No. LXXII.
Death has taken away, within a brief space, several of our estimable citizens—Mr. Joseph Balch, an excellent and amiable man, who filled an official station, honorably for himself, and profitably for others—Mr. Samuel C. Gray, a gentleman of taste and refinement, who graduated at Harvard College, in 1811, and, at the time of his death, was President of the Atlas Bank—Mr. John Bromfield, a man of a sound head, and a kind heart. Having bestowed five and twenty thousand dollars, in his life-time, upon the Boston Athenæum, he modestly left the more extended purposes of his benevolent heart, to be proclaimed, after his decease; and, by his will, distributed, among eight charitable institutions, and his native town, the sum of one hundred and ten thousand dollars.
The features of these good men are still upon the retina of our memories; the tones of their voices yet ring in our ears; we almost expect their wonted salutation, upon the public walk. But there is no mockery here—they are gone—the places, that knew them, shall know them no more!
Death has laid his icy hand upon these men, as he has ever laid the same cold palm upon their fathers, since time began. Such exits are common. Disease triumphed over the flesh, and they ceased to be.
But Death has done his dismal work, of late, in our very midst, by the hand of cruel violence—not sitting like the King of Terrors, in quiet dignity, upon his throne, and casting his unerring shafts abroad; but darting down upon his unsuspecting victim, and, with a murderous grasp, crushing him at once. I allude, as every reader well knows, to the fate of the late Dr. George Parkman.
As the Coroner’s Inquest, after long and laborious investigation, has declared, that he was “killed,” we must assume it to be so. I have known this gentleman, for more than forty years; and have had occasion to observe some of the peculiarities of his character, in the relations of business, as well as in those of ordinary intercourse—I say the peculiarities of his character, for he certainly must be classed in the category of eccentric men. Having heard much of this ill-fated gentleman, for many years, before the late awful occurrence, and still more since the event—for he was extensively known, and all, who knew him, have something to relate—I am satisfied, that those very traits of eccentricity, to which I refer, have led the larger part of mankind, to form erroneous impressions of his character.
Dr. George Parkman was the son of Samuel Parkman, an enterprising, and successful merchant, of Boston, who was a descendant of Ebenezer Parkman, who graduated at Harvard College, in 1721, and was ordained Oct. 28, 1724, the first minister of Westborough; and who, after a ministry of sixty years, died, Dec. 9, 1782, at the age of 79, and whose wife was the daughter of Robert Breck, minister of Marlborough, who was the grandson of Edward Breck, one of the early settlers of Dorchester, in 1636.
Dr. George Parkman graduated, at Harvard College, in 1809. When he commenced his junior year, John White Webster, now Erving Professor of Chemistry and Mineralogy, entered the University, as freshman. Dr. Webster, who is now in prison, charged with the “killing” of Dr. Parkman, will, in due time, be tried, by a jury of his countrymen. Will it not be decorous, and humane, and in accordance with the golden rule, for the men, women, and children of Massachusetts, to permit the accused to have an impartial trial? Can this be possible, if, upon the on dits of the day, of whose value every man of any experience can judge, this individual, whose past career seems not to have been particularly bloodthirsty, is to be morally condemned, without a hearing?
Hundreds, whose elastic intellects have been accustomed to jump in judgment, are already assured, that we believe Dr. Webster innocent. Now we believe no such thing—nor do we believe he is guilty. His reputation and his life are of some little importance to himself, and to his family; and we should be heartily ashamed, to carry a head upon our shoulders, which would not enable us to suspend our judgment, until all the true facts are in, and all the false facts are out.
How much beautiful reasoning has been utterly and gratuitously wasted, upon premises, which have turned out to be not a whit better, than stubble and rottenness! The very readiness, with which everybody believes all manner of evil, of everybody, furnishes evidence enough, that the devil is in everybody; and goes not a little way, in support of the doctrine of original sin.
Let us, by all means, and especially, by an avoidance of the topic, give assurance to the accused of a fair and impartial trial. If he shall be proved to be innocent, who will not blush, that has contributed to fill the atmosphere, with a presentiment of this poor man’s guilt? If, on the other hand, he shall be proved to be guilty of an incomparably foul and fiendish murder—let him be hanged by the neck till he is dead, for God’s sake—aye, for God’s sake—for God hath said—WHOSO SHEDDETH MAN’S BLOOD, BY MAN SHALL HIS BLOOD BE SHED.
The personal appearance of Dr. Parkman was remarkable—so much so, that his identity could not well be mistaken, by any one, who had carefully observed his person. His body was unusually attenuated, and I have often, while looking at his profile, perceived a resemblance to Hogarth’s sketch of his friend Fielding, taken from memory, after death.
