Читать книгу Dealings with the Dead (Vol. 1&2) - Lucius M. Sargent - Страница 33

Table of Contents

The dead speak from their coffins—from their very graves—and verily the heart of the true mourner hath ears to hear. Gloves and rings are the valedictories of the dead—their vales, or parting tokens, received by the mourners, at the hand of some surviving friend. This appropriated word, vale, as almost every one knows, is the leave-taking expression of the mourners; and, when anglicised, and used in the plural number, as one syllable, signifies those vales or vails, tokens, in various forms, from shillings to crown pieces, bestowed by parting visitors, on domestics, from the head waiter to the scullion. They are intended as leave tokens. Every servant, in the families of the nobility, from the highest to the lowest, expects a vale, not in the classical sense of Menalcas—Longum, formose, vale, vale, but in lawful money, intelligible coin. This practice had become so oppressive to visitors, in the early part of the reign of George III., that Sir Jonas Hanway, remarkable, among other things, for his controversy with Dr. Johnson, on the subject of tea drinking, wrote and published eight letters to the Duke of Newcastle, against the custom of giving vails, in which he relates some very amusing anecdotes. Mr. Hanway, being quietly reproached, by a friend, in high station, for not accepting his invitations to dinner, more frequently, frankly replied, “Indeed, my Lord, I cannot afford it.” He recites the manner of leaving a gentleman’s house, where he had dined; the servants, as usual, flocked around him—“your great coat, Sir Jonas”—a shilling—“your hat, sir:” a shilling—“stick, sir:” a shilling—“umbrella, sir:” a shilling—“sir, your gloves”—“well, keep the gloves, they are not worth the shilling.” A remarkable example of the insolence of a pampered menial was related to Mr. Hanway, by Sir Timothy Waldo. He had dined with the Duke of Newcastle: as he was departing, and handing over his coin to the train of servants, that lined the hall, he put a crown into the hand of the chief cook, who returned it, saying, “I never take silver, sir.” “Indeed”—Sir Timothy replied, returning the piece to his pocket, “I never give gold.”

Sir Jonas was an excellent man; and, whatever objections he may have had to the practice of giving extravagant vails to servants, I think he would have little or nothing to say, against the practice of giving such vails, as the dead may be supposed, vicariously, to bestow upon the living, in the form of rings and gloves. The dead, it must be conceded, seem not so much disposed to give vails, at present, as they were, one hundred years ago. In such dispensations, in the olden time, the good man, the clergyman, was seldom forgotten. Gloves and rings were showered down, upon the Lord’s anointed, at weddings, christenings, and funerals. When a child, I was very much puzzled, upon two points; first, what became of all the old moons, and, secondly, what the minister did with his gloves and rings. If he had had the hands of Briareus, he could not have worn them all.

An interesting little volume is now lying upon my table, which explains the mystery, not at all, in relation to the moons, but most happily, in respect to rings and gloves. It is the Astronomical Diary or Almanac of Nathaniel Ames, Boston, New England, printed by J. Draper, for the booksellers, 1748. This little book is interleaved; and the blank leaves are written over, in the hand-writing of good old Andrew Eliot, who, April 14, 1742, was ordained pastor of the new North Church, in Boston, as colleague with Mr. Webb, where, possessing very little of the locomotive or migratory spirit of the moderns, this excellent man remained, till his death, Sept. 13, 1778. If gall and wormwood are essential to the perfection of Christian theology, Dr. Eliot was singularly deficient, as a teacher of religion. His sermons were very full of practical godliness, and singularly free from brimstone and fire. He was elected President of Harvard University, but his attachment to his people caused him to decline the appointment. After this passing tribute, let us return to the little Almanac of 1748. On the inside of the marble cover the first entry commences thus: “Gloves, 1748, January.” The gloves, received by Dr. Eliot, are set against particular names, and under every month, in the year. Certain names are marked with asterisks, doubtless denoting, that the parties were dead, or stelligeri, after the fashion of the College catalogue; and thus the good doctor discriminated, between funerals, and weddings and christenings. Although a goodly number of rings are enrolled, together with the gloves, yet a page is devoted to rings, exclusively, in the middle of the book. This is not arranged, under months, but years; and commences, in 1741, the year before he was ordained, as colleague with Mr. Webb. At the bottom of the record, the good man states how many pairs were kid; how many were lambswool; and how many were long or women’s gloves, intended, of course, for the parson’s lady.

These rings and gloves were sold, by the worthy doctor, with the exception of such, as were distributed, in his own household, not a small one, for he left eleven children. A prejudice might have prevailed, an hundred years ago, against dead men’s gloves, similar to that, recorded in the proverb, against dead men’s shoes; certain it is, these gloves did not meet with a very ready market. It appears by the record, in the doctor’s own hand, that Mrs. Avis was entrusted with fifteen pairs of women’s and three dozen of men’s; and returned, unsold, eight pairs of women’s, and one dozen and ten pairs of men’s. A dozen pairs of men’s were committed to Mrs. Langstaff; half a dozen women’s to Mr. Langdon, and seventeen pairs to Captain Millens. What a glove and ring market the dear Doctor’s study must have been. In thirty-two years, he appears to have received two thousand nine hundred and forty pairs of gloves, at funerals, weddings, and baptisms. Of these he sold to the amount of fourteen hundred and forty one pounds, eighteen shillings, and one penny, old tenor, equal to about six hundred and forty dollars. He also sold a goodly number of his rings. From all this, the conclusion is irresistible, that this truly good man and faithful minister must have been, if I may use the common expression, hand and glove with his parishioners. The little volume before me contains the record of other matters, highly interesting, doubtless, in their day but of precious little moment, at the present hour. Of what importance can it be, I beg leave to inquire, for any one to know, on what precise day, one hundred years ago, the worthy pastor borrowed a box of candles of Deacon Langdon, or a loaf of sugar of his own father, or ten shillings, old tenor, of Deacon Grant! Who, of the present generation, cares, on what day, one hundred years ago, he repaid those three pounds to Deacon Barrett! Of what consequence to any living mortal can it be, that, on the thirteenth day of April, one hundred years ago, Betty Bouvè came to live at the manse, as a maid! It is past. The last of that box of candles has burnt down into the socket, long ago. That sugar has dissolved, and lost its sweetness. And Betty Bouvè! The places that knew her know her no more. Her sweeping days are over; for time, with its irresistible broom, hath swept her from the face of the earth, and given her the grave for a dustpan.

The good old man himself has been called to the account of his stewardship. “It was a pleasant day,” saith Father Gannett, on the fly-leaf of his almanac, “Sept. 15, 1778, when near four hundred couples and thirty-two carriages followed the remains of Dr. Andrew Eliot from his house, before the south side of his meeting-house, into Fore Street, up Cross Street, through Black Horse Lane, to Corpse Hill.” I adopt Mr. Gannett’s orthography, though rather less accurate than applicable.