of the hungry horses, in an Irish jaunting car, so competency seems to be forever leading us onward, yet is never fairly within our grasp.
John Graunt, of whom a good account may be found in Bayle, says, that, if the art of making gold were known, and put extensively in practice, it would raise the value of silver. Of course it would, and of everything else, so far as the quantity of gold, given in exchange for any article, is the representative of value. As gold becomes plenty, it will be employed for other uses, sauce-pans perhaps, as well as for the increase of the circulating medium. The amount of gold, which has passed through the British mint, from the accession of Elizabeth, 1558, to 1840, is, according to Professor Farraday, 3,353,561 pounds weight troy; and nearly one half of this was coined during the reign of George III.
Gold is a good thing, in charitable fingers; but it too frequently constructs for itself a chancel in our hearts. It then becomes the golden calf, and man an idolater. How dearly we get to love the chink and the glitter of our gold! How much like death it does seem, to go off ’change, before the last watch!
Three score years and ten, devoted to the turning of pennies! How many of us, after we have had our three warnings, still hobble up and down, day after day, infinitely more anxious aboutpennies, than we were, fifty years ago, about pounds! An angel, the spirit, for example, of Michael de Montaigne, perched upon the City Hall—the eastern end of the ridge pole—must be tempted to laugh heartily. Without any angelic pretensions, I have done so myself, when, upon certain emergencies, the kegs, boxes, and bags of gold and silver, hand-carted and hand borne, have gone from bank to bank, backward and forward, often, in a morning, like the slipper, in thejeu de pantoufle! What an interest is upon the faces of the crowd, who gaze upon the very kegs and boxes; feasting upon the bald idea—the unprofitable consciousness—that gold and silver are within; and reminding one of old George Herbert’s lines,—
“Wise men with pity do beholdFools worship mules, that carry gold.â€
“Verily,†saith an ancient writer, “traffickers and the getters of gain, upon the mart, are like unto pismires, each struggling to bear off the largest mouthful.â€
I am glad to see that the moderns are collecting the remains of good old George Herbert, and giving them an elegantsurtout. His address to money is a jewel, and none the worse for its antique setting:
“Money! Thou bane of bliss, and source of wo!Whence com’st thou, that thou art so fresh and fine?I know thy parentage is base and low;Man found thee, poor and dirty, in a mine.“Surely thou didst so little contributeTo this great kingdom, which thou now hast got,That he was fain, when thou wert destitute,To dig thee out of thy dark cave and grot.“Then, forcing thee by fire, he made thee bright;Nay, thou hast got the face of man, for weHave, with our stamp and seal, transferred our right;Thou art the man, and we but dross to thee!“Man calleth thee his wealth, who made thee rich,And, while he digs out thee, falls in the ditch.â€
The mere selfish getters of gain, who dispense it not, are,civiliter et humaniter mortui—dead as a door nail—dead dogs in the manger! I come not to bury them, at present; but, if possible, to awaken some of them with my penny trumpet; otherwise they may die in good earnest in their sins; their last breath giving evidence of their ruling passion—muttering not thetêted’arméeof Napoleon, but the last words of that accomplished Israelite, who caused his gold to be counted out, before his failing eyes—per shent.
Making mourning, as an abstract phrase, is about as intelligible, asmaking fish. These arbitrary modes of expression have ever been well enough understood, nevertheless, by those employed in the respective operations.Making mourning, in ancient times, was assigned to that class of hired women, termedpræficæ, to whom I have had occasion to refer. They are thus described, by Stephans—adhiberi solebant funeri, mercede conductæ, ut flerent, et fortia facta laudarent—they were called to funerals, and paid, to shed tears, and relate the famous actions of the defunct. Doubtless, by practice, and continual exercise of the will over the lachrymary organs, they acquired the power of forcing mechanical tears. We have a specimen of this power, in the case of Miss Sophy Streatfield, so often referred to, by Madame D’Arblay, in her account of those happy days at Mrs. Thrale’s.Making mourning, in modern times, is, with a few touching exceptions, confined to that important class, the dress-makers.
