Dealings With The Dead Volume I Part 27

Hutchinson, i. 1, refers expressly to the pa.s.sage, in Josselyn; and after stating that Gosnold discovered the Elizabeth Islands, in 1602, and built a fort there, and intended a settlement, but could not persuade his people to remain, he adds, in a note--"_This, I suppose, is what Josselyn, and no other author, calls the first colony of New Plimouth, for he says it was begun in 1602, and near Narragansett Bay_."

The writer of a "Topographical Description of New Bedford," M. H. C., iv.

234, states, that the island, on which Gosnold built his fort and store-house, was _Nashaun_, and refers to Dr. Belknap's Biography. The New Bedford writer is wrong, in point of fact, and right, in point of reference. Dr. Belknap published the first volume of his Biography, in 1794, containing a short notice of Gosnold, in which, p. 236, he says--"The island, on which Gosnold and his companions took up their abode, is now called by its Indian name, _Nashaun_, and is the property of the Hon. James Bowdoin, of Boston, to whom I am indebted for these remarks on Gosnold's journal." The writer of the description of New Bedford published his account, the following year, and relied on Dr. Belknap, who unfortunately relied on his informant, who, it seems, was entirely mistaken.

Dr. Belknap published his second volume, in 1798, with a new and more extended memoir of Gosnold, in which, p. 100, he remarks--"The account of Gosnold's voyage and discovery, in the first volume of this work, is so erroneous, from the misinformation, which I had received, that I thought it best to write the whole of it anew. The former mistakes are here corrected, partly from the best information which I could obtain, after the most a.s.siduous inquiry; but princ.i.p.ally from _my own observations_, on the spot; compared with the journal of the voyage, more critically examined than before."

Here is abundant evidence of that scrupulous regard for historical truth, for which that upright and excellent man was ever remarkable. With most writers, the pride of authors.h.i.+p would have revolted. The very thought of these _vestigia retrorsum_, would not have found toleration, for a moment.

Some less offensive mode might have been adopted, by the employment of _errata_, or _appendices_, or _addenda_. Not so: this conscientious man, however innocently, had misled the public, upon a few historical points, and nothing would give him satisfaction, but a public recantation. His right hand had not been the agent, like Cranmer's, of voluntary falsehood, but of unintentional mistake, like Scaevola's; and nothing would suffice, in his opinion, but the actual cautery.

In this second life of Gosnold, p. 114, after describing "the island Elizabeth," or Cuttyhunk, Dr. Belknap says--"To this spot I went, on the 20th day of June, 1797, in company with several gentlemen, whose curiosity and obliging kindness induced them to accompany me. The protecting hand of nature had reserved this favorite spot to herself. Its fertility and its productions are exactly the same, as in Gosnold's time, excepting the wood, of which there is none. Every species of what he calls 'rubbish,'

with strawberries, pears, tansy, and other fruits, and herbs, appear in rich abundance, unmolested by any animal but aquatic birds. We had the supreme satisfaction to find the cellar of Gosnold's store-house."

"_We had the supreme satisfaction to find the cellar of Gosnold's store-house!_"--A whole-souled e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n this! I reverence the memory of the man who made it. It is not every other man we meet on 'Change, who can estimate a sentiment like this. My little Jew friend, in Griper's Alley, entirely mistakes the case. Never having heard of Bart Gosnold before, he takes him, for the like of Kidd; and the venerable Dr. Jeremy Belknap, for a gold-finder. What _supreme satisfaction_ could there be, in discovering the cellar of a store-house, nearly two hundred years old, unless hidden treasures were there concealed! How, in the name of two per cent. a month, and all the other G.o.ds we wors.h.i.+p, could a visit down to Cuttyhunk ever _pay_, only to stare at the stones of an ancient cellar!

Dr. Belknap's e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n reminds one of divers interesting matters--of Archimedes, when he leaped from his bath, and ran about naked, for joy, with _eureka_ on his lips, having excogitated the plan, for detecting the fraud, practised upon Hiero.--It also recalls--_parvis componere magna_--Johnson's memorable exclamation, upon walking over the graves, at Icolmkill--"To abstract the mind from all local emotion would be impossible, if it were endeavored, and would be foolish, if it were possible. Whatever withdraws us from the power of our senses; whatever makes the past, the distant or the future predominate over the present, advances us in the dignity of thinking beings. Far from me and from my friends be such frigid philosophy, as may conduct as indifferent and unmoved over any ground, which has been dignified by wisdom, bravery or virtue. That man is little to be envied, whose patriotism would not gain force upon the plains of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of Iona."

