University of Virginia Library

ED: MOLTON TO STAFFORD—IN CONTINUATION.

You ask me, if it be possible for a lawyer to be honest.
I answer yes—I think it is possible. “All things are
possible—with God.” But, let me treat the matter seriously.
The law is a noble profession—one of the noblest,
to which a great man can consecrate his faculties;
particularly, in America; where it is the only direct road
to dominion. Let us examine it fairly, for a moment;

and if it be really what your question implies, let us give
it up, with all its professors, to the reprobation of all
good and wise men.

I think that you are wrong, Stafford; and I believe
that I can set you right. You have fallen into the common
errour; that of thinking a lawyer will sell his conscience
to the highest bidder. He may,—I admit it:—
be may, and does, now and then; and, when he does, he
is a scoundrel; and would be a scoundrel, in any other
situation. But, this cannot often happen. Take a case.
A man of notoriously bad character, goes to his counsel.
Can he refuse to listen to him? No.—His oath binds
him to administer justice to all; without favour, or partiality.
Having a prejudice against the man, is no reason
why he should not protect him, if he be wronged.
The wicked have their rights, as well as the good. And
how can he tell?—what right has he to pre-judge his client?—how
dare he, indeed, when he has sworn to prevent
other men from pre-judging, even the most atrocious
criminal—until he have heard his story? Well....
the story once told—what is he to do? He is bound, by
his oath, to be faithful to his client. Though he be the
greatest villain on earth he cannot betray him. Nay, he
cannot be made to reveal aught, that his client has told
him, however it may affect society;—yet, more:—if he
should dare to offer himself before a court of justice, in
testimony against his client, that court would silence
him, upon the spot.

What shall he do then? Shall he take up against him,
after having heard his tale? No—that were impossible.
And how can he know that his client is a scoundrel,
or a criminal? The best story will be told him....
he will be deceived, with all his caution....and he cannot,
it is not possible, that he should, know the real truth
of the case, till he have come to trial:—till the jury are
sworn, and the witnesses are all examined. What can
he do then? He could not abandon the case, till that moment:
but can he abandon it then? Can an honest man,
a lawyer, who knows in his conscience, that the jury, or
the court are to decide upon the case....can he presume
to decide upon it?....Yet, he would do it, if he were to

withdraw at such a moment. This is a case that can
happen very rarely—but I will suppose, if you please,
that the lawyer does become convinced, in his heart, that
his client is a scoundrel, or a criminal;—nay, I will even
suppose that he knew it, from the first moment. I care
not by what means—such a thing is barely possible, and
could only happen, from the evidence of the lawyer's
own senses of the fact—but I am willing to suppose that
case, as the strongest that can possibly happen, against
my doctrine. Suppose, then, that the lawyer knew,
from the moment that his client applied to him, that he
was wrong; nay, that he was the most guilty and terrible
of ruffians. Would he be justified in refusing to defend
him? Reflect, for a moment. I do not ask if he would
be justified in attempting to cheat, and hurry the jury into
an acquittal of his client, where the evidence was conclusive
against him? Still less, do I ask, if he would be
justified in lying to them—in calling heaven to witness,
that the man was innocent; and that he believed him to
be so—no!—for such things are an outrage upon the
sanctity of man's nature, and upon his origin. It is madness,
and blasphemy. And he who could say it, would
deserve to suffer on the spot, the punishment of Ananias.
But, I ask if he may not be justified, in undertaking his
defence?—Has the greatest criminal no rights to guard?
He may have forfeited his life; but, is every man's hand,
therefore, to be raised against him? May he be slain,
like a wild beast, wherever he may be met, without further
ceremony?—No.—It is as much a part of the law,
that, if he be a murderer, he shall die, in a certain way,
as that he shall die at all. And it is the duty of a great
and good man, to see that the law is ministered to him,
in severity and strictness;—and to protect him, at the
risk of his life—against any irregularity. And this,
not so much the sake of the criminal, as for that of society.
And the Judge, if he be an honest man, and a
lawyer, will do the same;—nay, he will set the prisoner
free, though he be reeking with blood, from head to foot;
the blood of his own mother and children, if you please,
rather than press against one of the technicalities of the
law. Nay, the prosecutor, himself, the Attorney General,
if he feel his tremendous obligation to society,
will abandon the cause, if there be a substantial errour in
the indictment, or proceedings, to justify him; rather
than admit a precedent for errour, or carelessness. Nay,
he will stand up, and tell the jury, like a man, that it is
no matter what they may believe;—that is not the question—that
they must acquit the prisoner, though they
may believe him, in their hearts, to be guilty—unless he
be proved to be so; nay, more—though one of their members
may have seen the deed perpetrated, he will tell
them that that makes no difference, unless that juror
come out of the box and be sworn as a witness; and
permit himself to be cross-examined; and that an honest
jury cannot; and, if it be known to the court, that they
never shall convict a man, on such evidence.

Suppose that no evidence at all appears. Suppose
that the jury believe the criminal to be guilty. No witness
is sworn; no evidence is given. Can they find him
guilty? No—for they are sworn to give their verdict
“according to law and evidence.”

