As to the bloody shillaly, McGammon brot more nor twenty witnesses, and ivery one a Mullowny, to sware it was more like Tooley’s own shillaly nor two paas in a pud; and then he had three lunatic doctors, they call’d em, to prove that the O’Shane’s were o’ the silf-distructive persuashun. As to what Rory had sed about havin Tooley’s hart’s blud, lawyer McGammon provd that it was a common mode o’ spakin in Ballyconnel and all owr the contree, among frinds and neybors, and thin he hinted, in a dillikit wey, that all the Mullownys wuld be after sayin that virry same thing o’ the jewry, if thay brot Rory to the gallus by thair vardic, and that he was guilty o’ nothin but circumstanshul ividunce. But the jewry brot in the poor felly guilty o’ murther, and its all owr wid poor Rory.
It’s no more I can rite—Your sister Betty Macnamarra has nine fine boys, at thraa births it is. From yours ever till the dee,
Eyley Murphy.
No impartial reader of Miss Eyley Murphy’s letter will hesitate to pronounce Rory Mullowny an unfortunate man, and his case another example of the abominable practice of hanging innocent persons, upon circumstantial evidence.
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.”