University of Virginia Library

This passage needs no comment save the insertion of the following notice, copied from the Columbian of March 11, 1811.

The assistance and charitable contributions of the humane and benevolent, are earnestly solicited to relieve the wants, alleviate the miseries, and soothe the anguish, of a poor and friendless widow, named Burger; who, with her three children, are now deprived of support, and destitute of sustenance, by her being confined in the debtors' prison of this city, for a paltry debt due for house rent, to a wealthy, but cruel, rapacious, vindictive, inexorable and unfeeling landlord, named ---, who brutally attempted to deprive her and her children of the shelter afforded of a desolate house during the late severe snow-storm; though the poor unhappy woman had previously paid her rent punctually to him; and though she offered to pay him a stated sum weekly out of the earnings of her manual labour until the amount due should have been paid.

“Man's inhumanity to man, makes countless thousands mourn.”

The essays of Howard are well known. He reprobated the system of imprisonment for debt, and says that he was sixteen years a prisoner for that crime in the jail of the city and county of New-York. “It is (says he) a horrid place—and many a time when, through the grates of my prison window, I have watched the last rays of the setting sun as they gilded some neighbouring spire, I have wondered that any man could find it in his heart to put a fellow being in jail for debt.”

“I have at last given up the hope of liberty—blessed liberty! I can hardly write the word without dropping a tear at the recollection of the joyous days of liberty which are gone for ever. I am sad when I think how they have fled away like a dream, and that neither I nor my creditors can ever recal them.

“Habit has so altered me from the gay being that I was, that I really suppose if I were offered my freedom to-day I could not enjoy it.’

“As the hoary-headed tenant of the bastile, whose locks, like mine, whitened in confinement for no crime, most probably I should say— “I have no money—no friends—my talents for business are lost—I have forgotten the ways of the world—send me back to prison, for the light is hateful.”

“ When I entered the walls of this terrible jail, in which, amid the rattling of chains, I am now writing this little impertinent story of myself, I was young, in good health, blest with a wife whom I adored, and as fine a boy as ever smiled in the face of a father. The boy is dead—and my wife is no more. She was indeed a most excellent woman, but she was wounded to the soul by the horrors of our situation— her spirit was broken down, and she, with the infant that caused her sickness, died in child-bed in jail, shortly after my imprisonment, in the year 1794.”

“Some years since, (says Howard) a young man by the name of Brown was cast into the prison of this city for debt. His manners were very interesting. His fine dark eyes beamed so much intelligence, his lively countenance expressed so much ingenuousness, that I was induced, contrary to my usual rule, to seek his acquaintance.— Companions in misery soon become attached to each other.”

“Brown was informed that one of his creditors would not consent to his discharge, that he had abused him very much, (as is usual in such cases) and made a solemn oath before his God to keep him in jail “till he rolled”!! I watched Brown's countenance when he received this information, and whether it was fancy or not, I cannot say, but I thought I saw the cheering spirit of hope, in that moment, desert him for ever.”

“Nothing gave Brown pleasure, but the daily visits of his amiable wife. By the help of a kind relation, she was able to give Brown, sometimes, soup, wine, and fruit, and every day, whether clear or stormy, she visited the prison to cheer the drooping spirits of her husband. She was uncommonly pretty. She seemed an angel, administering consolation to a man about to converse with angels. One day, passed the hour of one o'clock, and she came not. Brown was uneasy. Two—three, and four o'clock passed, and she did not appear. Brown was distracted. A messenger arrived. Mrs. Brown was very dangerously ill, and supposed to be dying in a convulsive fit. As soon as Brown received this information he darted to the door with the rapidity of lightning. The inner door was open—and the jailor, who had just let some one in, was closing it as Brown passed violently through it. The jailor knocked him down with a massy iron key which he held in his hand, and Brown was carried lifeless and covered with blood, to his cell.”

“Mrs. Brown died—and her husband was denied even the sad privilege of closing her eyes. He lingered for some time, till at last, he called me one day, and, gazing on me while a faint smile played upon his lips—he said, “he believed death was more kind than his creditors”—After a few convulsive struggles he expired.”

“Legislators and sages of America! permit me to ask you—how much benefit has that creditor derived from the imprisonment and consequent death of an amiable man, in the bloom of youth—who, without this cruelty, might have flourished, even now, an ornament and a glory to the nation?”

“In the year 1803, the yellow fever raged in this city with relentless fury. Every where the citizens fled from the destructive pestilence; the rich resorted to the seats of fashion and pleasure, the poor sought refuge in those shelters provided in the suburbs of the city by the benevolence of our active corporation. Humanity exerted herself in favour of every class of the community—except the debtors.”

“Among the prisoners who endured the indescribable horrors of this season, there was one named Smith. His wife and two daughters kept a boarding house in Water-street. They were too rich to be included in the class that was provided for by the corporation, and too poor to support the expenses of an exile in the country. They were, however, preparing to tax the friendship and charity of some of their neighbours for a little loan of money to enable them to move with their boarders to Greenwich, when Mr. Smith was arrested for a small debt, and thrown into prison.

“This misfortune disconcerted their plan—the neighbours fled, and to increase the miseries of Mrs. Smith, the boarders, who had hitherto contributed to her support, fled also; and shortly after, herself and both her daughters fell victims to the prevailing epidemic.”

“And, will you believe it? reader! no entreaty, no bribe, within the father's power, could prevail on any one to go to his house to bring him information of the state of his family.”

“The first and last information this unfortunate father ever received of his family, was in the newspaper. They were buried in Potter's Field.”