But, suppose that illegal, or irregular evidence, which
is the same thing, be given. Shall that be received?
No!—for it is the same, as if none were given. And,
though I have lived to see a bench, forgetting the attributes
of humanity, again and again, in its appetite for
blood;—a judge, hunting out his prey, like a staunch
hound: turning neither to the right nor the left—and a
prosecutor entering the list, forever, against the criminal;
as if it were a mere trial of skill, between himself
and the opposite counsel—disturbed by passion—
vindictive, unforgiving, and precipitate; even in matters
of life and death:—and though I have lived to see, hundreds
and hundreds of criminals, sent off to their places
of punishment, with as little decency, and as little
emotion, as if they were so many cattle;—just called up;
arraigned in a hurried manner—asked, what they have
to say for themselves—and their case left to the jury,
under the representation of the prosecutor. Though I
have lived to see all these things; yet, I hope to see something
better, before I die. I hope to see a court of criminal
justice, a place of reverential silence....imposing solemnity....and

manly, brief eloquence. I hope to hear
the indictment read aloud, and firmly; the oath administered
to a witness, as if he stood up, in the very presence
of the Everlasting God: and counsel assigned in every
case, as a matter of course;—yet, forbidden to declaim;
or to ramble in their argument—and, prohibited from
all rhetorical displays. I would have it a court of justice;
not a school of declamation;—a place for lawyers and
men; not for rhetoricians.

Nay, Stafford—to recur, for a moment, to the lawyer
and client. I will go further. So haughtily sensitive
should he be; so righteous and steady—that I would have
him state all that appears against his client, with the
most scrupulous distinctness and accuracy. I would
have him disdain all mere legal advantages. But I
would have him exquisitely sensible, and jealous of illegal
ones. Thus, if a doctrine were advanced, which
he could not overlook; and could not refute, I would
have him admit it, like a man; on the contrary, though
it went against his prisoner, I would have him trample it
in the dust, if it were false. Suppose that he was the counsel
of a quaker, for felony, at the Old Bailey. He might
complain that the law would not permit quakers to affirm,
in criminal cases. But, he would remember, immediately,
that, if quakers cannot be set free, by the oath of
quakers, they cannot be convicted by it; and he would
abandon the point. It would be an especial hardship,
in that particular case; but, as a general regulation of
society, the quakers would have no reason to complain.
Why should they repine, that they cannot be cleared by
evidence, which cannot condemn them. The law is foolish,
to be sure: or rather was—for, it has been altered. But,
there is no hardship in the case.

Again—suppose that the doctrine of many a writer
on criminal jurisprudence; and, particularly, that of
Beccaria; which is, that the greater the crime, the
greater the proof to be demanded,—suppose that that doctrine
were advanced by a lawyer's colleague. I would
have him search into the principles—lay them bare—
and never shrink from the work, till all was disclosed,
whatever were the consequences. He would show that

the doctrine was not true: or the application false. I
would have him prove what is true—that, in proportion
to the magnitude of a charge, is its unfrequency;
and, consequently, the improbability of it; for charges and
crimes too, become probable by becoming common.—
Theft is common—parricide very rare. Consequently,
you would demand more proof of parricide than of theft.

The conclusion is false. Proof is always the same. You
are not, to convict for the slightest offence, unless you are
satisfied. You must demand the same evidence, of
the particular fact, upon which a criminal is arraigned,
though he may be the lowest and vilest of society, that
you would to convict the greatest and best. If you do
not—you are unwise and wicked. You are not the ministers
of the law. It is your prejudice; and not justice
that pronounces sentence. Yet no principle of criminal
evidence is so little understood, and so eternally disregarded,
as this.

But it is false on another account. One witness, unimpeached,
uncontradicted, by the English law, is enough
to prove any fact. Now, says Beccaria, you shall require
a greater proof of a murder, than of a theft. Why?
—Because a man is less likely to commit a murder
than a theft.

And is not a witness less likely, pray, to charge a
man falsely, with murder, than with theft? I admit
that we can more readily believe a man guilty of theft,
than of murder;--but I would ask, if it be not more likely
that a witness has perjured himself, when he charges a
man with murder, than with theft: assuredly—if Beccaria's
principle be right, that the greater the crime, the
more improbable it is. It is, therefore, more improbable
that a man should swear away another's life, falsely;
than, that he should swear away his property or liberty,
falsely. Therefore, we should as readily believe the witness,
who swears to a murder; as the one that swears to a
theft.

If Beccaria's principle be true, that, in proportion to
the magnitude of the crime, is its improbability—then
is his conclusion absurd; and mine established.

Thus, freely, and boldly should an honest man tread
down the nonsense of the books, when it comes fairly
in his way—however it may affect his client. He is
the advocate of society, not of an individual—of a priesthood,
whose office it is, to minister, with clean hands,
even at the sacrifice.

What think you now, dear Stafford, of a lawyer, who
should defend an acknowledged criminal?—what, of him,
who defends a doubtful one; which is the true case,
nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a thousand.
He hears his client's story;—and, make what allowance
he may, he will find it false in some particulars; for
there is a strange propensity, in all men, to aggravate
their sorrow, and conceal their danger, even from
themselves. Thus, a patient rarely tells the whole
truth of his case—nor a merchant in failing circumstances—even
to himself—and a client, never. All are deceived,
by their own hopes, or their passions; and who
shall determine?

But let me take a strong case. You have not forgotten
that despot of New Orleans—Jackson:—nor his
murder of your two agents. They deserved death. I
admit it. So, many a criminal deserves death—but
still it is murder, to slay him without the form of trial.
As well, might a judge descend from the tribunal; tuck
up his gown, and let out the prisoner's blood at the bar,
because he was satisfied of his guilt.

No—the basest and wickedest have some right to
guard; rights that are the dearer to them, because of their
fewness;—and because they are tugged at, by every
merciless hand in the community—though the agony
thereof, is like that of the heart-strings—in their quivering
tenacity.—And an honest man will take care to protect
them.

