Dealings With The Dead.

by A s.e.xton of the Old School.

No. XC.

My earliest recollections of some, among the dead and buried aristocracy of Boston, find a ready embodiment, in c.o.c.ked hats of enormous proportions, queues reaching to their middles, cloaks of scarlet broadcloth, lined with silk, and faced with velvet, and just so short, as to exhibit the swell of the leg, silk stockings, and breeches, highly polished shoes, and large, square, silver buckles, embroidered vests, with deep lappet pockets, similar to those, which were worn, in the age of _Louis Quatorze_, shirts ruffled, at the bosoms and sleeves, doeskin or beaver gloves, and glossy, black, Surinam walking canes, six feet in length, and commonly carried by the middle.

Of the last of the Capulets we know nearly all, that it is desirable to know. Of the last of the c.o.c.ked hats we are not so clearly certified.

The dimensions of the military c.o.c.ked hat were terrible; and, like those enormous, bear skin caps, which are in use, at present, eminently calculated to put the enemy to flight. I have seen one of those enormous c.o.c.ked hats, which had long been preserved, as a memorial of the wearer's gallantry. In one corner, and near the extremity, was a round hole, said to have been made by a musket ball, at the battle of White Plains, Nov.

30, 1776. As I contemplated this relic, it was impossible to avoid the comforting reflection, that the head of the gallant proprietor was at a very safe distance from the bullet.

After the a.s.sa.s.sination of Henry IV., and greatly to the amus.e.m.e.nt of the gay and giddy courtiers of his successor, Louis XIII.--old Sully obstinately adhered to the costume of the former reign. Colonel Barnabas Clarke was very much of Sully's way of thinking. "And who," asks the reader, "was Colonel Barnabas Clarke?" He was a pensioner of the United States, and died a poor, though highly respected old man, in the town of Randolph, and Commonwealth of Ma.s.sachusetts. For several years, he commanded the third Regiment of the first Brigade, and first Division of infantry; and he wore the largest c.o.c.ked hat and the longest queue in the known world. He was a broad-shouldered, strong-hearted Revolutioner. Let me take the reader aside, for a brief s.p.a.ce; and recite to him a pleasant anecdote of old Colonel Barnabas Clarke, which occurred, under my own observation, when John Brooks--whose patent of military n.o.bilty bears date at Saratoga, but who was one of nature's n.o.blemen from his cradle--was governor of Ma.s.sachusetts.

There was a militia muster of the Norfolk troops, and they were reviewed by Governor Brooks. They were drawn up in line. The Governor, bare headed, with his suite, had moved slowly down, in front of the array, each regiment, as he pa.s.sed, paying the customary salute.

The petty _chapeau militaire_ had then become almost universal, and, with, or without, its feather and gold edgings, was all over the field. Splendid epaulettes and eaglets glittered, on the shoulders of such, as were ent.i.tled to wear them. Prancing horses were caracoling and curvetting, in gaudy trappings. In the midst of this showy array, in front of his regiment, bolt upright, upon the back of his tall, chestnut horse, that, upon the strength of an extra allowance of oats, pawed the ground, and seemed to forget, that he was in the plough, the day before, sat an old man, of rugged features, and large proportions. Upon his head was that enormous c.o.c.ked hat, of other days--upon his shoulders, scarcely distinguishable, was a small pair of tarnished epaulettes--the gray hairs at the extremity of his prodigious queue lay upon the crupper of his saddle--his ancient boots shaped to the leg, his long shanked spurs, his straight silver-hilted sword, and lion-headed pistols were of 1776. Such was the outer man of old Colonel Barnabas Clarke.

As the Governor advanced, upon the line of the third Regiment of the first Brigade, the fifes of that regiment commenced their shrill whistle, and the drums began to roll; and, at the appropriate moment, the veteran saluted his excellency, in that rather angular style, which was common, in the days of our military fathers.

At that moment, Governor Brooks checked his horse, and, replacing his hat upon his head, dismounted, and walked towards the Colonel, who, comprehending the intention, returned his sword to its scabbard, and came to the ground, with the alertness of a much younger man. They met midway, between the line and the reviewing cortege--in an instant, each grasped the other's hand, with the ardor of men, who are mutually endeared, by the recollection of partnership, in days of danger and daring--they had been fellow lodgers, within the intrenchments of Burgoyne, on the memorable night of October 7, 1777. After a few words of mutual respect and affection, they parted--the review went forward--the fifers and drummers outdid themselves--the beholders sent forth an irrepressible shout--and when old Colonel Barnabas got up once again, upon his chestnut horse, I thought he looked considerably more like old Frederick, hat, queue, and all, than he did, before he got down. He looked as proud as Tamerlane, after he had caged the Sultan, Bajazet--yet I saw him dash a tear from his eye, with the sleeve of his coat--I found one in my own. How frail we are!--there is one there now!

