University of Virginia Library

Two days have passed. I am still very weak, and
subject to such frequent fits of derangement, that I dared
not take out the sheet on which I have been writing, lest
I should be too suddenly seized, and it might fall into the
hands of Helen, or of some one that I would not like to
know me. But I am more cheerful, now. She is sitting
opposite to me;—her beautiful eyes lowering upon me,
continually, in all their ravishing brightness. I am every
hour expecting a young man, of whom I have a high
opinion. He is romantick in his temper; and the dark
grandeur of my habitation, and, perhaps, the mystery
about its master, have captivated him. Till he comes, I
must do the best that I can, to finish this long letter; but
you deserve a long one, my friend;—and I shall try to
give you, page for page. My nerves are exceedingly
shattered, and I have no confidant but you—judge of my
situation.

Apropos, of Baltimore. I do not wonder at your prejudice;
but the worst story that you have heard is mightily
exaggerated. That murder happens now and then,
is true;—that boys have gone upon the highway,—and
deliberately thrust a knife into a poor fellow's heart,
when he was bound hand and foot, is true; that many a
privateer, during the late war, has become a pirate, or
slave trader since; and, probably, under the countenance
of some of our great men, is extremely probable, to say
the least of it;—that there was a mob here not long since,
in which a dozen respectable citizens where nearly murdered
and hung—and one old man, an officer of the revo

lution was murdered outright, by a rabble, whom a single
company of horse would have dispersed; and that the murderers
escaped on trial, is also true:—but, after all, there
are as fine and free spirited a set of fellows, in Baltimore,
as any where else on this earth. They are frank, and
hospitable,—and honest, I have no doubt, in the main,
notwithstanding the bank-robberies of some respectable
scoundrels,—and the unparalleled commercial gambling;
and consequent failure of another part of the community,
as any body of people to be found—out of Edinburg or Botany
Bay.[1] These last words are by Helen—seeing me
stop, for a phrase, and knowing that I was writing to
you—she made me read what I had written, and then
added that. Hereafter, I shall make it a point to set you
right in several matters relating to this country, and the
state of literature and the fine arts, here; at present, I
must content myself with replying to your story of the
pirates. I shall tell it, as it was, without favour or partiality.
As it is told abroad, I admit, that it looks serious.
There is little difference, to be sure, in the facts, but the
colouring is, in general, too like substance.

The story, if I understand it, with you, is, that we are
a nest of pirates,—scarcely better, in Baltimore, than the
Barbary powers:—that, it is almost impossible to bring a
pirate to justice here; and that, when you have overcome
all the tricks of law, the partiality of the judges, the
ability and eloquence of counsel, the reluctance of the
jury,—and obtained a verdict, and a condemnation:—that,
after all this, the chief magistrate is sure to be beset for
a pardon, or commutation of the punishment;—that he
almost always, in his covetousness of popularity, fearfulness
of offending —, and from a few other equally
worthy and dignified considerations, does pardon them.
But that, when he refuses—and these pirates are actually
hung, the citizens cut them down in form; go, in procession
to the burial, just as they did to that of Washington
and Lawrence (a naval captain here—commander

of the Chesapeake)—and deposit their bodies in consecrated
ground.

All this is too true. The case did occur once. Two
men were, formally, deliberately, and reluctantly condemned
as pirates;—suffered as pirates; and should have
been buried as pirates. But no, some well meaning citizens
petitioned the president—who, merciful and weak
as he is, would not pardon them, nor commute the
penalty; and therefore, to show their respect to him and
the law, they went in procession to their graves; honoured
them as martyrs—as the victims of the law—not as
pirates;—not, as they really were, of that remorseless
band, who traverse the ocean, and make war upon the
poor mariner,—the most defenceless of God's creatures.
But it is said that they were innocent. Innocent! How
is that known? How dare you presume such a thing in
the face of their condemnation, under the deliberate wisdom
of your laws? Do you believe it? On what proof? Is
there any? No—No. You have listened to their own story,
and who cannot tell as plausible a one? Who, if his own
story be believed, will ever be found guilty of any crime?
No, Harrow, it was a mistaken thing,—rash and unthinking,
got up in resentment to the President of the
United States, because he refused, wisely refused their
pardon. Suppose that they were innocent of bloodshed.
There was still enough left to make them guilty of piracy.
And piracy is not to be forgiven, by a commercial
people. No—if there be aught to complain of, it is the
clemency of our chief magistrate. He should be inflexible.
I would divest him of the power of pardoning.
What then? The jury would be less likely to condemn.
No more criminals would suffer, and the majesty of the
law would be vindicated.

Were they innocent? So much the better for themselves.
The drunken man, who commits murder, may
not have intended to kill;—the man, found in possession
of stolen goods, may have found them, as he declares,
when he was alone;—but there is no help for him—there
should be none, except in his general character. Both
may be innocent; but if you pardon the former, you invite
men to the commission of murder, under pretence of inebriety;

and could never punish one, merely from finding
stolen goods in his possession. Nay, the law ought to examine
rigorously the plea of insanity, itself. It is easily
counterfeited;—it were very easy, for one who meditated
some tremendous revenge—I know it, Harrow—to betray,
for months before, by his extravagance, enough to startle
the jury, when on trial. But let him perish. If there
be the slightest doubt that he was truly mad—let him
perish! God will do him justice. We cannot:---and the
policy of society commands us to judge of men, by appearances;
and of actions, by their consequences.

I stopped, on looking at my watch, for the time is
close at hand; and I feel a growing inquietude to know
why I am so seriously interrogated. The unclouded
moon shines beautifully in upon us, now. How mildly,
strangely expressive, is her face. I see shadows passing
over it, as she goes onward, onward, forever onward, on
her sweet, quiet pilgrimage;---the light itself grows dim;
and the loveliness of Helen is truly spiritual at this moment.
She remembers you;---weeps, now and then, in
thinking of old times;---and—but farewell. It is time
to part, indeed. Farewell! Don't forget that the Baltimoreans
are a generous, warm-hearted, noble people,
and cruelly slandered, not only by you, but by their
countrymen.