I told you something of the mail robbers, here. Your
blood curdled. It was pleaded for one, that he was
young—merciful God!—a mere boy!—yet he had the
strength to drive his knife—slowly—into the heart of a
man, old enough to be his father—bound—helpless—
and upon his knees. What would he have been, at maturity!—

He confessed his guilt. The money was found upon
him. His partner confessed also. But their stories
did not agree.

Here was enough to justify their condemnation, one
would think:—and enough to deter any man, in his senses,
from defending them. You would have thought
him that had attempted it, a madman. Yet—put yourself
on guard, Stafford. Notwithstanding all this—all!
—the younger might have been innocent; nay, the elder.
And I do believe, to this moment, that an able
man might have saved one of them. Whether it would
have been right to do so, is another question. But follow
me for a moment.

To doubt is to acquit. It is better that ninety-nine
guilty escape, than that one innocent man suffer. So
says the law. (But I think differently—what has the
innocent man to fear from death?)

Is confession enough? Let us see. Men have confessed
murders, that were never perpetrated. There is a
case of a man executed for the murder of another, on
his own confession, who proved to be alive long afterward.
True—he had been left for dead.

There was an affair too, but the other day, in Vermont,
where a father and son confessed a murder, and
all its particulars; even to the destruction of the bones,
by fire,—and bones were found in the place described,
reduced to chalk. Yet—the murdered man was alive;
and returned, in season, to prevent their execution.
One of the two, had beaten him—he became delirious—
and disappeared.

How is this matter to be explained? Thus. Each knew
the deadly hostility of the other, against their victim.—
Each had beaten him, at times, and threatened his life.
Each believed, therefore, when he disappeared, that the
other had slain him. Both were taken up on suspicion.
Each believed the other to be guilty. There was one
chance left; and only one, to save one of them from death,
by circumstantial evidence. It was to confess. Each,
therefore, charged himself with a crime, that he never
committed; in the hope of saving his own life, by being
admitted state's evidence. He did not mean to bear

false witness against an innocent man—but against a
guilty one—and against himself, for his own preservation.

Again---is circumstantial evidence to be conclusive—
even when united to confession. It may be—but is it
certain? Is there no room for doubt? In this very case,
the bones were found;—the threat, of death by father and
son, was proved—their mutual reproaches,—their unquiet
and miserable life;—and the sudden and total disappearance
of the man, supposed to be murdered. Yet
they were innocent.

In a French work,[1] that I have seen, are some cases, of
a most extraordinary nature, where the innocence of
persons that have suffered death, upon circumstantial
evidence, has appeared, years and years afterward.

Our English books, too, are full of them; and every
year some new case is coming to light. Heaven only
knows what a multitude may remain undiscovered, until
we are all arraigned,—the murdered and the murderers—the
Judge and the criminal—the advocate and
the jury,—before one tribunal!

There is a case in Scotland—where a man was executed
for the murder of his daughter. She was heard
to pronounce her father's name;—he had treated her
harshly, at times—and she was found with her throat
cut—and he in the next room, with his heart beating as
if it would burst its way out—and pretending to be
asleep. He was hung. Years afterward, some old
furniture was removed; or some repairs made, and letters,
in the hand writing of the girl, were found, showing
that she had deliberately destroyed herself.

A man, of a cruel disposition, was arraigned for the
murder of his niece. She had disappeared, unaccountably,
many months before; immediately after the shrieking
of a voice, like hers, had been heard in a wood.—
Alarmed at his danger—he produced another child before
the court. The counterfeit was detected; and he was
hung. Yet the girl was alive—and reappeared. He had
whipped her severely in the wood; and she had run away.

A young man was hung, on the testimony of his own
sister, for the murder of his own father. A hammer was
found, “the grey hair sticking to the haft,” with which
the skull of the old man had been beaten in. The track
in the snow, corresponded with the son's shoes. Yet the
daughter afterward confessed, that she was the murderess—that
she had worn her brother's shoes; and placed
the hammer where it was found, on purpose to destroy
him.

A man departed to receive some money, in company
with another, of an ill name. He was no more heard of.
They had been seen drinking together in the evening;
and the survivor could give no account of his companion.
He was hung. Years afterwards, the body was found,
with the money in the pocket, in a vault, at the house
where they had stopped. The floor had been taken up;
and he had fallen through, while intoxicated.

Another was executed for the murder of his guest.
Two travellers were awakened at night, by the noise of
some one gasping. They saw a man, with a dark lantern,
and a bloody knife, standing over a third, who was
expiring. Yet, many years afterward, the truth appeared.
He was not the murderer. His servant was; and
had fled. But he, too, had probably gone to the bed-side, or
the purpose of murdering his guest.

There is another case. A traveller was robbed of
twenty pieces of gold, all marked. He came to a tavern,
and took the landlord aside, and mentioned the mark.
After he had gone to bed, the landlord came to him, and
showed him a guinea, which was immediately recognised.
“It was returned to me, by my servant,” said he,
“this evening. I had sent him out for change—and
when he returned, unable to get it changed, he gave me
this.” They went to the servant's room, and found him
asleep. In his pocket, were the other nineteen guineas.
He was hung. Yet, the master was the true robber; and
confessed it afterward. The mark alarmed him. He
had passed one of the guineas, without observing it; and
destroyed the poor fellow to save himself. But why prolong
the enumeration? It is painful to go over the place
where innocent blood hath been shed.

The books are full of such cases. What then are we
to do? Depend upon circumstancial evidence. No. Reject
it entirely? No. But let us exercise a sound discretion.

