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T H E K N I C K E R B O C K E R.
VOL. XXIII. JUNE, 1844. NO. 6.
THE PLAGUE AT CONSTANTINOPLE.
BY AN EYE-WITNESS.
In 1837 I was a resident in Galata, one of the faubourgs of Constantinople,
sufficiently near the scenes of death caused by the ravages of the plague
to be thoroughly acquainted with them, and yet to be separated from the
Turkish part of the population of that immense city. It is not material to
the present sketch to dwell upon the subject of my previous life, or the
causes which had induced me to visit the capital of the East at such a
period of mortality; and I will therefore only add, that circumstances of
a peculiarly painful nature obliged me to locate myself in Galata, where
there were none to sympathize in my feelings, or any one with whom I could
even exchange more than a word of conversation. I saw none but the widowed
owner of the house in which I had a chamber, her daughter Aleuka, and
Petraki, her little son.
While the epidemic raged, we four endeavored to keep up a rigid
quarantine. Each recommended to the other the strictest observance of our
mutual agreement not to receive any thing from without doors, except the
necessaries of life; and whenever we left the house, which was to be as
seldom as possible, not to come in contact with any one. Whenever I went
out I invariably wore an oil-cloth cloak, and by the aid of my cane
prevented the dogs of the streets, which are there so numerous, from
rubbing against me. If I visited any one, which I seldom did, I always sat
on a bench or chair to prevent conveying or receiving contagion; and
before even entering the house, I always underwent the preparation of
being smoked in a box, which during the prevalence of the plague is placed
near its entrance for that purpose. These boxes were some eight feet high
by three square, the platform on which the feet rested elevated about a
foot above the earth, so as to admit under it a dish containing the
ingredients of the prophylactic, and a hole in the door to let the face
out during the smoking of the clothes and body. We procured our daily
supply of provisions from a _Bak-kal_, a retail grocer, whose shop was
directly under our front window; an itinerant _Ekmekjer_, or bread-man,
brought our bread to the door; our vegetables were procured from a
gardener close by, and our water we drew from a cistern under the house:
in fine, our food was either smoked or saturated before we touched it, and
every possible precaution observed to cut our little family off from the
dreadful scourge, 'the pestilence which walketh in darkness and the
destruction which wasteth at noon day.' The mother and daughter throughout
the day spun silk, knitted woolen suits, or embroidered kerchiefs for head
dresses, called in Romaic _fakiolee_, and even to a late hour of the night
they frequently continued the same employment, until the plague prevented
the sale of their handiwork, and their materials were all used up. All day
long they would sit upon the sofa of their little apartment, facing the
street, and while their hands toiled for a subsistence, the widow's
daughter hummed a plaintive air, or occasionally broke the silence by
conversing with her mother. The son was yet too young to be of assistance
to his desolate mother and sister, and except when he said his letters to
them, spent the day in idleness. As to my own employment, the dull period
of time passed with them was a blank in my existence; and yet, such is the
influence of past penury and pain, that I now recall them with pleasure.
The weather was generally very warm, and south-west breezes over the sea
of Marmora prevailed. From our highest windows we could observe sluggish
seamen lounging on the decks of their vessels in the port, afraid to land
amid the pestilence. Here and there a vessel strove against the current of
the Bosphorus to gain an anchorage; or would slowly float down that stream
into the open sea, on its way to healthier and happier Europe. The
starving dogs at nightfall would howl dismally, bewailing the loss of the
benevolent hands from which they usually received their food; the gulls
and cormorants floated languidly over our dwelling, overpowered by the
heat; and the dead silence, which in the afternoon and evenings prevailed,
made a most melancholy and affecting impression on my mind.