The time allowed, for mourning, was determined, by the laws of Numa. Plutarch informs us, that no mourning was allowed, for a child, that died under three years, and for all others, a month, for every year it had lived, but never to exceed ten, which was the longest term, allowed for any mourning. We often meet with the term,luctus annus, the year of mourning; but the year of Romulus contained but ten months; and, though Numa added two, to the calendar, the term of mourning remained unchanged. The howlers, or wailing women, were employed also in Greece, and in Judea. Thus in Jeremiah ix. 17,call for the mourning women, &c., and let them make haste and take up a wailing for us, that our eyes may run down with tears, &c.
By the laws of Numa, widows were required to mourn ten months or during the year of Romulus. Thus Ovid, Fast. i. 35:
Per totidem menses a funere conjugis uxorSustinet in vidua tristia signa domo.
Numa was rather severe upon widows. Thetristia signa, spoken of by Ovid, were sufficiently mournful. According to Kirchmaun de Fun. iv. 11, they were not to stir abroad in public—to abstain entirely from all entertainments—to lay aside every kind of ornament—to dress in black—and not even to kindle a fire, in their houses. Not content with stinting and freezing these poor, lone creatures, to death, Numa forbade them to repeat the matrimonial experiment, for ten months. Indeed, it was accounted infamous, for a widow to marry, within that period. As though he were resolved to add insult to injury, he, according to Plutarch, permitted those to violate this law, who would make up their minds, to sacrifice a cow with calf. This unnatural sacrifice was intended, by Numa, to frighten the widows. Doubtless, in many instances, the legislative bugbear was effectual; but it is quite probable there were some courageous women, in those days, as there are, at present, who would have slaughtered a whole drove, rather than yield the tender point.
The Jews expressed their grief, for the death of their near friends, by weeping, and crying aloud, beating their breasts, rending their clothes, tearing their flesh, pulling their hair, and starving themselves. They neither dressed, nor made their beds, nor washed, nor saw visitors, nor shaved, nor cut their nails, and made their toilets with sackcloth and ashes. The mourning of the Jews lasted commonly seven days, and never more than thirty—quite long enough, we should think, for such an exhibition of filth and folly. The Greeks also did much of all this—they covered themselves with dust and dirt, and rolled in the mire, and beat their breasts, and tore their faces.
The color of the mourning garb, among the Romans, was originally black—from the time of Domitian, white. At present, the color of the mourning dress, in Europe is black—in China white—in Turkey blue or violet—in Egypt yellow—in Ethiopia brown. There have come down to us two admirable letters from Seneca, 63, and 99, on the subject of lamentation for the dead; the first to Lucilius, after the death of his friend, Flaccus—the second to Lucilius, communicating the letter Seneca had written to Murullus, on the death of his son. These letters must be read,cum grano salis, on account of the stoical philosophy of the writer. He admits the propriety of decent sorrow, but is opposed to violent and unmeasured lamentations—nec sicci sint occuli, amisso amico, nec fluant—shed tears, if you have lost your friend, butdo not cry your eyes out—lacrimandum est, non plorandum—let there be weeping, but not wailing. He cites, for the advantage of Lucilius, the counsel of Ulysses to Achilles, whose grief, for the death of Patroclus, had become inordinate, to give one whole day to his sorrow, and have done with it. He considers it not honorable, for men, to exhibit their grief, beyond the term of two or three days. Such, upon the authority of Tacitus De Mor. Germ. 27, was the practice of the ancient Germans. Funerum nulla ambitio: ... struem rogi nec vestibus, nec odoribus, cumulant: ... lamenta ac lacrimas cito, dolorem et tristitiam tarde, ponunt; feminis lugere honestum est; viris meminisse: there was no pride of funereal parade; they heaped no garments, no odors, upon the pile; they speedily laid aside their tears and laments; not so their grief and sorrow. It was becoming, forwomento mourn; formento cherish in their memories.
In his letter to Lucilius, Seneca enters upon an investigation, as to the real origin of all this apparent sorrow, so freely and generally manifested, for the dead; and his sober conviction breaks forth, in the words—Nemo tristis sibi est. O infelicem stultitiam! est aliqua et doloris ambitio! No one mourns for himself alone. Oh miserable folly! There is ambition, even in our sorrow! This passage recalls Martial’s epigram, 34, De Gellia:
Amissum non flet, quum sola est Gellia, patrem;Si quis adest, jussæ prosiliunt lacrymæ.Non dolet hic, quisquis landari, Gellia, quærit;Ille dolet vere, qui sine teste dolet.