Apply this to Hull. He has confessed. But that is not
conclusive, you see. A part of the money is found upon
him—he is seen in company with Hutton, before and after
the murder. Are these circumstances sufficient?—
Are they not capable of some explanation; consistent
with a less degree of guilt than he stands charged with?
That he is innocent, I cannot pretend—but may he not,
possibly, be less than a murderer? Let me suppose a case.
Hundreds may be imagined—but I will content myself
with one or two.

Suppose that Hull had known Hutton; and his desperate
character: that they had consulted together, to murder
the mail-driver; that Hull had refused—or, that he had
gone out; as he had once, and that his heart had failed
him;—that, afterward, the murder is perpetrated, by
Hutton alone. The moment that Hull hears of it; he
knows well whose hand it was, that struck the blow. He
goes to Hutton. You are the man, he says. Your life
is in my power. Give me a part of the spoil, or I will
bring you to justice. Hutton consents. The money is
found upon Hull.

What can he do? Publick opinion is crying for his
blood. He has no defender. The very judges put him
to the question. No counsel visit him. He feels that
he must die. There is only one chance of escape. It is
this—to confess a participation in the crime; in the hope
of being admitted as a witness for the state. What man
would not do the same, in his case! Show me the godlike
nature, that will submit to an ignominious death; go down
to his grave, in blood, accursed and dishonoured—when
a single word may save him—and give him an opportunity
of establishing his innocence at some future day.

Think of this, Stafford. Imagine yourself upon the
jury—clothed, even in your infirmities, with the chief
attribute of Almighty God, the power of life and death.
Remember how many innocents have suffered—how
abundant that testimony need be, to satisfy you—how

terrible are our prejudices—how sleepless will be your
agony, if you find; or ever imagine hereafter, that you
have been spilling innocent blood. And were you upon
your death bed—crying for mercy—would there be no
consolation in the thought, that you had shown mercy,
at such an hour, in the extremity of mortal apprehension,
even to the most bloody of criminals. Nay—it is
your voice—yours, alone, Stafford—that pronounces judgment
of death upon this man. Are you satisfied? Beware
how you are influenced by your companions. If
you yield to them, without being thoroughly convinced
of his guilt—you are no better than a murderer. Yet—
how often is this done! Men shift off the weight of obligation,
as they would that of blood, upon each other.—
Suppose that you were alone, upon your judgment seat;
and no one to divide with you, the sacrifice. Would the
evidence, that you have heard, be sufficient to satisfy you?
Would you venture to pronounce the judgment of death
alone? You would not. Then, you are a murderer, if you
yield to your companions. What!—is this a time for complaisance—this!—when
a fellow creature stands shivering
and death-struck before you; awaiting, it may be,
his everlasting doom, from his fellow man.

Thus much for lawyers, dear Stafford. What is your
opinion now, of their right and duty, even in cases of
the most atrocious nature?—and do you feel as clearly,
as you did, that, CONFESSION and circumstantial evidence
are conclusive?

Thursday.

Our Tragedians.—We have only one; and he is a
countryman of yours.

His name is Cooper, and he is somewhat of the Kemble
School; cold, stately and declamatory;—with a noble
person; the stature of a king; and the voice of a hero.—
In some characters, he is amazingly great. His Virginius,
for example, is terrible---full of sublimity. And there are
parts in his Bertram, that would awe and shake the sternest
nature;—and other parts that would subdue it, at
times, even to compassion and tears. On two or three
occasions, where he has been alone, unaided; and left,
utterly to his own conception of the part, he has stood,

all at once, before me, like an apparition from another
world; strong with individual, distinct, and vivid conception—altogether
new and astonishing. At times too,
there is a sort of regal simplicity in his manner—something
like the carriage of a monarch, abandoned of all
the world, and left to his own resources. Thus, I have
known him to play his Virginius, to a full house, every
man of whom, perhaps, went away satisfied;—but he was
not—his forehead gathered—he repeated the part; and so
utterly different a being, did the Roman father appear;
that they, who felt familiar with him at first; and thought
that a departure from that picture, would be a departure
from truth, were amazed and confounded at their own
blindness, when they saw him again. Virginius was no
longer the same man.

How often this may happen. Take a case—Richard
rushes in; and, with the voice of a trumpet, calls out,
a horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!

This is thought fine and natural. It is the commonest
conception in the world—and, therefore, the most natural.
But an ambitious man, will not travel in a common
road. He staggers in upon you, therefore, like one
overwhelmed with battle—exhausted and faint with toil
—his fierce spirit shooting out of his eyes:—but he cannot
articulate a cry—he is choked and blinded with
dust and sweat—and, if his voice be heard so loudly, what
is it, but to do that which no mortal man could do, at
such a moment—hot, hoarse and smoking—from the
field—beside, it is inviting the enemy upon him. And
that is not a very natural imprudence, in the wily Richard.

The actor thinks of all this—he reels in—he braces
himself—he looks about him, like a dethroned monarch,
just struck to the earth—and gasping for breath—he utters
a cry of desolation and bereavement. And the audience
are thunderstruck with the novelty and beauty of
the conception.

But a third one appears. He disdains to follow anybody.
He knows that all men act differently---and kings,
as well as men. And that the greatest men, are full of
contradiction. It is not even necessary therefore, than
he should be consistent.

He leaps upon the stage like a madman---like a lion
baffled of his prey; snorting with passion; his nostrils
distended, and his blood rattling in his chest---“a horse!
he cries---“a horse!—my kingdom for a horse!”

You wonder at the tone—but the meaning strikes you
like electricity. Richard is no longer a king---he is no
longer battling for the crown. Blood! blood! blood! is all
that he covets now—the blood of Richmond—and for
that, he offers up kingdom, crown and all—but not in a
loud voice—no—that were folly and cowardice—the
brave man is more of a devil than that—he calls for a
horse, as he would call down the thunders of heaven—by
a deep, deep voice, of unutterable meaning, like an incantation.