The plague that summer, (I may limit the period to three months,) carried
off more than fifty thousand persons. For some time the mortality amounted
to a thousand _per diem_. The number of corpses which passed the limited
range of my window daily increased; and after witnessing the spectacle for
some time, I always insensibly avoided the sight of the dead, and felt a
cold shudder run over my frame whenever the voice of the priest
accompanying the corpses struck my ear. So dreadful is the malady, so
surely contagious, and so mortal, that so soon as attacked, the
unfortunate being is deserted by relatives and friends, and when dead, two
or four porters beside a priest were generally the only persons who
attended the body to the grave. When the deceased is a Mussulman, he is
more frequently attended during his illness, and after death to his tomb,
than if a Christian. With the former, the plague is a visitation of
Providence, from which it is both useless and a sin to escape, while with
the latter not only is it deemed necessary to provide for one's own life,
but even to do so at the sacrifice of the dearest friend. Often I noticed
a dead body tied on a plank which a single porter carried on his back; at
other times the object would be concealed within a bag, and then the grave
was a ditch common to all, into which the porter would shake off his load
and return for another. No priest or Imam there presided over the funeral
scene; few or none were the prayers that were said over the remains: he
who but a short week before had been proud of his strength or condition,
or she who in the same short space of time previous excelled in beauty and
grace, there lay confounded in one neglected, unhonored, and putrefying
mass. The air became impregnated with the effluvia; the houses around the
Turkish cemeteries, which are mostly in the heart of the city, where the
dead are interred, but some three feet beneath the surface, were soon
deserted, their owners dead. The ever-green cypress trees under whose
umbrageous quiet the beautiful children once played, now moaned over their
little graves; and in fine, every one in the deserted city walked with
measured steps, apprehensive of threatening death: awe and consternation
filled the minds of all.
The Sultan's own household was not free from the scourge. By some means it
found access to his servants and carried off about fifty of them. Their
bodies were cast into the Bosphorus, and the Sultan fled to another
palace. The ministers of the Sublime Porte suffered severely in their
families; their wives and slaves died off in numbers; and even the
minister of foreign affairs is said to have taken it and narrowly escaped.
Few survived when once attacked, and the chances of recovery were scarcely
worth calculating. And yet among the Mussulmans little or no precaution
was taken; for although by a government order all the principal offices
were provided with fumigatory boxes, they were seldom used. The Mussulman
Sheiks declared that the contagion came from Heaven, and could only be
averted by Almighty power. Yet it was a well-known fact that cleanliness
of habits went far toward preserving against the disease; and frequent
change of apparel, with ordinary precautions, sufficed to preserve many
who otherwise would doubtless have taken it.
But I think the reader will be able, from the preceding sketch, to form
some idea of the nature and extent of the mortality of the plague in 1837.
While it raged, every feeling approaching to a similarity with what is
known to denote an attack, excites apprehension. A pimple, through the
medium of the imagination, is transformed into a horrid _bubo_; a cold or
a simple head-ache, however trifling, are attributed to the dreaded
malady; and even the firmest mind at such times quails under trifling
appearances. In some cases the scene of agony closes in a few hours--even
minutes; they fall down and almost immediately expire. Others linger for
twenty-four or forty-eight hours, or several days elapse before death puts
an end to their sufferings. Some again bear it in their systems for
several days, and attend to their usual occupations: at length it appears,
they fall ill and expire, or recover. Few account for their being
attacked; they do not remember having touched any one suspected or
exposed; and again, the porters, whose duty it is to convey the attacked
to the hospitals and the corpses to their graves, escape. The mother
attends upon her dying child, sacrifices every apprehension to her
affection, and yet escapes, or the child brings it to its parent, who
dies, while the innocent cause survives. No cure has yet been found for
it; and Nature must be left to take her course. Extreme heat or cold have
a favorable effect upon it; but the temperate climate of Constantinople,
with the frequent dearth of water, the dust, and other impurities, tend
greatly to its dissemination.
It was therefore during this painful period that I resided in Galata;
free, as I had hoped, from the contagion; and yet it found its way into
our little family, accompanied by all its horrors.
One morning in the latter part of the month of October, invited by the
clearness of the air and a fresh breeze which had scarcely strength
sufficient to ruffle the water of the harbor, I left my humble apartment
and ascended the steep hill of Pera. The view--from the small tuft of
graves near the Galata tower, some of which were fresh; of the surrounding
villages and the great city itself, where, although devastation had been
and still was being carried on with horror, there seemed to reign the most
perfect tranquility, resembling the calm bosom of the treacherous sea,
quiet over the lifeless bodies of its victims and the wreck of the noble
vessels which had furrowed its surface--relieved the monotony of my
existence. I gazed longingly upon the many ships lying before me at anchor
in the stream, which could in a few days bear me far away from the scenes
of death and desolation that surrounded me; or I exchanged a word with any
passing acquaintance who ventured from Pera to his counting-house in
Galata. A longer walk gave rise to too many sad reflections. Farther on
was the _Petit Champ des Morts_, a small Turkish cemetery, here and there
spotted with new-made graves, over which more than one aged female mourned
the loss of her life's companion, or perhaps it would be one of fewer
years, who wept the fatal destiny of her young husband, brother, sister,
or child.