Arthur Murphy, in his edition of Dr. Johnson’s works, ascribes to that great man the following extraordinary lines:
If the man, who turnips cries,Cry not, when his father dies,’Tis a proof, that he had ratherHave a turnip than his father.
Under the doctor’s sanction, for a bagatelle, I may offer a translation of Martial’s epigram:
When no living soul is nigh,Gellia’s filial grief is dry;Call, some morning, and I’ll warrantGellia’l shed a perfect torrent.Tears unforc’d true sorrow draws:Gellia weeps for mere applause.
It is our fortune to witness not a little of this, in our line. Weare compelled to drop in, at odd, disjointed moments, when the not altogether disagreeable occupations of the survivors contrast, rather oddly, to be sure, with the graver duties to the dead. A rich widow, like Dr. Johnson’sprotègè, in his letter to Chesterfield, is commonly overburdened with help. It is quite surprising, to observe the solicitude about her health, and how very fervent the hope of her neighbors becomes, that she may not have taken cold. The most prominent personages, after the widow and the next of kin, are the coffin-maker and the dress-maker—both are solicitous of making an excellent fit. Those, who, like myself, have had long practice in families, are often admitted to familiar interviews with the chief mourners, which are likely to take place, in the midst of dress-makers and artists of all sorts. How many acres of black crape I have witnessed, in half a century! “Mr. Abner—good Mr. Abner,†said Mrs. ——, “dear Mr. Abner,†said she, “I shall not forget your kindness—how pleasant it is, on these occasions, to see a face one knows. You buried my first husband—I thought there was nothing like that: and you buried my second husband—and, oh dear me, I thought there was nothing like that—and now, oh dear, dear me, you are going to bury my third! How I am supported, it is hard to tell—but the widow’s God will carry me through this, and other trials, for aught I know—Miss Buddikin, don’t you think that dress should be fuller behind?†“Oh dear ma’am, your fine shape, you know,†said Miss Buddikin. “There now, Miss Buddikin, at any other time I dare say I should be pleased with your flattery, but grief has brought down my flesh and spirits terribly. Good morning, dear Mr. Abner—remember there will be no postponement, on account of the weather.â€
I am sad. It is my duty to record an event of deep and universal interest. On Sunday night, precisely as the clock of the Old South Church struck the very first stroke of twelve, departed this life, of no particular malady, but from a sort of constitutional decay, to which the family has ever been periodically liable, and at the same age, at which his ancestors havedied, for many generations, A. Millesimus Octingentesimus Quadragesimus Octavus.
It has been a custom in France, and in other countries, to send printed invitations to friends and relatives, inviting them to funerals. I have heard of a thriving widow—la veuve Berthier—who added a short postscript—Madame Berthier will be happy to furnish soap and candles, at the old stand, as heretofore. I trust I shall not be deemed guilty of a like indiscretion, if I add, for general information, that the business will be conducted hereafter, in the name of A. M. O. Q. Nonus.
I did intend to be facetious, but, for the soul of me, I cannot. It is enough for me to know that the old year is dead and gone, and that the hopes and fears of millions are now lying in its capacious grave. Between the old year and the new, the space is so incalculably narrow, that, if those ancient philosophers were in the right, who contended, that an angel could not live in a vacuum, no angel, in the flesh, or out of it, could possibly get between the two: the partition is thin as tissue paper—thin as that between wit and madness, which is so exceedingly thin, as to be often undistinguishable, leaving us in doubt, on which side our neighbors may be found,—when at home.