But lo! a fourth!—Behold him!---he has just entered,
like one, to whom battle is a sport—a pastime; blood, a
liquid to dabble in—he looks at his sword—his eye follows
the stain that trickles down it—he wipes his
forehead—he takes his garment in his hand, as if it were
saturate with the slaughter, through which he had trailed.
You can fancy that the steam reaches him—and is
grateful. But why is he there? He has just slain another
Richmond—and coldly too, without passion, without
noise. Suddenly his eyes flash—his form dilates—he
sees the enemy at hand; and he is on the point of shouting—when
he recollects that he is unhorsed—what is he
to do?—in the bitterness of his spirit—he clenches his
hands, and offers his kingdom to God—nay, to the devil,
for a horse—while the malignity of hell, itself, is leering
from his eyes.

Another appears, like an evil spirit—who does
not fight himself; but merely looks on the battle
at a distance---sneering and cool. When he utters
the cry, he stands like one that sees a horse dashing
athwart the field---within call---masterless.

Thus you see, my dear Stafford, how endlessly a
character; nay, a single sentence may be varied, by a
man of energy.

So with Talma. So with Mrs. Siddons. So, beyond
all other men, is it with Keane—and so, with young Mr.
Booth, whose Lear is one of the greatest pieces of acting,
that I ever saw.

Talma's nature, is the nature of the poet, and the
dramatist; sublime, stately and overpowering; but rarely,
if ever, that nature, of which all men are able to
judge. It is too grand, too deliberate; and his awful
countenance, in its wrath, is too kingly for reality.—
Your Kemble, I can't bear. I hate his vast action, and
pompous nothingness of voice.

Mrs. Siddons, too—but I must not pretend to judge
of her. I never saw her but once; and that was in
lady Randolph. I was prepared to expect too much—
and it was some time before I began to feel satified with
either her, or myself. At that moment, she electrified me.
Glenalvon quailed before her—and throughout the rest
of the piece, there was a distinctness, a dignity, a beauty,
and majesty, that brought my spirit of criticism
prostrate before her.

There is young Wallack too, James—he will be, if he be
industrious, a great actor, after a few years. He is
full of genius—passion—and power.[2]

I was unlucky enough not to see Miss O'Neale.—
And you know well my opinion of Mr. Keane—a compound
of madness, folly, and genius—daring to an excess—presumptuous
to the same degree—and disdaining
all resemblance. In that, he is right—I like him for
that. But he runs into such alarming extremes.—In
avoiding any given mode, he is sure to caricature
the very originality of his own thought. Thus, when
others are distinguished—in any particular passage--his
first question is. Does it depend upon personal dignity?—grace?—beauty?—or
a fine, powerful voice? If
yes—he shuffles it over, without ceremony, as something
beneath him. But if not—he enters the temple bravely;
locks his hands; and gives it, in his own manner, and
as much unlike any other actor as possible. Take that
passage in Othello—the farewell, you know. Keane
has been trumpetted te the four winds of heaven for
that. But how unnatural it is,—nay, how unsoldierlike.
It is the whine of a field preacher, at his exhortation.
But Othello is his masterpiece. It is really wonderful,
at times, except that his hysterical laughing and crying

are too frequent;—and his passion is too vociferous and
inarticulate, in the handkerchief scene.—There he is
monstrous. But the play, itself, is an accursed thing;
and I won't waste another thought upon it—except to
say that I never heard the speech before the Senate,
spoken as a soldier would speak it, in all my life. “True
—I have married her;” they all say. But why do they
not say—true—I have married her. A soldier, like the
noble Moor would:—By that emphasis, he says—yes: I
have done it—help yourself.

Another trick of Keane's;—and one of his best, is this.
Whenever he comes to an insignificant, worthless passage,
which nobody remembers, or cares for—he puts
forth all his power, no matter how preposterously; and
startles us with his manner, articulation, or attitude.
We are amazed. Gracious heaven! exclaim the mob.
What a genius he has! How superior to A. B. C. &c.
How different it appears, now! We never saw that before!
And then the simple creatures take it for granted
that, as he is astonishingly great, in trifles; he must therefore
be, although they, may-hap, cannot see it, astonishingly
great, in matters of moment. But he is not. In
one word—Keane might have been the wonder of the
age—with better training, a better voice, and a better
person. He has talent enough for it:—but it is a perverted,
abused talent.

But we have a woman here, that must not be forgotten---a
most extraordinary creature. She is the sister
of Anacreon Moore's wife---the mother of eleven children,
seven of whom are yet living:---only twenty-nine
years of age;---and, altogether, the most dignified and
beautiful woman that I ever saw on the stage. She is no
actress---but she is the express and eloquent image of
human nature. I know not how to describe her; or
what peculiarity to mention, as an attribute, by which
you can get a notion of her. Figure to yourself a noble
looking creature, with large, dark eyes---and black hair
---with a Greek face---above the common height---apparently
not more than twenty-four---who, in all the terrible,
and in all the tender passions, goes down into your
very heart at once. No man, I believe, in my con

science can look at her without trembling, in her times
of passionate outcry---or without quaking all over, when
madness and grief are upon her--or--when her sweet voice
is dying away in supplication---or—but I must be
done with this, or you will think me a foolish blockhead.
Yet, believe me, Stafford---all that I say, is true. You
have never seen such acting as this in England---by any
woman. Her name is Duff---her husband is an actor
---but barely tolerable.[3]

Of Politicks and Religion, I have nothing to say. I
never meddle with either. My notion of the latter are
peculiar; and not especially orthodox. I hold that every
man is accountable to his God—and to his God
alone—for his thought and opinion;—and to society, only
for his conduct. And, of the former, I am superlatively
ignorant, and desire to remain so. I have no
fondness for troubled waters,—particularly when their
vapour and ebullition are offensive and blinding.