“The father starved awhile in jail, till, at length, goaded by his suffering, he forged a check on the Manhattan Bank, was transferred to Bridewell, and from thence, after trial and conviction, was condemned to the State Prison for seven years. Soured by misfortunes, and rendered misanthropic by unmerited sufferings, he exulted in his crime, and often was heard to advise people rather to be a criminal than a debtor in this country, for that society here furnished the criminal with the conveniences of life, while the debtor was suffered to starve. He at length died, the enemy of society, cursing men! And this is one among the millions of instances in which slavery for debt has destroyed families, and ruined the morals of a man, who, under a rational government, might have lived, the defender of liberty, and a disciple of religion.”

“Unfeeling, cruel, pitiless and remorseless creditors; and, legislators of New-York, careless heedless and criminal as they, whether ye sleep or wake, may the spirits of injured Smith and his suffering family, give ye no peace till your hearts shall be touched with pity, and your eyes be opened to the folly of your ways.”

Danvers was a fellow-prisoner with Howard. His little daughter was unfortunately burnt to death at home, while Mrs. Danvers was visiting her husband in prison.

“As soon as Danvers came here, (says Howard) destitute and sad as he was, he felt not for himself—but, as to his beloved wife and two charming children, the prospect was frightful. Thanks to the kindness of a stranger, they were not permitted to starve.”

“A bookseller in the neighbourhood of the prison humanely employed Danvers and his wife in folding, cutting and stitching books; and what with a rigid economy, the slender earning of this labour, together with the occasional aid of charity, Danvers and his wife were sometimes in the midst of misfortunes blest with contentment.

“It was in one of those halcyon hours that Danvers and myself were “making merry” over the last remains of a pitcher of ale, which he had purchased to aid us in celebrating the birth-day of his little darling daughter Eliza. Mrs. Danvers, who had hired a small house in the upper part of the city, had just left us, saying, as she departed, that “she would go home and make little Eliza drink our health, for the high honours paid her on her birth-day by the prisoners.”

“It was winter, and as Danvers, peeping through the grate of his prison, saw his cheerful and amiable wife trudging through the snow, to carry his blessing to the “darling Eliza”—“Now, Howard,” said he, “by the goddess of mercy! (and I think her the best goddess in the catalogue) I feel at this moment that I am gay in spite of oppression. My wife there is an angel, and the daughter, whose fourth birthday now makes me so happy, is worth more, in my estimation, than all the wealth in the world. Dearly as I love my liberty,” continued he, “I would sooner remain a slave than part with that little darling of my heart. Come, Howard! here's to many happy returns of Eliza's birth-day.” So saying, he took up the cup, and was just applying it to his lips, when suddenly the door of his room flew open, and in rushed his eldest child, covered with snow, her hands and face purple with cold, her eyes wild, and the tears frozen on her cheek. It was some moments before her excessive grief would permit her to speak. She asked for her mother—who had just departed. “God forbid,” said Danvers, “that any misfortune should happen to your mother.” At length the girl was able to speak: “Eliza is burnt to death!”

“I will not undertake to describe, but leave the reader to imagine the consternation of Danvers, when those horrid words fell upon his ear—“Eliza is burnt to death!”

“With tottering steps, he reached the outward gate of the prison, and faintly asked the keeper of the jail to send some one to his house. “What will you give me?” said he in a surly tone that struck to the heart of Danvers. At that instant a messenger arrived with a note from Mrs. Danvers. With a trembling hand Danvers opened the note and read:

“My husband, come instantly—Eliza is dying—come instantly.” The words were somewhat defaced, and, evidently, by the mother's tears. I looked at Danvers. With a faltering voice he begged the jailor to go with him that he might see his dying Eliza. There was so much of intreating wo in his countenance, that no human being could have denied his request. The jailor positively refused.

“Feeling that the barbarity of the law absolutely took away from him all hope of seeing his child again, Danvers indulged in the frenzy of grief, imprecated terrible curses on the heads of unfeeling creditors, and in this delirium of agony was dragged to his room. The scene was too affecting for me to endure it any longer, and I turned away almost overcome by a reflection upon the indescribable horrors of this miserable prison.

“The next morning I received from the afflicted Danvers the following note:

“Howard! my child, my dear Eliza is dead. Her mother, since I cannot go to my child, will bring her remains to me, I shall see her body—before she is entombed. Come to me at four—we will all weep over her?”

“At the time proposed, I went to my friend's cell. His surviving child was already there. The room would have been entirely dark but for a little lamp which stood near the window, “casting a dim religious light” upon the iron grates on the outside. He rose as I approached, and pressing my hand with fervour, pointed to a seat, wished me well in a low voice, and resumed his former place. We had not long been seated before the coffin was brought in, followed by the mourning mother and her old servant maid, Lucy. The mother and the daughter covered their faces, turned aside, and wept aloud. The father knelt beside the bier, fixed his eyes silently upon the child's face, contemplated it with great anxiety for some minutes, then suddenly bursting into a flood of tears, made some low, faltering, but indistinct exclamations, and waved his hand to the attendant, who caused the coffin to be taken away.”

This alludes to a Society of gentlemen, (of whom the benevolent Dewitt Clinton was one) called the “Good Samaritans;” formed for the purpose of visiting the poor in this city during the well remembered hard winter, and distributing relief to all who stood in need of it. In the most inclement weather they regularly took their charitable circuit, and always returned loaded with the widow's benedictions and the orphan's thanks. How god-like! How worthy of imitation!

The embarrassments under which American commerce laboured, for some time previous to the late war with Great Britain, are well remembered.—

This line alludes to the ancient custom of watching armour in church or chapel, which was a religious duty imposed upon knights, in the age of chivalry, when they used to consume the whole night in prayer to some saint whom they chose as their patron; and this exercise of devotion was performed on the night preceding the said Saint's Day. The same ceremony was observed by those who were sentenced to the combat proof.

This Society was instituted about the period at which this Poem was written, and has been attended with considerable success.