I see, clearly, in the close of another year, another milestone, upon Time’s highway, from chaos to eternity. Is it not wise, and natural, and profitable, for the pilgrim to pause, and mark his lessening way? He cannot possibly know the precise number of milestones, that lie between the present and his journey’s end; but he may sometimes shrewdly guess from the number he has passed already. There is precious little certainty, however, in the very best of man’s arithmetic, on a subject like this: for, at every milestone, from the very first, and at countless intermediate points, he will observe innumerable tablets, recording the fact, that myriads of travellers have stopped here and there, not for the want of willingness to go forward, but for the want of breath—not for the night, to be awakened at the morning watch, by the attentive host, or the railway whistle,—but for a long, long while, to be summoned, at last, by the piercing notes of a clarion, loud and clear, which, as the bow of Ulysses could be bent only by the master’s hand, can be raised, only by the lips and the lungs of an archangel.
Well, Quadragesimus Octavus hath gone to his long home, and the mourners go about the streets—a motley group it is, thatband of melancholy followers! Upon this, as upon all other occasions of the same sort, true tears, from the very well-spring of the heart, fall, together with showers of hypocritical salt water. Little children, who must ever refer their orphanage to the year that is past, are in the van; and with them, a few widowers and widows, who have not been married quite long enough, to be reconciled to their bereavement. There are others, who also have been divorced from their partners by death, and who submit, with admirable grace; and wear their weeds—of the very best make and fashion, by the way—with infinite propriety.
It is quite amazing to see the great number of mourners, who, though, doubtless, natives, have a very Israelitish expression, and wear phylacteries, upon which are written three or four words whose import is intelligible, only to the initiated, but which, being interpreted, signify—three per cent. a month. None seem to wear an expression of more heartfelt sorrow, for the departure of Quadragesimus Octavus, during whose existence, being less greedy of honors than of gain, they were singularly favored, converting the necessities of other men into an abundance of bread and butter, for themselves.
In the melancholy train, we behold a goodly number of maiden ladies, dressed in yellow, which is the mourning color of the Egyptians, and some of these disconsolate damsels are really beginning to acquire the mummy complexion: it happened that, as the old year expired, they were just turned of thirty.
There are others, who have sufficient reason to mourn, and whose numerous writings have brought them into serious trouble. Their works, commencing with a favorite expression—for value received I promise to pay, owing to something rather pointed in the phraseology, were liable to be severely criticised, so soon as the old year expired.
The lovers of parade, and show, and water celebrations, and torch-light processions, trumpeting and piping merrymakings, and huzzaings, the brayings of stump orators, and the intolerable noise and farrago of electioneering; the laudings and vituperatings of Taylor, Cass, and Van Buren; the ferocious lyings and vilifyings of partisans, politically drunk or crazy—the lovers of all or any of these things are one and all, attendants at the funeral of Quadragesimus Octavus.
The good old year is gone—and, in the words of a celebratedclergyman, to a bereaved mother, who would not be comforted, but wailed the louder, the more he pressed upon her the duty of submission—“what do you propose to do about it?†I cannot answer for you, my gentle reader, but I am ready to answer for myself. As an old sexton, I believe it to be my duty to pay immediate attention to the very significant command—whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom in the grave, whither thou goest. If good old Samuel had been an undertaker, he could not have said, more confidently than I do, at this moment, whose corpse have I taken, or whose shroud have I taken, or whom have I defrauded, or whom have I buried east for west, or wrong end foremost? Of what surgeon have I received a fee, for a skeleton, to blind mine eyes withal? I have neither the head nor the heart for mystical theology. I believe in the doctrine of election, as established by the constitution and laws of the United States, and of the States respectively, so far as regards the President, Vice President, and all town, county and state officers: and I respect the Egyptians, for one trait, recorded of them, by an eminent historian, who states, that those, who worship an ape, never quarrel with those, who worship an ox. A very fine verse, the thirteenth of the last chapter of Ecclesiastes—“Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter: fear God, and keep his commandments: for this is the whole duty of man.â€
Let us try, during the year, upon whose threshold we are now standing, to do as much good, and as little harm, as possible. I respectfully recommend to all old men and women, who are as grey and grizzly as I am, to make themselves as agreeable as they can; and remember, that old age is proverbially peevish and exacting. In the presence of children, do not forget the wise sayings of Parson Primrose, who candidly confessed, when solicited to join in some childish pastime, that he complied, for he was tired of being always wise. Pray allow all you can for the vivacity and waywardness of youth. Nine young ladies, in ten, may find a clever fit, in Pope’s shrewd line—
“Brisk as a flea, and ignorant as dirt.â€
All, that can be said about it, lies in a filbert shell,ita lex scripta est, ita rerum natura. You will not mend the matter, by scowling and growling, from morning to night. Can you notremember, that you yourself, when a boy, were saluted now and then, with the title of “proper plagueâ€â€”“devil’s birdâ€â€”or “little Pickle?†I can. Some years ago, my very worthy friend, the Rev. John S. C. Abbott, did me the kindness to give me one of his excellent works, the Path of Peace. The preface contains a very short and clever incident, of whose applicability, you can judge for yourself.