Dr. Jeremy Belknap was a Boston boy, born June 4, 1744. He learned his rudiments, under the effective birch of Master Lovell; graduated A. M. at Harvard, 1762, S. T. D. 1792. He was ordained pastor of the church in Dover, N. H. 1767; and in 1787, he became pastor of the church in Berry Street, formerly known as Johnny Moorehead's, who was settled there in 1730, and succeeded, by David Annan, in 1783, and which is now Dr.

Gannett's.

Dr. Belknap was the founder of the Ma.s.sachusetts Historical Society, and one of the most earnest promoters of the welfare of Harvard College.

Dr. Belknap published sermons, on various occasions; a volume of dissertations, on the character and resurrection of Christ; his history of New Hamps.h.i.+re in three volumes; his American Biography, in two volumes; and the Foresters, an American Tale, well worthy of republication, at the present day. He wrote extensively, in the newspapers, and published several essays, on the slave trade, and upon the early settlement of the country.

I have the most perfect recollection of this excellent man; for I saw him often, when I was very young; and I used to wonder, how a man, with so rough a voice, could bestow such a benign and captivating smile, upon little boys.

The churchman prays to be delivered from _sudden_ death. Dr. Belknap prayed for _sudden_ death--that he might be translated "_in a moment_"--such were his words. Yet here is no discrepancy. No man, prepared to die, will pray for a lingering death--and to him, who is not prepared, no death, however prolonged, can be other than _sudden_ and premature. On the ninth of February, 1791, Dr. Belknap was called to mourn the loss of a friend, whose death was immediate. Among the Dr.'s papers, after his decease, the following lines were found, bearing the date of that friend's demise, and exhibiting, with considerable felicity of language, his own views and aspirations:--

"When faith and patience, hope and love Have made us meet for Heav'n above; How blest the privilege to rise, s.n.a.t.c.h'd, in a moment, to the skies!

Unconscious, to resign our breath, Nor taste the bitterness of death!

Such be my lot, Lord, if thou please To die in silence, and at ease; When thou dost know, that I'm prepared, Oh seize me quick to my reward.

But, if thy wisdom sees it best, To turn thine ear from this request; If sickness be th' appointed way, To waste this frame of human clay; If, worn with grief, and rack'd with pain, This earth must turn to earth again; Then let thine angels round me stand; Support me, by thy powerful hand; Let not my faith or patience move, Nor aught abate my hope or love; But brighter may my graces s.h.i.+ne, Till they're absorbed in light divine."

The will of the Lord coincided with the wish of this eminent disciple; and his was the sudden death, that he had asked of G.o.d. At 4 o'clock in the morning of June 20, 1798, paralysis seized upon his frame, and, before noon, he was no more.

Personal considerations of the flesh cannot be supposed, alone, to have moved the heart of this benevolent man. Who would not wish to avoid that pain, which is reflected, for days, and weeks, and months, and years, from the faces of those we love, who watch, and weep, about the bed of disease and death! Who can imagine this veteran soldier of the cross, with his armor of righteousness, upon the right hand and upon the left, awaiting the welcome signal to depart--without adopting, in the spiritual, and in the physical, sense, the language of the prophet--"_Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his_."

No. LXXVI.

I never dream, if I can possibly avoid it--when the thing is absolutely forced upon me, why that is another affair. On the evening of the second day of January, 1850, from some inexplicable cause, I lost all appet.i.te for my pillow. I had, till past eleven, been engaged, in the perusal of Goethe's Confessions of a Fair Saint. After a vain trial of the commonplace expedients, such as counting leaping sheep, up to a thousand and one; humming Old Hundred; and fixing my thoughts upon the heads of good parson Cleverly's last Sabbath sermon, on perseverance; I, fortunately, thought of Joel Barlow's Columbiad, and, after two or three pages, went, thankfully, to bed. I threw myself upon my right side, as I always do; for, being deaf--very--in the sinister ear, I thus exclude the nocturnal cries of fire, oysters, and murder.