You spoke of the Bible—and you are anxious to
know whether my opinion has changed of it. It has. I
revere it, now—and never permit myself to dispute about
it. Is not that a mark of my reverence?—There are
few things, you know, about which I do not dispute.

Yet I am not blinded in my reverence. I have the
courage to think, as usual; and to depend upon my own
reason, as I always have; and as I hope that I always
shall, until God sees fit to take it from me. I can see
in the parables, however beautiful, some strange things.
Thus, the parable of the unjust steward teaches, too
plainly, I think, that it is wisdom to cheat our employers.
Perhaps I have not called it by the right name.
I am a heretick---and not very tenacious of titles. But
I allude to the steward, who discharges the debtors of his
master, by taking obligations for a less amount.

And there is another---a very strong case. Our Saviour
bids a certain lawyer to love his neighbour. The
lawyer, “tempting him,” demands who is his neighbour?
----Christ answers, with the parable of the good Samaritan;----from
which it follows, that the neighbour, of a
man, is he who does him kind offices; pours oil into his

bruised heart,---and that he, who passes by on the other
side, is not a neighbour. Such is the doctrine of the
parable. But such is not the doctrine of Christ. He
teaches that all mankind are neighbours---our enemies---
they that despitefully use us; that even they are our neighbours.
Else, where would be the merit of our loving
them? Where the merit in the man that fell among
thieves, in loving the good Samaritan?---Yet this answer
was given to a lawyer; and the lawyer did not reply.

I am not blinded I say---I can see these things, and
feel sorry that so pure and perfect a system of morals,
should be liable to any such objection.

So too, in the matter of miracles. I cannot say that
I believe in them; for I have never properly examined
the testimony that relates to them, nor the prophecies.
But when I am able to, I shall, though it would require
a sound, critical acquaintance, with the original languages
in which they were written. And I dare not
say that I disbelieve them---that were, as men think, to
blaspheme. But I can smile at the folly of them that
believe, whatever they are taught. I have no such accommodating
belief. I trust to my senses---till I have
reason to distrust them; and then I appeal to my reason.

For example. I cannot imagine, at this moment,
how it would be possible to convince me of a miracle.
I say this, honestly; and, I hope, not presumptuously----
for God knows my heart---he knows that I would shrink
from no trial, no peril, no proof---and that I would go
down upon my knees to any man, who would convince
me that I am wrong.

Thus---suppose that I was to see a dead man, this
moment, arise and walk, at the bidding of another.---
Would I believe that he had been dead? Could I?---
would you, or any man, in his senses? No. We should
fly to any hypothesis, rather than believe it---delusion,
or deception---intentional or accidental.

But, take some case, where we have the highest evidence
of our senses, to make us believe it. Suppose that
we see a body, half decayed---festering in putrefaction---
the skeleton, quite bare—and the flesh dissolving in
greenness. A being, in the fashion of a man, commands

it to arise, and come forth! It obeys. We see the
process of re-creation---the bones rattle, and are rejoined---the
sinews knit themselves together; and the flesh
reappears. The body comes forth. We see it. All our
senses are convinced. But is our understanding? No.
We cannot believe. Our reason re-establishes her dominion:
and we distrust our very senses, rather than believe.
I could more easily believe that my senses were disordered;
for, such things are common—that the whole appearance
was a vivid dream, (for such things are of daily
occurrence)---in short, any thing and every thing which
was more probable, than the resurrection of such a body.

I should shut my eyes. I should reflect. I might go
to prayer---weep, perhaps---but I should never believe
that what I had seen, was other than the creature of delusion.
Nay, I might wish to believe it. I might try
—terrified by the denunciations of man—but could I?—
that is the question: could I believe it, though I wished
it?

Have you never dreamed so distinctly, that, when you
awoke, the creatures that you had dreamt of, appeared to
be still standing before you? What did you? You strove
to be more awake. So would I—and I should be sure
that I never was truly awake, until I had ceased to see
them.

I find, every day, that my senses deceive me. I walk
into the woods; and I hear my name called. I enter a
room, and some odour assails me---whence, I know not.
No such odour is there. I put a straight stick into the
water. It appears crooked. I cross my fingers, and
roll a pea under them---and I could swear that there
were two peas. Thus, I find that there are times, when
I cannot depend upon my sight, feeling, smell, or hearing.
What, then, am I to do?---reject their evidence, altogether?
No. That were absurd; but, I will trust to
them, wherever there is no higher, or better evidence;
and in all the common occasions of life.

Again.---I go to a juggler. I do not say this, irreverently.
I am confounded, by the rapidity, and beauty
of his deceptions. My temples throb. I am deceived.
But, do I believe that what I see, is real? No:---for, if I

did, I should believe in a miracle. Yet, I have the evidence
of my senses. True---but I, like every other man, appeal
to a higher power, reason. My reason tells me, that
my senses are deceived.