“Mother,†said a little boy, “I do not wish to go to Heaven.â€
“And why not, my son?â€
“Why, grandfather will be there, will he not?â€
“Yes, my son, I hope he will.â€
“Well, as soon as he sees us, he will come, scolding along, and say, ‘Whew, whew, whew! what are these boys here for?’ I am sure I do not wish to go to Heaven, if grandfather is to be there.â€
This is a short tale of a grandfather, but it is a very significant story, for its length; and calculated, I fear, for many meridians.
Well, here we are, in the very midst of bells and bonfires, screaming for joy, in honor of the new year, with our spandy new weepers on, for the old one.
Viewed in every possible relation, the most melancholy and distressing funerals, of which I have any knowledge, were a series of interments, which occurred in Charleston, South Carolina, not very many years ago, and of which, in 1840, I received, while sojourning there, a particular account, from an inhabitant of that hospitable city. These funerals were among the blacks; and, as there was no epidemic at the time, their frequency, at length, attracted observation. Every day or two, the colored population were seen, bearing, apparently, one of their number to the place, appointed for all living. Suspicion was, at last, awakened—a post mortem examination was resolved on—the graves, which proved to be uncommonly shallow, were opened—the coffins lifted out, and examined—and found to be filled, not with corpses, but with muskets, swords, pistols, pikes,knives, hatchets, and such other weapons, as might be necessary, for the perfection of a deadly work, which had been long projected, and was then not far from its consummation.
These, I say, were the most melancholy funerals, of which I have any knowledge. This was burying the hatchet, in a novel sense. In 1840, the tumult of mind, resulting from immediate apprehension, had, in a great degree, subsided; yet a rigorous system of espionage continued, in full operation—the spirit of vigilance was still on tiptoe—the arsenal was in excellent working order, and capable, at any moment, of turning its iron shower, in every direction—the separate gathering of the blacks, for religious worship, had been, and still was, prohibited; for it was believed, that the little tabernacle, in which, before this alarming discovery, the colored people were in the habit of assembling, had been used, in some sort, for the purpose of holding insurrectionary conclaves; perhaps for the purpose also of muttering prayers, between their teeth, to the bondman’s God, to give him strength to break his fetters.
At the time, to which I refer, the slaves, who attended religious services, on the Sabbath, entered the same temples with their masters, who paid their vows, on cushions, while many of the slaves worshipped, squatting in the aisles. At this time, slaves,ex cautela, were forbidden, under penalty of imprisonment and the lash, from being present at any conflagration. Under a like penalty, they were commanded to retire instantly, upon the very first stroke of the curfew bell, to their homes and cabins. At every quarter of an hour, through the whole night, the cry ofall’s wellwas sent forth by the armed sentinel, from the top of St. Michael’s tower. Such was the state of things, in 1840, in the city of Charleston.
Melancholy as were these funerals, the undertakers were quite as ingenious, as those cunning Greeks, who contrived the Trojan horse,divinâ Palladis arte. Melancholy and ominous funerals were they—for they were incidents of slavery, theCURSE COLOSSAL—that huge, unsightly cicatrice, upon the very face of our heritage. Well may we say to the most favored nation of the earth, in Paul’s proud words,—would to God ye were not only almost, but altogether such as we are, saving these bonds.
After taking a mental and moralcoup d’œilof these matters, I remember that I lay long, upon my pillow, not consigningmy Southern friends and brethren, votively, to the devil; but thanking God, for that blessed suggestion, which led good, old Massachusetts, and the other states of the North, to abolish slavery, within their own domains.