I think I must have been asleep, full half an hour, by a capital Shrewsbury clock, that I keep in my chamber. It was, of course, on the dawning side of twelve--the very time, when dreams are true, or poets lie, which latter alternative is impossible. I was aroused, by the stroke of a deep-toned bell; and, in an instant, sat bolt upright, listening to the sound. I should have known it, among a thousand--it was the old pa.s.sing bell of King's Chapel. I am confident, as to the bell--it had the full, jarring sound, occasioned by the blockhead of a s.e.xton, who cracked it, in 1814. I counted the strokes--one--two--three--an adult male, of course--and then the age--seventy-four was the number of the strokes of that good old bell, corresponding with the years of his pilgrimage--and then a pause--I almost expected another--so, doubtless, did he, poor man--but it came not!--Some old stager, thought I, has put up, for the long night; and the power of slumber was upon me, in a moment.

I slept--but it was a fitful sleep--and I dreamt such a dream, as none but a s.e.xton of the old school can ever dream--

--------"velut aegri somnia, vanae Fingentur species, ut nec pes, nec caput uni Reddatur formae."

"Funeral baked meats," and bride's cake, and weepers, and wedding rings seemed oddly consorted together. At one moment, two very light and airy skeletons seemed to be engaged, in dancing the polka; and, getting angry, flung their skulls furiously at each other. I then fancied, that I saw old Grossman, driving his hea.r.s.e at a full run, with the corpse of an intemperate old lady, not to the graveyard, but, by mistake, to the very shop, where she bought her Jamaica. I dare not relate the half of my dream, lest I should excite some doubt of my veracity. For aught I know, I might have dreamt on till midsummer, had not a hand been laid on my shoulder, and a change come over the spirit of my dream, in a marvellous manner--for I actually dreamt I was wider awake, than I often am, when Sirius rages, of a summer afternoon, and I am taking my comfort, in my postprandial chair.

Starting suddenly, I beheld the well known features of an old acquaintance and fellow-spadesman--"Don't you know me?" "Yes," said I--"no, I can't say I do"--for I was confoundedly frightened--"Not know me! Haven't we lifted, head and foot, together, for six and thirty years?" "Well, I suppose we have; but you are so deadly pale; and, will you be so kind as to take your hand from my shoulder; for it's rather airy, at this season, you know, and your palm is like the hand of death." "And such it is," said he--"did you not hear my bell?" "_Your_ bell?" I inquired, gazing more intently, at the little, white-haired, old man, that stood before me. "Even so, Abner," he replied; "your old friend, and fellow-laborer, Martin Smith, is dead. I always had a solemn affection, for the pa.s.sing bell. It sounded not so pleasantly, to be sure, in the neighborhood of theatres and gay hotels; and its good, old, solemnizing tones are no longer permitted to be heard.

I longed to hear it, once more; and, after they had laid me out, and left me alone, I clapped on my great coat, over my shroud, as you see, and ran up to the church, and tolled my own death peal. When, more than one hundred years ago, in 1747, Dr. Caner took possession, in the old way, by entering, and closing the doors, and tolling the bell, as the Rev. Roger Price had done before, in 1729, he did not feel, that the church belonged to him, half so truly as I have felt, for many years, whenever I got a fair grip of that ancient bell-rope."

"Martin," said I, "this is rather a long speech, for a ghost; and must be wearying to the spirit; suppose you sit down." This I said, because I really supposed the good, little, old man, contrary to all his known habits, was practising upon my credulity--perhaps upon my fears; and was playing a new year's prank, in his old age: and I resolved, by the smallest touch of sarcasm in the world, to show him, that I was not so easily deceived. He made no reply; but, drawing my hand between his great coat and shroud, placed it over the region of his heart--"Good G.o.d! you are really dead then, Martin!" said I, for all was cold and still there.

"I am," he replied. "I have lived long--did you count the strokes of my bell?"--I nodded a.s.sent, for I could not speak.--"Four years beyond the scriptural measure of man's pilgrimage. You are not so old as I am"--"No," I replied.--"No, not quite," said he.--"No, no, Martin," said I, adjusting my night cap, "not by several years."--"Well," said the old man, with a sigh, "a few years make very little difference, when one has so many to answer for; those odd years are like a few odd s.h.i.+llings, in a very long account. I have come to ask you to go with me."--A cold sweat broke through my skin, as quickly, as if it had been mere tissue paper; and my mind instantly sprang to the work of finding devices, for putting the old man off. "Surely," said he, observing my reluctance, "you would not deny the request of a dying man." "Perhaps not," I replied, "but now that you are dead, dear Martin, for Heaven's sake, what's the use of it?"

