Читать книгу Dealings with the Dead (Vol. 1&2) - Lucius M. Sargent - Страница 34

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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 believe it 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 nefandous high 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.”

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.”

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 with the dead. Perhaps I am mistaken. The conscience party may not be dead, but cataleptic—destined to rise again—to fall more feebly than before.