There is something strangely grotesque, to be sure, in the idea of calling a state, in which there are more slaves than freemen, the land of liberty. Our Massachusetts ancestors had a very good theoretical conception of its inconsistency and absurdity, as early as 1773; when the first glimmerings of independence began to come over the spirit of their dreams. In that year, the Massachusetts negroes caught the liberty fever, and presented a petition to have their fetters knocked off. May 17, 1773, the inhabitants of Pembroke addressed a respectfully suggestive letter to their representative in the General Court, John Turner; the last paragraph of which is well worthy of republication. The entire letter may be found in the Boston Gazette of June 14, 1773—“We think the negro petition reasonable—agreeable to natural justice and the precepts of the Gospel; and therefore advise that, in concurrence with the other worthy members of the assembly, you endeavor to find a way, in which they may be freed from slavery, without wrong to their present masters, or injury to themselves—and that a total abolition of slavery may in due time take place. Then we trust we may with humble confidence, look up to the Great Arbiter of Heaven and earth, expecting that he will in his own due time, look upon our affliction, and in the way of his Providence, deliver us from the insults, the grievances, and impositions we so justly complain of.” This, as the reader will remember, had reference to slavery in Massachusetts.
No. XLV.
In 1823, and in the month of May, something, in my line, caused me to visit the first ex-President Adams, at the old mansion in Quincy. By some persons, he was accounted a cold man; and his son, John Quincy, even a colder man: yet neither was cold, unless in the sense, in which Mount Hecla is cold—belted in everlasting ice, though liable, occasionally, to violent eruptions of a fiery character.
As I was taking my leave, being about to remove into a distant State, my daughter, between five and six years old, stepped timidly towards Mr. Adams, and placing her little hand upon his, and looking upon his venerable features, said to him—“Sir, you are so old, and I am going away so far, that I do not think I shall ever see you again—will you let me kiss you before I go?” His brow was suddenly overcast—the spirit became gently solemnized—“Certainly, my child” said he, “if you desire to kiss a very old man, whom it is quite likely you will never see again.”—He bowed his aged form, and the child, rising on tiptoe, impressed a kiss upon his brow. I would give a great deal more than I can afford, for a fair sketch of that old man’s face, as he resumed his position—I see it now, with the eye of a Swedenborgian. His features were slightly flushed, but not discomposed at all; tears filled his eyes; and, if one word must suffice to express all that I saw, that word is benevolence—that same benevolence, which taught him, on the day of his death, July 4, 1826, when asked if he knew what day it was, to exclaim—“Yes, it is the glorious Fourth of July—God bless it—God bless you all.”
At the time of the little occurrence, which I have related, Mr. Adams was eighty-eight years old. I ventured to say, that I wished we could give him the years of Methuselah—to which he replied, with a faint smile,—“My friend, you could not wish me a greater curse.”—As we wax older and grayer, this expression, which, in the common phrase, is Greek to the young and uninitiated, becomes sufficiently translated into every man’s vernacular. Mr. Adams was born October 19, 1735, and had therefore attained his ninety-first year, when he died.
Nothing like the highest ancient standard of longevity is attained, in modern times. Nine hundred, sixty, and nine years, is certainly a long life-time. When baby Lamech was born, his father was a young fellow of one hundred and eighty-seven. Weary work it must have been, waiting so long, for one’s inheritance!
The records of modern longevity will appear, nevertheless, somewhat surprising, to those, who have given but little attention to the subject. The celebrated Albert De Haller, and there can be no higher authority, enumerated eleven hundred and eleven cases of individuals, who had lived from 100 to 169. His classification is as follows:—
| 1000 | from | 100 to 110 |
| 60 | " | 110 to 120 |
| 29 | " | 120 to 130 |
| 15 | " | 130 to 140 |
| 6 | " | 140 to 150 |
| 1 | of | 169. |
The oldest was Henry Jenkins, of Yorkshire, who died in 1670. Thomas Parr, of Wilmington, in Shropshire, died in 1635, aged 152. He was a poor yeoman, and married his first wife, when he was in his 88th year, or, as some say, his 80th, and had two children. He was brought to Court, by the Earl of Arundel, in the reign of Charles I., and died, as it was supposed, in consequence of change of diet. His body was examined by Dr. Harvey, who thought he might have lived much longer, had he adhered to his simple habits. Being rudely asked, before the King, what more he had done, in his long life, than other old men, he replied—“At the age of 105, I did penance in Alderbury Church, for an illegitimate child.” When he was 120, he married a second wife, by whom he had a child. Sharon Turner, in his Sacred History of the World, vol. iii. ch. 23, says, in a note, that Parr’s son (by the second wife, the issue by the first died early) lived to the age of 113—his grandson to that of 109—his great-grandson to that of 124; and two other grandsons, who died in 1761 and 1763, to that of 127.