After spending the best part of the day in walking about, I returned to
the house of my residence. As usual, I found the door fastened; I knocked,
but no one answered me. Again I knocked, and called repeatedly before my
voice was heard. At length a low moan, and then a scream, issued from
within. Petraki, the widow's son, opened the door, and with a pale and
frightened countenance told me his mother had suddenly been taken very
ill. There was no alternative. I entered her sitting-room, where in the
company of the family I had spent many quiet hours. Now how changed! The
mother lay upon the sofa, pale; and breathing with difficulty. Aleuka, the
daughter, knelt by her side on the floor, though greatly agitated herself,
and endeavoring to calm her mother's apprehensions. Without once
reflecting on the possible consequences, I sat down on a chair beside the
sufferer, felt her pulse, and as well as I could, made inquiries after her
health. Her pulse was quick, her tongue white and thickly furred, and
extreme lassitude was shown by her dejected countenance. Uncertain as to
the nature of her disease, and unable to offer any alleviation of her
sufferings, I retired to my apartment. There I _did_ reflect on the danger
which I had incurred, and the possibility of the widow having caught the
plague.
Every hour she became worse; her sufferings were intensely painful; and to
shorten the recital of the sad scene of that night, I will only add, that
the horrid disease showed itself on her person before midnight, and at
break of day her spirit fled. Of course my mind now prepared for death. I
felt confident that I also should soon be a victim to the plague. Early in
the morning I called a passing priest and had the widow's remains conveyed
to their last abode--I knew not where. I had no place to fly to; every
door would be closed against me; and I retired to my apartment, feeling
that I was stepping into my tomb while yet alive. There I was not long
kept in suspense, for soon the plague attacked first Petraki then myself.
When giddiness, the first symptom of the plague, seized me, and I could no
longer stand, but fell despairingly on my bed, what were my feelings! But
let me not recall them _now_; the mental agony which I suffered it is
impossible to describe, and I shudder at the recollection. Aleuka attended
upon me and her brother with all the tenderness and care and forgetfulness
of self which is so characteristic of the female character. I begged her
to leave me to die alone, to place water by my side and depart, but she
would not hear of it.
The first night after his attack Petraki expired, and on the following
morning was borne away; and I have an indistinct recollection of being
visited on the evening of the same day by the priest and porters. They
endeavored to prevail upon Aleuka to desert me, saying that in a few hours
I would cease to exist. But she constantly refused, determined she
replied, to remain by my side until my sufferings were ended.
* * * * *
For several days I was delirious. I remember I knew of nothing; nothing
but water passed my lips. Sores broke out over my body, and those on my
groins and arm-pits were not closed for some months. My neck however was
free, and this no doubt saved my life. On the seventh day I regained my
senses, and found myself in my apartment, the wasted figure of my guardian
angel still watching over me. I remember, on perceiving in me a favorable
change, how her countenance was lit up with joy! Oh, Friendship! how
seldom are you found with the sincerity which I then beheld in an humble
and uneducated girl! Just when I thought all my prospects in life were
blighted; when I had keenly felt the unkindness of mankind, and despaired
of ever again finding any thing in this world worth living for; when I had
already bidden it farewell, and the other world was full in view; I found
what alone can make life delightful even in poverty and
misfortune--friendship and love. Soon the violence of the disease abated,
and I was saved.
I must hastily pass over my long and painful convalescence. A month
elapsed before I could venture to go beyond doors. Aleuka attended upon
me, and through her economy my purse yet held out. The plague had greatly
subsided; the month of December set in with uncommon severity of cold, and
checked its progress. Oh! the exquisite delight with which I left my hard
and burning bed and close apartment, the scenes of all my sufferings, for
the first time! With a prayer of thankfulness on my lips, I crossed the
threshold of the humble dwelling, and once more slowly mounted the steep
hill of Pera.