While contemplating the remarkable resurrection that has occurred, within a few years, of old chairs and tables, porcelain and candlesticks, I confidently look forward to the resurrection of c.o.c.ked hats. They were really very becoming. I speak not of those vasty beavers, manufactured, of yore, by that most accomplished, gentlemanly, and facetious of all hatters, Mr. Nathaniel Balch, No. 72 old Cornhill; but such as he made, for his excellent friend, and boon companion, Jeremiah Allen, Esquire, high Sheriff of Suffolk. When trimmed with gold lace, and adorned with the official c.o.c.kade, it was a very becoming affair.

No man carried the fashion, as I have described it, in the commencement of this article, to a greater extent, than Mr. Thomas Marshall, more commonly known as _Tommy Marshall_. He was a tailor, and his shop and house were in State Street, near the present site of the Boston Bank. In London, his leisurely gait, finished toilette, admirable personal equipments, and exceedingly composed and courtly carriage and deportment would have pa.s.sed him off, for a gentleman, living at his ease, or for one of the n.o.bility.

Mr. Marshall was remarkable, for the exquisite polish, and cla.s.sical cut of his c.o.c.ked hat. He was much on 'change, in those primitive days, and highly respected, for his true sense of honor. Though the most accomplished tailor of his day, no one ever suspected him of cabbage.

When I began the present article, it was my design to have written upon a very different subject--but since all my cogitations have been "_knocked into a c.o.c.ked hat_," I may as well close this article, with a short anecdote of Tommy Marshall.

There was a period--there often is, in similar cases--during which it was doubtful, if the celebrated James Otis was a sane or an insane man. During that period, he was engaged for the plaintiff, in a cause, in which Mr.

Marshall was a witness, for the defendant. After a tedious cross examination, Mr. Otis perceived the impossibility of perplexing the witness, or driving him into any discrepancy; and, in a moment of despair, his mind, probably, not being perfectly balanced, he lifted his finger, and shaking it, knowingly, at the witness, exclaimed--"_Ah, Tommy Marshall, Tommy Marshall, I know you!_" "_And what do you know of me, sir?_" cried the witness, doubling his fist in the very face of Mr. Otis, and stamping on the floor--"_I know you're a tailor, Tommy!_"

No. XCI.

Wake--Vigil--Waecan--import one and the same thing. So we are informed, by that learned antiquary, John Whitaker, in his History of Manchester, published in 1771. Originally, this was a festival, kept by watching, through the night, preceding the day, on which a church was dedicated. We are told, by Shakspeare--

He that outlives this day, and sees old age, Will yearly, on the _vigil_, feast his neighbors, And say _tomorrow_ is Saint Crispian.

These vigils, like the _agapae_, or love-feasts, fell, erelong, into disrepute, and furnished occasion, for disgraceful revelry and riot.

The Irish _Wake_, as it is popularly called, however it may have sprung from the same original stock, is, at present, a very different affair.

Howling, at a wake, is akin to the ululation of the mourning women of Greece, Rome, and Judea, to which I have alluded, in a former number. The object of the Irish _Wake_ is to rouse the spirit, which, otherwise, it is apprehended, might remain inactive, unwilling, or unable, to quit its mortal frame--to _wake_ the soul, not precisely, "by tender strokes of art," but by long-continued, nocturnal wailings and howlings. In practice, it has ever been accounted extremely difficult, to get the Irish soul fairly off, either upward or downward, without an abundance of intoxicating liquor.

The philosophy of this is too high for me--I cannot attain unto it. I know not, whether the soul goes off, in a fit of disgust, at the senseless and insufferable uproar, or is fairly frightened out of its tabernacle. This I know, that boon companions, and plenty of liquor are the very last means I should think of employing, to induce a true-born Irishman, to give up the ghost. I have read with pleasure, in the Pilot, a Roman Catholic paper of this city, an editorial discommendation of this preposterous custom.

However these barbarous proceedings may serve to outrage the dignity, and even the decency, of death, they have not always been absolutely useless.

If the ravings, and rantings, the drunkenness, and the b.l.o.o.d.y brawls, that have sometimes occurred, during the celebration of an _Irish wake_, have proved unavailing, in raising the dead, or in exciting the lethargic soul--they have, certainly, sometimes sufficed, to restore consciousness to the cataleptic, who were supposed to be dead, and about to be committed to the grave.