Slavery is a curse, not only to the long-suffering slave, but to the mortified master. This chivalry of the South—what is it? Every man of the South, or the North, who comes to the blessed conclusion, that, while others ownjackasses,horses,and horned cattle, he actuallyowns men—what a thought!—will soon become filled with this very chivalry. It is the lordly consciousness of dominion over one’s fellow-man—a sort of Satrap-like feeling of power—a sentiment extremely oriental, which begets that important and consequential air of superiority, that marks the Southern man and the Southern boy,—Mr. Calhoun, diving, like one of Pope’s heroes, after first principles, and fetching up, for a fact, the pleasant fancy, thatman is not born of a woman—or the young, travelling gentleman, full of “Suth Cralina,†who comes hither, to sojourn awhile, and carries in every look, that almost incomprehensible mixture of pride and sensitiveness, which is equally repulsive and ridiculous.
The bitterness of sectional feeling is a necessary incident of slavery. Civil and servile wars are among its terrible contingencies. Slavery cannot endure in our land, though the end be not yet. I had rather the cholera should spread, than this moral scourge, over our new domains—not, upon my honor, because the former would be a help to our profession, but because a dead is more bearable, than a living curse.
Of all the sciolists, who have offered their services, to remedy this evil, the conscience party is the most remarkable. A self-consecrated party, with their phlogistic system, would deal with the whole South, which, on this topic, is a perfect hornet’s nest already, precisely as an intelligent farmer, in Vermont, dealt with a hornet’s nest, under the eaves of his dwelling—he applied the actual cautery; his practice was successful—he destroyed the nest, and with it his entire mansion. There are men, of this party, to whom the constitution and laws of the Union are objects of infinite contempt; who despise the Bible; who would overthrow the civil magistrate; and unfrock the clergy. But there are many others, who abjure such doctrines—a species of conscience comeouters—who intend, after theyhave unkennelled the whirlwind, to appoint a committee of three, from every county, to hold it by the tail,ne quid detrimenti respublica caperet. These are to be selected from the most careful and judicious, who, when the firebrand is thrown into the barrel of gunpowder, will have a care, that not more than a moderate quantity shall be ignited.
The constitution is a contract, made by our fathers, and binding on their children. Who shall presume to say that contract is void, for want of consideration, or because the subject ismalum in se? Who shall decide the question ofnudum pactumor not? Not one of the parties, nor two, nor any number, short of the whole, can annul this solemn contract; nor can a decision of the question of constitutionality come from any other tribunal, than the Supreme Judicial Court of the United States.
Lord Mansfield’s celebrated dictum—fiat justitia, ruat Cælum, has been often absurdly applied, and in connection with this very question of slavery and its removal.Justitiais a broad word, and refers not solely to the rights of the slave, but to those of the freeman. The proposition of the full-bottomed abolitionist—immediate emancipation, or dissolution of the Union, and civil and servile war to boot, if it must be so—is fit to be taught, only to the tenants of a madhouse. But there is a spirit abroad, whose tendency cannot be mistaken. Slavery is becoming daily more and more odious, in the east, in the west, in the north, ay, and in the south. Individually, many slaveholders are becoming less attached to theirproperty. There may be too much even ofthis good thing. Slavery would continue longer, in the present slave states, if it were extended to the new territories; for it would be rendered more bearable in the former, by the power of sloughing off the redundancy, on profitable terms. The spirit of emancipation is striding over the main land, walking upon the waters, and planting its foot, upon one dark island after another.Let us hope—better to do that, than mischief. Let us rejoice, that, as the Scotch say,there is a God aboon a’—better to do that, than spit upon our Bibles, and scoff at law and order. It is always better to stand still, than move rudely and rashly, in the dark. Such was the decided opinion of my old friend and fellow-sexton, Grossman, when he fell, head first, into an unclosed tomb, and broke his enormous nose.