It was a bright, sunny, clear morning; the fresh, cool breeze from the
Black Sea blew over me, infusing new strength and life into my shattered
frame. The streets were again re-peopled, and business renewed. No one
recognized me in my pale, haggard and swollen countenance; and when I
presented myself at the door of a countryman in Pera, he drew back with an
exclamation of surprise, as if he had beheld a spirit.
My short story is told. I have comprised in a few words the tale of many
long days of agony and suffering, both mental and corporeal. I fast
regained my strength and vigor; the hollow furrows of my forehead and
cheeks soon gave way to the effects of a generous diet; and I once more
stood forth in health and full powers.
But you will ask, 'And where is she who watched over you during your
moments of suffering?--whom you called your guardian angel, and of whose
friendship and love you spoke in such feeling terms?' I reply, that she
sits even now at my side; her handsome and intelligent countenance reading
in my face the varied emotions to which the tracing of these lines give
rise. Devoted Aleuka is my loving and much-loved wife.
J. P. B.
A SONG
BY JOHN WATERS.
Time was I thought that precious name
Less meet for Court than Alley;
But now, no thrilling sound hath Fame,
No clarion note, like SALLY!
There seems at first, within the word,
Some cause to smile, or rally;
But once by her sweet glance preferr'd,
Ev'n Heaven itself loves SALLY!
The world moves round when move her Eyes,
Grace o'er each step doth dally,
The breath is lost in glad surprize;
There is no belle, like SALLY!
Old hearts grow young, off flies the gout,
Time stops, his Glass to rally;
I hardly know what I'm about--
When lost in thought on SALLY!
Sometimes she's small, sometimes she's tall,
I can't tell how, vocally;
For there's a spirit over all,
That beams abroad from SALLY!
A spirit bright, a beam of light,
Ah! fear not that I rally--
No man can Evil think in sight
Of this pure-hearted SALLY!
And yet Time was, I thought the name
For Court less fit, than Alley;
While now, no herald sound hath Fame,
No clarion note, but SALLY!
REMINISCENCES OF A DARTMOOR PRISONER.
NUMBER THREE.
Under the circumstances related in my last number, it will readily be
inferred that sleep was out of the question. The only alternative was to
sit or lie down and meditate upon the next change which might befal us.
There was but little disposition for merriment at such a time and place;
yet there was one man, named John Young, but called by his companions 'Old
John Young,' who in despite of empty stomach and aching limbs, amused
himself and annoyed all others by singing a line of one and a verse of
another, of all the old songs he could recollect from his earliest
boyhood; dispensing his croaking melody with such untiring zeal as to keep
the most weary awake had they been inclined to sleep.
At break of day we began to try to move about, and gradually straighten
ourselves, which was something of an effort, stiffened and benumbed as we
were with remaining in our wet clothing so many hours. We had now an
opportunity of examining our habitation. It was a building of about four
hundred feet long, by seventy-five or eighty wide, three stories high, and
built of stone, with massive doors and strongly-grated windows, the floors
being of stone or cement, and perfectly fire-proof. Each floor formed one
entire room, except being divided by five rows of posts running the whole
length of the building, by which the prisoners slung their hammocks. The
prisoners were divided off in 'messes' or families of six or eight, each
occupying room sufficient to sit around one of their chests, which usually
served as a mess-table. One row or tier of these messes were ranged next
to the walls on each side, and two rows down the centre, back to back, as
it were, leaving two avenues, or thoroughfares, the whole length of the
building. The entire arrangement resembled the stalls in a stable, more
than any thing else I can compare it to.
There were seven of these prisons, all of about the same size and
construction, one of which was not occupied. The whole was enclosed in a
circular wall of about twenty feet high, and covering a space of from
eight to ten acres of ground. This was divided in three parts by a wall
similar to the outside one. The centre yard was occupied by No. 7,
allotted to the colored prisoners, and the other two yards had three
prisons in each. On the outside wall were platforms and sentry-boxes at
short distances, for the guards. About fifteen feet within that wall was a
high iron railing. In front of the main entrance was a large square, used
for drilling soldiers and other purposes, and twice a week as a market for
the country people; and on each side of this were the barracks and
hospital, and in front of these were the officers' quarters. This depot
was situated upon a hill, surrounded by a vast common of many miles in
extent, without a bush or tree to relieve the dreary waste; and from its
elevated position it was generally shrouded by clouds, rendering it chilly
and uncomfortable the greater part of the year.