In April, 1804, Barney O'Brien, to all appearance, died suddenly, in the town of Ballyshannon. He had been a terrible bruiser, and so much of a profligate, that it was thought all the priests, in the county of Donegal, would have as much as they could do, of a long summer's day, to confess him. It was concluded, on all hands, that more than ordinary efforts would be required, for the _waking_ of Barney O'Brien's soul. A great crowd was accordingly gathered to the shanty of death. The mountain dew was supplied, without stint. The howling was terrific. Confusion began. The altercation of tongues was speedily followed, by the collision of fists, and the cracking of shelalahs. The yet uncovered coffin was overturned.

The shock, in an instant, terminated the trance. Barney O'Brien stood erect, before the terrified and flying group, six feet and four inches in his winding sheet, screaming, at the very top of his lungs, as he rose--"_For the love o' the blissed Jasus, jist a dhrap o' the crathur, and a shelalah!_"

In a former number, I have alluded to the subject of premature interment.

A writer, in the London Quarterly, vol. lxiii. p. 458, observes, that "there exists, among the poor of the metropolitan districts, an inordinate dread of premature burial." After referring to a contrivance, in the receiving houses of Frankfort and Munich,--a ring, attached to the finger of the corpse, and connected with a lightly hung bell, in the watcher's room--he significantly asks--"_Has the corpse bell at Frankfort and Munich ever yet been rung?_"--For my own part, I have no correspondence with the s.e.xtons there, and cannot tell. It may possibly have been rung, while the watcher slept! After admitting the possibility of premature burial, this writer says, he should be content with Shakspeare's test--"_This feather stirs; she lives_," This may be a very good affirmative test. But, as a negative test, it would be good for little--_this feather stirs not; she is dead_. In cases of catalepsy, it often happens, that a feather will not stir; and even the more trustworthy test--the mirror--will furnish no evidence of life.

To doubt the fact of premature interment is quite as absurd, as to credit all the tales, in this connection, fabricated by French and German wonder-mongers. During the existence of that terrible epidemic, which has so recently pa.s.sed away, the necessity, real or imagined, of removing the corpses, as speedily as possible, has, very probably, occasioned some instances of premature interment.

On the 28th of June, 1849, a Mr. Schridieder was supposed to be dead of cholera, at St. Louis, and was carried to the grave; where a noise in the coffin was heard, and, upon opening it, he was found to be alive.

In the month of July, 1849, a Chicago paper contained the following statement:--

"We know a gentleman now residing in this city, who was attacked by the cholera, in 1832, and after a short time, was supposed to have died. He was in the collapsed state, gave not the least sign of life, and when a gla.s.s was held over his mouth, there was no evidence that he still breathed. But, after his coffin was obtained, he revived, and is now living in Chicago, one of our most estimable citizens."

"Another case, of a like character, occurred near this city, yesterday. A man who was in the collapsed state, and to all appearances dead, became reanimated after his coffin was procured. He revived slightly--again apparently died--again revived slightly--and finally died and was buried."

I find the following, in the Boston Atlas of August 23, 1849:--

"A painful occurrence has come to light in Baltimore, which creates intense excitement. The remains of the venerable D. Evans Reese, who died suddenly on Friday evening, were conveyed to the Light Street burying-ground, and while they were placed in the vault, the hand of a human being was discovered protruding from one of the coffins deposited there. On a closer examination, those present were startled to find the hand was firmly clenched, the coffin burst open, and the body turned entirely over, leaving not a doubt that the unfortunate being had been buried alive. The corpse was that of a very respectable man, who died, apparently, very suddenly, and whose body was placed in the vault on Friday last."

The _Recherches Medico-legales sur l'incert.i.tude des risques de la mort, les dangers des inhumations precipitees, les moyens de constater les deces et de rappeler a la vie ceux qui sont en etat de mort apparente_, by I. de Fontenelle, is a very curious production. In a review of this work, and of the _Recherches Physiologiques, sur la vie et la mort_, by Bichat, in the London Quarterly, vol. lx.x.xv. page 369, the writer remarks--"_A gas is developed in the decaying body, which mimics, by its mechanical force, many of the movements of life. So powerful is this gas, in corpses, which have laid long in the water, that M. Devergie, the physician at the Morgue, at Paris, says that, unless secured to the table, they are often heaved up and thrown to the ground._"

Upon this theory, the writer proposes, to account for those posthumous changes of position, which are known, sometimes to have taken place. It may serve to explain some of these occurrences. But the formation of this gas, in a greater or less degree, must be universal, while a change in the position is comparatively rare. The curiosity of friends often leads to an inspection of the dead, in every stage of decomposition. However valuable the theory, in the writer's estimation, the generation of the most powerful gas would scarcely be able to throw the body entirely out of the coffin, with its arms outstretched towards the portal of the tomb; of which, and of similar changes, there exist well authenticated records.