In looking up a topic, for my dealings with the dead, this afternoon, I can think of nothing more interesting, at the present time, thanLot’s wife and the Dead Sea. I consider Lieutenant Lynch the most fortunate of modern discoverers. He has discovered the long lost lady of Lot—the veritable pillar of salt! There are some incredulous persons, I am aware, who are of opinion, that the account of this discovery should be received,cum grano salis; but my own mind is entirely made up. I should have been better pleased, I admit, if he had verified the suggestion, which led to the discovery, by bringing home a leg, or an arm. Possibly, it may be thought proper to send a Government vessel, for the entire pillar, to ornament the Rotunda at Washington. The identification of Lot’s wife is rendered exceedingly simple, by the fact, that seventeen of her fingers, and not less than fourteen of her toes, broken off from time to time, by the faithful, as relics, are exhibited in various churches and monasteries.
Models of these, in plaster, could readily be obtained, I presume; and an application of their fractured parts to the salt corpse, discovered by Lieutenant Lynch, would settle the question, in the manner, employed to test the authenticity of ancient indentures. Besides, every one knows, that salt is a self preserver, and lasting in its character, especially the Attic. The very elements of preservation abound in the Dead Sea, and the region round about. Its very name establishes the fact—Asphaltites—so called from the immense quantity ofasphaltumor bitumen, with which it abounds. This is calledJews’ Pitch, and was used of old, for embalming; and the corpse of Mrs. Lot, after the salt had thoroughly penetrated, rolled up, as it probably was found by Lieutenant Lynch, in a winding sheet of bitumen, which readily envelopes everything it touches, would last forever. This pitch is often sold by the druggists, under the name of mummy.
In Judea, with the territory of Moab, on the East, and the wilderness of Judah, on the West, and having the lands of Reuben and Edom, or Idumea, on the North and South, lies that sheet of mysterious and unfrequented water, which has been called the East Sea—the Salt Sea—the Sea of the Desert—theSea of the Plain—the Sea of Sodom—and, more commonly, the Dead Sea. To this I beg leave to add another title, the Legendary lake, or Humbug water. More marvel has been marked, learned, and inwardly digested, by Christians, on the subject of this sheet of water, than the broad ocean has ever supplied, to stir the landman’s heart. Its dimensions, in the first place, have been set down, with remarkable discrepancy. Pliny, lib. v. 15, says, Longitudine excedit centum M. passuum, latitudine maxima xxv., implet, minima sex, making the length one hundred miles, and the breadth, from twenty-five miles, to six. Josephus estimates its length at five hundred and eighty furlongs, from the mouth of the Jordan, to the town of Segor, at the opposite end; and its greatest breadth one hundred and fifty furlongs. The Rev. Dr. William Jenks, of whose learning and labors a sexton of the old school may be permitted to speak, with great respect, sets down the length, in his New Gazetteer of the Bible, appended to his Explanatory Bible Atlas, of 1847, at thirty-nine miles, and its greatest breadth at nine. Carne, in his Letters from the East, says the length is sixty miles, and the breadth from eight to ten. Stephens states the length to be thirty miles, in his Incidents of Travel.
The origin of this lake was ascribed to the submersion of the valley of Siddim, where the cities stood, which were destroyed, in the conflagration of Sodom and Gomorrah. This tremendous gallimaufry or hotch potch, produced, as some suppose, an intolerable stench, and impregnated the waters with salt, sulphur, and bitumen.
Pliny, in the passage quoted above,—observes—Nullum corpus animalium recipit—no animal can live in it. Speaking of these waters, Dr. Jenks remarks—“no animals exist in them.†On the other hand, Dr. Pococke, on the authority of a monk, tells us, that fish have been caught in the Dead Sea.Per contraagain, Mr. Volney affirms, that it contains neither animal nor vegetable life. M. Chateaubriand, on the other hand, who visited the Dead Sea, in 1807, remarks—“About midnight, I heard a noise upon the lake, and was told by the Bethlehemites, who accompanied me, that it proceeded from legions of small fish, which come out, and leap upon the shore.†The monks of St. Saba assured Dr. Shaw, as he states in his travels, that they had seen fish caught there.