The daily allowance of food consisted of a pound of beef, a pint of soup,
and a pound of bread to each man; that is to say, at the rate of one
hundred pounds of raw beef to an hundred men. The meat was cut up and put
into large boilers, with sufficient barley to thicken it for soup. This
was boiled until the meat would leave the bone, and the barley was well
cooked; and when ready, was served up to the different messes. By the time
each person got his beef it was almost too small to be seen, being shrunk
up by long boiling; and the bone being taken out, it was no larger than a
small-sized tea-cup. The pound of bread was not much larger: it was made
of barley, slack-baked, and very dark, though sweet. Indeed it was good
enough, what there was of it. On Fridays the fare was varied by the same
amount in fish and potatoes.
As some require more nutriment than others, the same quantity of fare did
not satisfy all the prisoners alike. I frequently saw many of them devour
their day's allowance at one meal without appeasing their hunger; and
before the next day's rations were served out, they would be almost
frantic from starvation. Some became so exhausted that they were compelled
to go to the hospital until they recovered strength. Those who possessed a
little money fared somewhat better, as they could indulge in the luxury of
bullock's liver, fried in water for the want of fat, or a hot pumgudgeon
fried in the same material. This exquisite dish is not appreciated
according to its merits. It commonly bears the undignified title of
'codfish-balls;' and is well known at the present day among our eastern
brethren, though not held in the same veneration by them as clam-chowder.
'Dartmoor pippins,' or potatoes, were also held in high estimation with
us.
Dartmoor prison was a world in miniature, with all its jealousies,
envyings and strife. How shall I describe the scenes enacted within its
walls? how portray the character of its inhabitants? If I but held the pen
of DICKENS or the pencil of MOUNT, I might hope so to bring the objects
before the mind's eye of the reader, that they would stand forth in full
relief, inducing him almost to imagine that he stood in their midst.
Though many years have rolled by since those events occurred, they still
linger in my memory like the vivid scenes of a high-wrought drama; and
often in the 'dead waste and middle of the night' do I revisit in my
dreams scenes which I should be sorry to survey when awake.
I think it one of the greatest blessings granted by an all-wise and
benevolent CREATOR, that He has bestowed upon man an intellectual and
physical capacity, which enables him to pass in comparative happiness many
a lonely hour. Many were the aerial maps and charts laid down for our
future journeyings through life, and plans formed, which were never to be
realized. And perhaps all was for the best; for we are all creatures of
circumstance. Not one in a thousand follows out his plans through life.
Half of our existence is imaginary; and wise-acres may scoff as much as
they please at what they term 'castle-building,' I believe all mankind
indulge in it more or less; and it is an innocent, harmless pastime, which
injures no one. I consider it the 'unwritten poetry,' the romance of life,
which all feel; but many, like the dumb, strive in vain to give utterance
to their thoughts.
Many of the prisoners busied themselves in making some trifling article,
which, while it afforded amusement, aided in obtaining for them a little
money, and thereby added to their comfort. Many of the most ingenious
specimens of art I ever saw were made there; some of which were models of
vessels, of various classes, from the clipper-built brig to the
line-of-battle ship; made too of beef bones, obtained from the cook. They
were built up precisely like a large vessel; human hair twisted into ropes
of suitable sizes being employed for rigging. When completed, they made a
beautiful toy. Desks, work-boxes, etc., were also made here; violins, some
of which were of excellent tone, were likewise constructed. But it would
be useless to enumerate the endless variety of queer things made at this
multifarious manufactory. Some organized a music-society, with various
instruments, and used occasionally to give concerts; others got up a
theatre, screening it off with bed covering. I recollect some pretty good
performances among them. In short, all were employed in some way, to
divert their minds from the contemplation of their miserable condition.
