No. LV.
Poor Eli—as the old man was familiarly called by the Boston sextons of his time. He was a prime hand, at the shortest notice, in his better days. He has been long dead—died by inches—his memory first. For a year or more before his death, he was troubled with some strange hallucinations, of rather a professional character—among them, an impression, that he had committed a terrible sin, in putting so many respectable people under ground, who had never done him any harm. He said to me, more than once, while attempting to dissipate this film from his mental vision—“Abner, take my advice, and give up this wicked business, or you’ll be served so yourself, one of these days.” I was, upon one occasion, going over one of our farms, with the old man—the Granary burying-ground—and he flew into a terrible passion, because no grave had been dug for old Master Lovell—the father. We tried to remind him, that Master Lovell, many years before, in 1776, had turned tory, and gone off with the British army; but poor old Eli was past conviction. He took his last favorite walk, among the graves on Copp’s Hill, one morning in May—he there met a very worthy man, whom he was so fully persuaded he had buried, twenty years before, that he hobbled home, in the greatest trepidation, took to his bed, and never left it, but to verify his own suggestion, that we are all to be finally buried. During his last, brief illness, his mental wanderings were very manifest:—“Poor man—poor man”—he would mutter to himself—“I’m sure I buried him—deep grave, very—estate’s been settled—his sons—very fast young men, took possession—gone long ago—poor weeping widow—married twice since—what a time there’ll be—oh Lord forgive me, I’ll never bury another.” He was eighty-two then, and used to say he longed to die, and get among his old friends, for all, that he had known, were dead and gone.
A feeling, somewhat akin to this, is apt to gather about us, and grow stronger, as we march farther forward on our way, the numbers of our companions gradually lessening, as we go. Our ranks close up—those, with whom we stood, shoulder to shoulder, are cut down by the great leveller—and their places are filled by others. As we grow older, and the friends and companions of our earlier days are removed, we have a desire to do the next best thing—we cannot supply their places—but there are individuals—worthy people withal—whose faces have been familiar to our eyes, for fifty or sixty years—we have passed them, daily, or weekly—we chance to meet, no matter where—the ice is broken, by a mutual agreement, that it is very hot, or that it is very cold—very wet, or very dry—an allusion follows to the great number of years we have known each other, by name, and this results, frequently, in a relation, which, if it be not entitled to the sacred name of friendship, is not to be despised by those, who are deep in the valley:—out of such materials, an old craft, near the termination of its voyage, may rig up a respectable jury-mast, at least, and sail on comfortably, to the haven where it would be.
The old standard merchants, who transacted business, on the Long Wharf, Boston Pier, when I was a boy—are dead—stelligeri—almost every one of them; and, if all, that I have known and heard of them, were fairly told, it would make a very readable volume, highly honorable to many of their number, and calculated to operate, as a stimulus, upon the profession, in every age.
One little narrative spreads itself before my memory, at this moment, which I received from the only surviving son of the individual, to whom it especially refers. A merchant, very extensively engaged in commerce, and located upon the Long Wharf, died February 18, 1806, at the age of 75, intestate. His eldest son administered upon the estate. This old gentleman used pleasantly to say, that, for many years, he had fed a very large number of the Catholics, on the shores of the Mediterranean, during Lent, referring to his very extensive connection with the fishing business. In his day, he was certainly well known; and, to the present time, is well remembered, by some of the “old ones down along shore,” from the Gurnet’s Nose to Race Point. Among his papers, a package, of very considerable size, was found, after his death, carefully tied up, and labelled as follows: “Notes, due-bills, and accounts against sundry persons, down along shore. Some of these may be got by suit or severe dunning. But the people are poor: most of them have had fishermen’s luck. My children will do as they think best. Perhaps they will think with me, that it is best to burn this package entire.”