The talents of Dr. George Parkman were highly respectable. His mind was of that order, which took little rest—its movements, like those of his body, were always quick; more so, perhaps, upon some occasions, than comported with the formation of just and permanent judgment. He was a respectably well read man, not only in his own profession, but he possessed a very creditable store of general information, and was an entertaining and instructive companion. In various ways, he promoted the best interests of medical science; and nothing, probably, prevented him from attaining very considerable eminence, in his calling, but the accession of hereditary wealth; whose management occupied, for many years, a large portion of his time and thoughts.
By some persons, he has been accounted over sharp and hard, in his pecuniary dealings—mean and even miserly. No opinion can be more untrue. Dr. Parkman’s eccentricity was nowhere so manifest, as in his money relations. The line was singularly well defined, in his mind, between charity, or liberality, and traffic. He adhered to the time-honored maxim, that there is no love in trade. There are persons, who, in their dealings, give up fractions, and suffer petty encroachments, for the sake of popularity; and who make, not only their own side of a bargain, but, in a very amiable, patronizing way, a portion of the other. Dr. Parkman did none of these things. He gave men credit, for a full share of selfishness and cunning—made his contracts carefully—performed them strictly—and expected an exact fulfilment, from the other party.
It is perfectly natural, that the promptness and the pertinacity of Dr. Parkman, in exacting the punctual payment of money, and the strict performance of contracts, should be equally surprising and annoying to those, whose previous dealings had been with men, of less method and vigilance. But no man, however irritated by the daily repetition of the dun, has ever charged, upon Dr. Parkman, the slightest departure from the line of strict integrity. He was a man of honor, in the true acceptation of that word. His domestic arrangements were of the most liberal kind—his manners were courteous—and he possessed the high spirit of a gentleman—and, with all the occasional evidences, which his conduct openly supplied, of his particular care, in the gathering of units; he could be secretly liberal, with hundreds.
It may well be doubted, if any individual has ever lived, for sixty years, in this city, whose real character has been so little understood, by the community at large. The reason is at hand—he exposed that regard for pittances, which most men conceal—and he concealed many acts of charity, which most men expose. He had many tenants of the lower order—he was frequently his own collector, and brought upon himself many murmurs and complaints, which are commonly the agent’s portion.
The charities of Dr. Parkman wore an aspect, now and then, of whimsicality, and were strangely contrasted with apparent meanness. Thus, upon one occasion, he is said to have insisted upon being paid a paltry balance of rent, some twenty-five cents, by a poor woman, who assured him it was all she had to buy her dinner. “Now we have settled the rent,” said he, and immediately gave her a couple of dollars.
A gentleman, an old college acquaintance of Dr. Parkman’s, told me, a day or two since, that the Dr. came to him, after this gentleman’s failure, some years ago, and said to him, with great kindness and delicacy—“You want a house—there is mine in —— street, empty and repaired—take it—you shall pay no rent for a year, and as much longer, as may suit your convenience.”
In 1832, this city was visited by the cholera. Mr. Charles Wells was Mayor, and a very good Mayor was he. Had his benevolence induced him to labor, for the more extensive diffusion of the blessing of alcohol, among the poor, the liquor trade would certainly have voted him a punch-bowl, for his vigorous opposition to the cholera. Upon the occasion, to which I refer, Dr. Parkman said to the city authorities—“You are seeking for a cholera hospital—take any of my houses, that may suit you, rent free, in welcome. If you prefer that, which I occupy, I will move out, with pleasure.”
When Dorcas died, the good people of Joppa began to display her handiwork. I am surprised, though much of it was known to me before, at the amount of evidence, which is now produced, from various quarters, to prove, that this unfortunate gentleman was a man of the most kind affections, and of extensive, practical benevolence.
Let me close these remarks, with one brief anecdote; which, though once already related of Dr. Parkman, by the editor of the Transcript, is worthy of many republications, and is not at all like news, on the stock exchange, good only while it is new.
“A politician stopped the Doctor in the street and asked him to subscribe for the expense of a salute, in honor of some political victory. The Doctor put his arm in his, and invited him to take a little walk. He led him round the corner into a dismal alley, and then up three flights of rickety stairs into a room where a poor woman was sitting, propped by pillows, feebly attempting to sew. Some pale, hungry-looking children were near. The Doctor took six dollars out of his pocket-book, and handed it to the politician, and, simply remarking, “do with it as you please,” he darted out of the room in his usually impulsive way.”
I must close this feeble tribute of respect to the memory of one, who truly deserved a milder fate and an abler pen. Had we the power of recall—how well and wisely might we pay his ransom, with scores of men, quite as eccentric in their way, but whose eccentricity has very rarely assumed the charitable type!