The old man seemed to be pained, by my hesitation--"Abner," said he, after a short pause, "you and I have had a goodly number of strange pa.s.sages, at odd hours, down in that vault--are ye afeard, Abner--eh!"--"Why, as to that, Martin," said I, "if you were a real, live s.e.xton, I'd go with pleasure; but our relations are somewhat changed, you will admit. Besides, as I told you before, I cannot see the use of it." I felt rather vexed, to be suspected of fear.

"You have the advantage of me, Abner Wycherly," said Martin Smith, "being alive; and I have come to ask you to do a favor, for me, which I cannot do, for myself."--"What is it?" said I, rather impatiently, perhaps.--"I want you to embalm my"--"Martin," said I, interrupting him--"I can't--I never embalmed in my life." "You misunderstand me"--the old man replied--"I want you to embalm my memory; and preserve it, from the too common lot of our profession, who are remembered, often, as resurrectionists, and men of intemperate lives, and mysterious conversations. I want you to allow me a little _niche_, among your _Dealings with the Dead_. I shall take but little room, you see for yourself"--and then, in an under-tone, he said something about thinking more of the honor, than he should of a place in Westminster Abbey; which was very agreeable, to be sure, notwithstanding the sepulchral tone, in which it was uttered. Indeed I was surprised to find how very refres.h.i.+ng, to the spirits of an author, this species of extreme unction might be, administered even by a ghost.

"Martin," said I, "I have always thought highly of your good opinion; but what can I say--how can I serve you?" "I am desirous," said he, "of transmitting to my children a good name, which is better than riches."--"Well, my worthy, old fellow-laborer," I replied, "if that is all you want, the work is done to your hand, already. You will not suspect me of flattering you to your face, now that you are dead, Martin; and I can truly say, that I have heard thousands speak of you, with great kindness and respect, and never a lisp against you. All this I am ready to vouch for--but, for what purpose, do you ask me to go with you?"

"I wish you to go with me, and examine for yourself," said the old man; "and then you can speak, of your own knowledge. Don't refuse me--let us have one more of those cozy walks, Abner, under the old Chapel, and over that yard. I desire to talk over some things with you there, which can be better understood, upon the spot--and I want to explain one or two matters, so that you may be able to defend my reputation, should any censure be cast upon it, after I am gone."--"I cannot go with you tonight, Martin," said I; "I see a gleam in the East, already."--"True," said he, "I may be missed."--For not more than the half of one second, I closed my eyes--and, in that twinkling of an eye, he was gone--but I heard him whisper, distinctly, as he went--"_tomorrow night_!"

No. LXXVII.

I verily believe, that ghosts are the most punctual people in the world, especially if they were ever s.e.xtons, after the flesh. The last stroke of twelve had not ceased ringing in my ears, when that icy palm was again laid upon my shoulder; and Martin Smith stood by the side of my bed.

"Well, Martin," said I, "since you have taken the trouble to come out again, and upon such a stormy night withal, I cannot refuse your request."--It seemed to me, that I rose to put on my garments, and found them already on; and had scarcely prepared to go, with my old friend, to the Chapel, before we were in the middle of the broad aisle. Dreams are marvellous things, certainly--all this was a dream, I suppose--for, if it was not--what was it?

There seemed to be an oppressive weight, upon the mind of my old friend, connected, doubtless, with those explanations, which he had proposed to make, upon the spot. We sat down, near Governor s.h.i.+rley's monument.

"Abner," said he, "I wish, before I am buried, to make a clean breast, and to confess my misdeeds."--"I cannot believe, Martin," I replied, "that there is a very heavy, professional load upon your conscience. If there is, I know not what will become of the rest of us. But I will hearken to all you may choose to reveal."--"Well," resumed the old man, with a sigh, "I have tried to be conscientious, but we are all liable to error--we are are all fallible creatures, especially s.e.xtons. I have been s.e.xton here, for six and thirty years; and I am often painfully reminded, that, in the year 1815, I was rather remiss, in dusting the pews."--"Have you any other burden upon your conscience?"--"I have," he replied; and, rising, requested me to follow him.

He went out into the yard, and walked near the northerly corner, where Dr.

Caner's house formerly stood, which was afterwards occupied, as the Boston Athenaeum, and, more recently, gave place to the present Savings Bank.