In the passage quoted from Pliny, he says—Tauri cameliquefluitant. Inde fama nihil in eo mergi—bulls and camels float upon this lake: hence the notion, that nothing will sink in it. It is true, that the water of the Dead Sea is specifically heavier than any other, owing to the great quantity of salt, sulphur, and bitumen; but Dr. Pococke found not the slightest difficulty, in swimming and diving in the lake. Sir Thomas Browne, treating of this, in his Pseudodoxia, vol. iii., p. 341, London, 1835, observes—“As for the story, men deliver it variously. Some, I fear too largely, as Pliny, who affirmeth that bricks will swim therein. Mandevil goeth further, that iron swimmeth and feathers sink.†“But,†continueth Sir Thomas, “Andrew Thevet, in his Cosmography, doth ocularly overthrow it, for he affirmeth he saw an ass with his saddle cast therein and drowned.â€
Another legend is equally absurd, that birds, attempting to fly over the lake, fall, stifled by its horrible vapors. “It is very common,†says Volney, “to see swallows skimming its surface, and dipping for the water, necessary to build their nests.†Mr. Stephens, in his Incidents of Travel, vol. ii. chap. 15, gives an interesting account of the Dead Sea, and says—“I saw a flock of gulls floating quietly on its bosom.â€
It has been roundly asserted, that, in very clear weather, the ruins of the cities, destroyed by the conflagration, are visible beneath the waters. Josephus soberly avers, that a smoke constantly arose from the lake, whose waters changed their color three times daily.
The waters of Jordan and of the brooks Kishon, Jabbok, and Arnon, flow into the Dead Sea, yet produce no perceptible rise of its surface. The influx from these mountain streams is considerable. Hence another legend, to account for this mystery—a subterraneous communication with the Mediterranean—which would surely make the matter worse, for Dr. Jenks and other writers state, that “the waters lie in a deep caldron, many hundred feetbelowthe Mediterranean.†Evaporation, which is said to be very great, explains the mystery entirely. At the rising of the sun, dense fogs cover the lake.
Chateaubriand says—“The first thing I did, on alighting, was to walk into the lake, up to my knees, and taste the water. I found it impossible to keep it in my mouth. It far exceeds that of the sea, in saltness, and produces, upon the lips, the effect of a strong solution of alum. Before my boots were completely dry, they were covered with salt; our clothes, our hats, our handswere, in less than three hours, impregnated with this mineral.†“The origin of this mineral,†says Volney, “is easy to be discovered, for, on the southwest shore, are mines of fossil salt. They are situated, in the sides of the mountains, which extend along the border; and, for time immemorial, have supplied the neighboring Arabs, and even the city of Jerusalem.â€
“Whoever,†says Mr. Carne, in his Letters from the East, “has seen the Dead Sea, will have its aspect impressed upon his memory. It is, in truth, a gloomy and fearful spectacle. The precipices, in general, descend abruptly to the lake, and, on account of their height, it is seldom agitated by the winds. Its shores are not visited, by any footstep, save that of the wild Arab, and he holds it in superstitious dread. On some parts of the rocks, there is a thick, sulphureous incrustation, and, in their steep descents, there are several deep caverns, where the benighted Bedouin sometimes finds a home. The sadness of the grave was on it and around it, and the silence also. However vivid the feelings are, on arriving on its shores, they subside, after a time, into languor and uneasiness; and you long, if it were possible, to see a tempest wake on its bosom, to give sound and life to the scene.â€
“If we adopt,†says Chateaubriand, “the idea of Professor Michaelis, and the learned Busching, in his memoir on the Dead Sea, physics may be admitted, to explain the catastrophe of the guilty cities, without offence to religion. Sodom was built upon a mine of bitumen, as we know from the testimony of Moses and Josephus, who speak concerning wells of bitumen, in the valley of Siddim. Lightning kindled the combustible mass, and the cities sank in the subterranean conflagration.†In Calmet’s Dictionary of the Bible, vol. iii., article Lot, it is stated, that the Mahometans have added many circumstances to his history. They assert, that the angel Gabriel pried up the devoted cities so near to Heaven, that the angels actually heard the sound of the trumpets and horns, and even the yelping of puppies, in Sodom and Gomorrah: and that Gabriel then let the whole concern go with a terrible crash. Upon this, Calmet remarks,—“Romantic as this account appears, it preserves traces of an earthquake and a volcano, which were, in all probability, thenatural secondary causeof the overthrow of Sodom, and of the formation of the Dead Sea.†Lot’s wife in my next.