It was not long since, there was an exhibition in Boston,
called the Androides. There is an inconceivable
mystery in them. They are little figures, that do many
different things at your bidding. Among them, was
a telegraph, with six letters upon it; to which were attached
six strings---three of which were held in one hand,
three in the other, of a little figure, upon the table. Another
telegraph, corresponding with it, and portable,
was placed at a distance. No connexion could be imagined
between them. There was no place to conceal,
even a clock, in the machinery. You were at liberty to
make any signal, upon this; from one, to six letters,
with all their combinations; it was instantly answered,
by the figure. Nay, a little dial was given to you,
with an index, pointing to certain signals. You might
take the dial into your own hands; set the pointer where
you pleased---and the figure would give the signal required.

What was I to think of this?—if I trusted to my senses,
—for it was impossible to discover any connexion between
the two telegraphs—nay, even to imagine how
it could be—they would tell me that this was all magick;
nay, miraculous. But in such a case, who would trust
to his senses? Not an intelligent man, surely. I saw,
that nothing, but some secret intelligence, could effect
this; but, it was quite as inconceivable, how any intelligence
could exist, and how operate, without detection;
as that the whole should be only the result of mechanical
combination.

An ignorant man, a North American savage, would
call it magick; a South Sea Islander, “the work of the
devil;” in which opinion, probably, a Scotchman would
join. But, a man of experience would give himself no
trouble about the matter; sure that there was some deception,
though it were impossible for him to imagine
what, in it.

You see, therefore, that I could not believe in a miracle,
were it wrought in my very presence. Would I be
more likely to believe it then, because others testified to
it, centuries ago—when men could be imposed upon,
much more easily than now?

Understand me—I do not mean to question the honesty
of their witnesses; nay, nor of him that is supposed to
have wrought them. I only say that, if they had been
wrought, they would not have been believed—and were
not believed; or, why were others, that saw them, unconverted?

And where would be the good of such miraculous labours?
Give to any man, the power of healing, whom
he will, by a touch; and the gift would be a curse. Practised,
indiscriminately, as it was, it would take away
all terrour from criminal indulgence; and tempt men into
every excess, and every peril.

Beside, do we not find that there were others, that
cast out devils, as well as the followers of Christ? others
that wrought miracles? (but they were magicians) in
Egypt, as well as Aaron? Others, that interpreted
dreams, as well as Daniel? Others, that could make
the grave give up the dead, beside Christ—and many
false prophets?

What, then, are we to believe? Not that the Bible
is an imposition. No—that were to reason foolishly,
indeed. For, the very fact, that it is recorded in so many
places that other men did deeds, which were miraculous,
is an unquestionable proof of honesty, in the record.

But, were they deceived, they that bear this testimony?
I believe that they might have been. And, it is possible
that we have not their testimony, exactly as it was given;
or that, we do not understand the wisdom, and power,
and purpose of Christ.

But, enough. I have entered deeply, more deeply
than I intended, into these mysteries; but, as the Lord
liveth! Stafford, it were better for me to encounter His
wrath, than that of society, if they suspected me of entertaining
such opinions. They would think little of
roasting me alive.

We talk a great deal here, about toleration—humanity—and
freedom. But, we know little, or nothing, of

either. A want of power only, prevents the orthodox
from annihilating us. They do all that they can, toward
it, now. A Jew cannot hold any office of trust or
confidence, military or civil; nay, he cannot be an attorney
of a paltry court, in several of our states, without
swearing to his belief in the Christian religion! What
an oath! Any man might take it, safely, whatever he
believed. What is the meaning of it?

And of our humanity, you may judge, from the fact,
that, a few weeks ago, there was a negro burnt to death;
thrown, alive, into a bonfire, at the south, and burnt to
death, for murder. This hath set the four corners of
America declaiming. Yet, where is the mighty matter?
Hanging had been tried. It did not succeed. Were
the people to stay their hands then; and let the work of
blood go on, in their planters' habitations? What is
the purpose of punishment? To reform the criminal;
prevent him from repeating the offence; and others from
imitating him. Would not burning be as likely a mode
of reformation, as hanging? And his ashes, one would
think, would be, at least, as unable to repeat the offence,
as his skeleton. And the very uproar that has been
made about this matter, is a proof that burning is more
terrifick than hanging, to the minds of men. At least,
the experiment was worth trying. And, they who understand
the true end of punishment, will never spare,
upon a criminal, any experiment, which may promote the
welfare of society.

A word or two now, dear Stafford, upon the politicks
of our country, the government, and opinion—and I have
done, probably, till I see you in person; and, perhaps,
forever—for I am really wearied of life—worried, chafed,
and haunted;—yea, Stafford, haunted by spectres and
bloodhounds—day after day, night after night. But this
will not last forever. It cannot. Nay, it shall not. I
will sooner die, at once—than pant and pant, forever, in
this way, after that unattainable good; that something
pure and holy, which I was born to believe in—only at
a distance. No, Stafford, I cannot bear it. I have deserved
a better fate—you never heard me complain. No
mortal man ever heard me—and the words sound
strangely to my own ears—but I am, now, almost ready

to give up. My life has been one of sacrifice. Yet, to
whom is it known? I have done that for virtue—love—
ambition—that would have honoured—tears!—
* * * * * By heaven, Stafford, it
is too bad. Tears from my eyes! * * * *
No!—let me arise, and go forth in the night air. That
may quell the spirit within me, and—* * * *