It is quite probable, that the _Irish wake_ may have originated, in this very dread of premature interment, strangely blended with certain spiritual fancies, respecting the soul's reluctance to quit its tenement of clay.

After relating the remarkable story of Asclepiades of Prusa in Bithynia, who restored to life an individual, then on his way to the funeral pile--Bayle, vol. ii. p. 379, Lond. 1735, relates the following interesting tale. A peasant of Poictou was married to a woman, who, after a long fit of sickness, fell into a profound lethargy, which so closely resembled death, that the poor people gathered round, and laid out the peasant's helpmate, for burial. The peasant a.s.sumed a becoming expression of sorrow, which utterly belied that exceeding great joy, that is natural to every man, when he becomes perfectly a.s.sured, that the tongue of a scolding wife is hushed forever.

The people of that neighborhood were very poor; and, either from economy or taste, coffins were not used among them. The corpses were borne to the grave, simply enveloped in their shrouds, as we are told, by Castellan, is the custom, among the Turks. Those who bore the body, moved, inadvertently, rather too near a hedge, at the roadside, and, a sharp thorn p.r.i.c.king the leg of the corpse, the trance was broken--the supposed defunct sprang up on end--and began to scold, as vigorously as ever.

The disappointed peasant had fourteen years more of it. At the expiration of that term, the good woman pined away, and appeared to die, once more.

She was again borne toward the grave. When the bearers drew near to the spot, where the remarkable revival had occurred, upon a former occasion, the widower became very much excited; and, at length, unable to restrain his emotions, audibly exclaimed--"_don't go too near that hedge!_"

In a number of the London Times, for 1821, there is an account of the directions, given by an old Irish expert in such matters, who was about to die, respecting his own _wake_--"Recollect to put three candles at the head of the bed, after ye lay me out, two at the foot, and one at each side. Mind now and put a plate with the salt on it, just atop of my breast. And d'ye hear--have plinty o' tobacky and pipes enough; and remimber to have the punch strong. And--blundenoons, what the devil's the use o' pratin t'ye--sure it's mysilf knows ye'll be after botching it, as I'll not be there mysel."

No. XCII.

That man must be an incorrigible _fool_, who does not, occasionally, like the Vicar of Wakefield, find himself growing weary of being always _wise_.

In this sense, there are few men of sixty winters, who have not been guilty of being over-wise--of a.s.suming, at some period of their lives, the port and majesty of the bird of Minerva--of exercising that talent, for silence and solemnity, ascribed by the French n.o.bleman, as More relates, in his travels, to the English nation. A man, thus protected--dipped, as it were, in the waters of Lethe, _usque ad calcem_--is truly a pleasant fellow. There is no such thing as getting hold of him--there he is, conservative as a tortoise, _unguibus retractis_. He seems to think the exchange of intellectual commodities, entirely out of the question; he will have none of your folly, and he holds up his own superlative wisdom, as a cow, of consummate resolution, holds up her milk. If society were thus composed, what a concert of voices there would be, in unison with Job's--_we would not live alway_. Life would be no other, than a long funeral procession--the dead burying the dead. I am decidedly in favor of a cheerful philosophy. Jeremy Taylor says, that, "_the slightest going off from a man's natural temper is a species of drunkenness_." There are some men, certainly, who seem to think, that total abstinence, from every species of merriment, is a wholesome preparative, for a residence in Paradise. The Preacher saith of laughter, _it is mad, and of mirth, what doeth it?_ But in the very next chapter, he declares, _there is a time to dance and a time to sing_. We are told in the book of Proverbs, that _a merry heart doeth good, like a medicine_.

There has probably seldom been a wiser man than Democritus of Abdera, who was called the laughing philosopher; and of whom Seneca says, in his work De Ira, ii. c. 10, _Democritum aiunt nunquam sine risu in publico fuisse; adeo nihil illi videbatur serium eorum, quae serio gerebantur_: Democritus never appeared in public, without laughter in his countenance; so that nothing seemed to affect him seriously, however much so it might affect the rest of mankind.--The Abderites, with some exceptions, thought him mad; or, in Beattie's words, when describing his minstrel boy--