"Here," said he, "thirty years ago, Dinah Furbush, a worthy, negro woman, was buried. The careless carpenter made her coffin one foot too short; and, to conceal his blunder, chopped off Dinah's head, and, clapping it between her feet, nailed down the lid. This scandalous transaction came to my knowledge, and I grieve to say, that I never communicated it to the wardens."--"Well, Martin," said I, "what more?"--"Nothing, thank Heaven!"

he replied. Giving way to an irresistible impulse, I broke forth into a roar of laughter, so long and loud, that three watchmen gathered to the wall, and seeing Martin Smith, whom they well knew, with the bottom of his shroud, exhibited below his great coat, they dropped their hooks and rattles, and ran for their lives. Martin walked slowly back to the church, and I followed.

He walked in, among the tombs--thousands of spirits seemed to welcome his advent--but, as I crossed the threshold, at the tramp of a living foot, they vanished, in a moment.

"How many corpses have you lifted, my old friend, in your six and thirty years of office?" "About five thousand," he replied, "exclusive of babies.

It is a very grateful employment, when one becomes used to it."

"I have heard," continued Martin, "that the office of executioner, in Paris, is highly respectable, and has been hereditary, for many years, in the family of the Sansons. I have done all in my power, to elevate our profession; and it is my highest ambition, that the office should continue in my family; and that my descendants may be s.e.xtons, till the graves shall give up their dead, and death itself be swallowed up in victory." I was sensibly touched, by the enthusiasm of this good old official; for I honor the man, who honors his calling. I could not refrain from saying a few kind and respectful words, of the old man's son and successor. He was moved--"The eyes of ghosts," said he, "are tearless, or I should weep. You have heard," continued the old man, in a low, tremulous voice, "that, when the mother of Was.h.i.+ngton was complimented, by some distinguished men, upon the achievements of her son, she went on with her knitting, saying, '_Well, George always was a good boy_'--now, I need say no more of Frank; and, in truth, I can say no less. I knew he would be a s.e.xton. He has forgotten it, I dare say; but he was not satisfied with the first go-cart he ever had, till he had fas.h.i.+oned it, like a hea.r.s.e. He _took hold right_, from the beginning. When I resigned, and gave him the keys, and felt, that I should no more walk up and down the broad aisle, as I had done, for so many years, I wept like a child."

"Yours has been a hale old age. You have always been _temperate_, I believe," said I.--"No," the old man replied, "I have always been _abstinent_. Like yourself, I use no intoxicating drink, upon any occasion, nor tobacco, in any of its forms, and we have come, as you say, to a hale old age. I have seen drunken s.e.xtons squirt tobacco juice over the coffin and pall; and let the corpse go by the run; and I know more than one successor of St. Peter, in this city, who smoke and chew, from morning to night; and give the s.e.xtons great trouble, in cleaning up after them."

We had advanced midway, among the tombs.--"It is awfully cold and dark here, Martin," said I, "and I hear something, like a mysterious breathing in the air; and, now and then, it seems as if a feather brushed my cheek."--"Is it unpleasant?" said the old man.--"Not particularly agreeable," I replied.--"The spirits are aware, that another is added to their number," said he, "and even the presence of one, in the flesh, will scarcely restrain them from coming forth. I will send them back to their dormitories." He lighted a spirit lamp, not in the vulgar sense of that word, but a lamp, before whose rays no spirit, however determined, could stand, for an instant.

There is comfort, even in a farthing rush light--I felt warmer. "What a subterraneous life you must have had of it," said I, "and how many tears and sighs you must have witnessed!" "Why yes," he replied, with a shake of the head, and a sigh, "the duties of my office have given to my features an expression of universal compa.s.sion--a sort of omnibus look, which has caused many a mourner to say--'Ah, Mr. Smith, I see how much you feel for me.' And I'm sure I did; not perhaps quite so keenly as I might, if I had been less frequently encored in the performance of my melancholy part.

Yes," continued the old man--"I have witnessed tears and sighs, and deep grief, and shallow, and raving--for a month, and life-long; very proper tears, gus.h.i.+ng from the eyes of widows, already wooed and won; and from the eyes of widowers, who, in a right melancholy way, had predetermined the mothers, for their orphan children. But pa.s.sages have occurred, now and then, all in my sad vocation, pure and holy, and soul-stirring enough, to give pulse to a heart of stone."