I have been abroad, Stafford—but I am far from being
quieted. I have seen it, again; yet, I do not tremble.—
Look at my writing. Is there any trace, here, of an unsteady
hand? If there be, I cannot see it. I have had
a dream, Stafford. You smile. You wonder to hear me
speak of dreams; for I am not of that people, who see
prophecy in them. I have known men and women, whose
dreams always “came out.” They would dream of
death; or a white horse; or some such trash. They would
live disquieted, till some neighbour, or friend, broke his
neck, or his leg; or their lap-dogs got scalded; or some
china shattered—when their hearts would beat lightly
again. “Their dream would be out.” And so, too,
happen what would—a wedding, or a death—a party, or
a christening; or an unexpected visit—certainly the
dream would be out, then, because dreams go by contraries.
But, I am no such man. You will believe me, therefore,
when I say, in sincerity, that a dream has terrified me;
that, I am weak as an infant, at times, in thinking of it;
and, that I am fully persuaded that my death is near at
hand—some terrible death, too. Would that I knew
what, or where it was to be met—I would not endure
this feeling another hour. It came to my bed-side;—
it—For shame—for shame.—Let me return to
the subject. You desire to know something of our constitution,
our boasted liberty. Let me tell you what it
is. It is a shadow. Look at our Declaration of Independence.
It is there said, that life, liberty, and the
pursuit of happiness are unalienable rights. The devil
they are! Then how comes it, if our right to life and
liberty are unalienable; that we have alienated it so
far, to our representatives, as to allow them a power over
our life and liberty, to be used at their discretion. What

does it mean? It means nothing; or, it means that we
cannot dispose of our life or liberty---by any compact.
This disgraceful nonsense is to be found in the declaration
of rights, or the constitution of Virginia, and some
other states;---nay, it was borrowed from that of Virginia;
and the new state of Maine has just adopted it, in
her wisdom. What a pity, that men will not think, when
they are disposed to talk. A friend of mine, I know,
took care to point out this absurdity, in season, to one
John Holmes, the chairman of a committee, appointed
to report a constitution for the new state---but such men
are not to be stopped in their blundering. It is their privilege---their
prerogative. What they should say, is utterly
different from what they have said. They should
say, that our right to liberty and life are indestructible,
but by our own compact and agreement. Not that they
are unalienable; for, if they were, there could be no society,
no government, no subordination, no security.

The freedom, of which we boast, dear Stafford, is exactly
like that of Moscovy under Peter. The minority
are free only, in proportion to their strength. The majority
are always tyrants, in all ages; and under all
forms of government, exactly in proportion to their power.
And that majority may exist in one man, or in one
million. It is a majority, not of population, but of power.
Take an example. We boast of our freedom. The
majority resolve upon a war with a nation, whom the
minority love as their own brothers. Yet, war is declared.
The minority are driven into the ranks by a
conscription, called here a militia quota; and, what is
worse, they are not only compelled to bayonet their
friends and brothers; but to pay others for doing it.----
Dare they complain? They are honest men---republicans---a
faction---or rebels---as they happen to be weaker,
and more weak. If, formidable in strength and talent,
they are listened to, respectfully, and reasoned with. If
a little less so, they are denounced, as the enemies of
their country. A degree less makes them traitors, whom
it is lawful to extirpate. Such is our freedom; such our
unalienable right to life and property.

But descend a step lower---down to the state governments.
I have a spot of land that is dear to me;---the
bones of my children sleep in it;---the heart of her, that
I loved, is crumbling under the very tree, where our lips
first met. Money cannot buy it from me. I am looking
to it, as my last place of refuge. I meddle with nobody.
I am a quiet, melancholy man, only waiting for re-union
with my babes and my wife. But the state orders a road
to be opened through my parlour---over the sepulchre of
my family---the hallowed of many generations. And lo!
it is done. The holiest place upon this earth, to a husband
and a father, is invaded by the pick-axe and the
shovel---the dishonoured relicks of a family are tumbled
about, under the brutal ribaldry of day labourers. God!
it were better that my wife and children had been buried
in the publick highway, with the common malefactor!
Yet this is liberty. This is the unalienable right of property.
Mine is taken from me, without my consent---and my
family tombs are broken up, with as little ceremony, as
one would dislodge a wild beast.

Go still lower. I dwell in town. I own a house. I
can just manage to make both ends of the year meet.
“My house is my castle,” I am told. Yet the officers of
justice break into it, when they please, if a debtor or a
criminal have escaped to it. My property is my own,
unalienable---yet I am taxed for paving streets; sinking
drains; building party walls; until I am obliged to sell
my little patrimony, to pay it. My liberty is unalienable,
too---yet I am sent to prison. I am insulted, trodden
on, scorned. I smite my adversary to the dust.
My life is unalienable, say these statesman---yet my life
follows my property——. Take another case of
the state of society here. A man beats another---some
one perhaps, that is half his size; and old enough to be
his father---and is the father of a large family. What
is to be done? Shall the father call him to the field; and
put up his own body, with the hearts of half a dozen
blessed creatures, at the same time, to be shot at, by a
ruffian? No---he shall appeal to the laws of his country.
He shall go, proudly, before a jury of men and fathers,
and say—Behold me. I do not take the law into my own

bands. I dare not spill his blood. But I ask you to
discountenance such outrage. What shall be the measure
of damages? Let each man ask his own heart. Is
it the actual cost of his physician's and tailor's bill? No,
it is that which will deter the overbearing, forever, from
ministering to their own passions, by violence;---it is to
be that, which will make men appeal to you with confidence.
All this is very well, the jury will tell you; and,
perhaps, give you, for damages, about half enough to
reimburse you for your counsel fees. It is too good a
joke, a matter of this sort, to be treated seriously. What
is the consequence? The injured man goes away, smarting
with the reiterated indignity; his blood boiling in
his veins—set upon vengeance—determined never again
to refer the question from his own right hand, to any
court or jury. And how fares it with the aggressor?—
Is he the better, wiser, or safer, for these paltry damages?
No!—it were better for him, that his blood had
been let out upon the spot—that the bruised spirit of the
other had been appeased by any damages.