“About a month,” said my informant, “after our father died, the sons met together, and, after some general remarks, our elder brother, the administrator, produced this package, of whose existence we were already apprized; read the superscription; and asked what course should be taken, in regard to it. Another brother, a few years younger than the eldest, a man of strong, impulsive temperament, unable, at the moment, to express his feeling, by words, while he brushed the tears from his eyes with one hand, by a spasmodic jerk of the other, towards the fireplace, indicated his wish to have the package put into the flames. It was suggested, by another of our number, that it might be well, first, to make a list of the debtors’ names, and of the dates, and amounts, that we might be enabled, as the intended discharge was for all, to inform such as might offer payment, that their debts were forgiven. On the following day, we again assembled—the list had been prepared—and all the notes, due-bills, and accounts, whose amount, including interest, exceeded thirty-two thousand dollars, were committed to the flames.”
“It was about four months after our father’s death,” continued my informant, “in the month of June, that, as I was sitting in my eldest brother’s counting-room, waiting for an opportunity to speak with him, there came in a hard-favored, little, old man, who looked as if time and rough weather had been to windward of him, for seventy years. He asked if my brother was not the executor. He replied, that he was administrator, as our father died intestate. ‘Well,’ said the stranger, ‘I’ve come up from the Cape, to pay a debt I owed the old gentleman.’ My brother,” continued my informant, “requested him to take a seat, being, at the moment, engaged with other persons, at the desk.”
“The old man sat down, and, putting on his glasses, drew out a very ancient, leather pocket-book, and began to count over his money. When he had done—and there was quite a parcel of bank notes—as he sat, waiting his turn, slowly twisting his thumbs, with his old gray, meditative eyes upon the floor, he sighed; and I knew the money, as the phrase runs, came hard—and secretly wished the old man’s name might be found, upon the forgiven list. My brother was soon at leisure, and asked him the common questions—his name, &c. The original debt was four hundred and forty dollars—it had stood a long time, and, with the interest, amounted to a sum, between seven and eight hundred. My brother went to his desk, and, after examining the forgiven list attentively, a sudden smile lighted up his countenance, and told me the truth, at a glance—the old man’s name was there! My brother quietly took a chair, by his side, and a conversation ensued, between them, which I never shall forget.—‘Your note is outlawed,’ said my brother; ‘it was dated twelve years ago, payable in two years; there is no witness, and no interest has ever been paid; you are not bound to pay this note, we cannot recover the amount.’ ‘Sir,’ said the old man, ‘I wish to pay it. It is the only heavy debt I have in the world. It may be outlawed here, but I have no child, and my old woman and I hope we have made our peace with God, and wish to do so with man. I should like to pay it’—and he laid his bank notes before my brother, requesting him to count them over. ‘I cannot take this money,’ said my brother. The old man became alarmed. ‘I have cast simple interest, for twelve years and a little over,’ said the old man. ‘I will pay you compound interest, if you say so. The debt ought to have been paid, long ago, but your father, sir, was very indulgent—he knew I’d been unlucky, and told me not to worry about it.’
“My brother then set the whole matter plainly before him, and, taking the bank bills, returned them to the pocket book, telling him, that, although our father left no formal will, he had recommended to his children, to destroy certain notes, due-bills, and other evidences of debt, and release those, who might be legally bound to pay them. For a moment the worthy old man appeared to be stupefied. After he had collected himself, and wiped a few tears from his eyes, he stated, that, from the time he had heard of our father’s death, he had raked, and scraped, and pinched and spared, to get the money together, for the payment of this debt.—‘About ten days ago,’ said he, ‘I had made up the sum, within twenty dollars. My wife knew how much the payment of this debt lay upon my spirits, and advised me to sell a cow, and make up the difference, and get the heavy burden off my spirits. I did so—and now, what will my old woman say! I must get back to the Cape, and tell her this good news. She’ll probably say over the very words she said, when she put her hand on my shoulder as we parted—I have never yet seen the righteous man forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.’ After a hearty shake of the hand, and a blessing upon our old father’s memory, he went upon his way rejoicing.
“After a short silence—taking his pencil and making a cast—‘there,’ said my brother, ‘your part of the amount would be so much—contrive a plan to convey to me your share of the pleasure, derived from this operation, and the money is at your service.’”
Such is the simple tale, which I have told, as it was told to me.