Some would read while others listened; some practice fencing; some sing,
some dance. Others would relate their adventures, many of which savored
rather too strongly of the marvellous to be readily believed, while others
partook in an equal degree of the ludicrous. One of these latter was
related by 'Old John Young'--a tale of his early courtship. In his
youthful days he lived somewhere in Pennsylvania, where also resided an
old farmer, with his wife and two daughters, one of whom, contrary to the
old gentleman's wishes, he used to visit. One night while there, unknown
to the old people, they having retired, a huge pot of mush was left
boiling over the fire, getting ready for the next day. Late in the evening
the old gentleman called out for the girls to go to bed; and as they did
not retire in time to suit him, he began to stir round, to see why his
orders were not obeyed. Young, hearing him coming, took off his shoes to
prevent a noise, and glided silently up a ladder into the loft above. The
old farmer, having sent the girls to bed, lifted off the boiling pot,
which by accident he placed at the foot of the ladder; then putting out
the light, and covering the fire, he retired again to bed. When all was
still and quiet, Young, with shoes in hand, stole down the ladder, and
landed in the pot! Although badly burned, he escaped in some degree by
having his stockings on. He left his tracks on the floor, but got out of
the house unobserved. He had 'put his foot in it' in good earnest; and
mounting his horse, he bade a final adieu to the old farmer and his
family.
Winter was now pretty well advanced, and many suffered for the want of
clothing. After considerable delay, however, a small portion was sparingly
dealt out, but was accepted by those only who stood in the utmost need.
The cause was, that the agent or contractor, having a quantity of garments
on hand, over what had been a sufficient supply for some English convicts,
who had been confined here at some former period, they were now offered to
us, but were rejected by all who could do without them. Those who did
receive them, cut a curious figure! I can almost imagine one standing
before me now, dressed in a jacket and trowsers of bright yellow cloth;
and as they were served out indiscriminately, the consequence was, that
large stalwart men were crammed into trowsers which looked more like
breeches, and jackets with sleeves terminating at the elbows; and small
men with jackets, the sleeves of which dangled far below the hands, and an
extra length of pantaloons turned up to the knees; the whole figure
surmounted by a knit-woollen cap, resembling an inverted wash-basin;
coarse brogans completed the costume. Just pause a moment, reader, and
contemplate the figure!
What with starving and freezing, many became ill, and had to be removed to
the hospital. This was what all dreaded; and the consequence was, they
were so far gone before they went, that they survived but a short time
after getting there, although it was understood that the physician was a
skilful and humane man, and did all in his power to alleviate their
distress. I was taken very ill with the dysentery. I know of no disease
which brings a man down more rapidly. Two or three days weakened me so
much that I could scarcely move; and with it came a despondency of mind
that was almost insupportable. I had been for years a wayfarer in strange
lands, but never, during the whole time, did I so forcibly feel the want
of a home, and the solace and care of friends, as now. How did I long to
be once more under my father's roof, with an affectionate mother and kind
sister! I had a sad forboding that I should soon be numbered among the
multitude whose spirits had ascended from their prison-house, and whose
bodies were deposited outside the walls, in the ground assigned for that
purpose.
The small-pox had also appeared in our midst, spreading havoc on all
sides; and despair seemed to rule triumphant. Of those who left for the
hospital, but few returned to their comrades. Among those taken ill, was a
young man who had been brought up on a farm. Like many others, he had left
home to 'go a-privateering,' and was taken prisoner. He never saw home
again. He messed just opposite to me, and was I think one of the most
exquisite amateur performers on the violin that I ever heard. For hours
have I listened with rapture to his delightful music. He was absent a day,
and his instrument was silent. The next day I enquired for him; he had
been taken suddenly ill, was removed to the hospital, and the second
evening brought me tidings of his death. There was another one, who had
been for weeks sullen and gloomy. Despair seemed to have thrown its pall
over him. He conversed with none, but shunning his companions, spent the
day muttering to himself. Early one morning he was discovered in a
secluded part of the prison, cold and stiff. He had hung himself.
And was there no one to look after the spiritual or temporal welfare of
this mass of isolated beings? Was there none to soothe the troubled mind,
to cheer the drooping spirit, nor to whisper hope in the ear of the
desponding? Was there none of God's 'messengers of glad tidings' to offer
consolation to the dying, and a prayer for mercy on the departing spirit
of his suffering fellow-being? No; not one minister of the gospel, of any
denomination, did I see while I was there; nor did I hear of any having
been there, at any time; nor was there any person to see that the
prisoners had suitable beds and clothing, or that their food was
wholesome, during the many months that I was there. I was told that REUBEN
G. BEASLY, who was appointed by our government, and who received its pay
to see to American interests, had been there some months before, but had
done nothing for them; and to the letters of remonstrance written to him,
stating their wants, their insufficiency of food and clothing, etc., he
turned a deaf ear. He did not deign a reply to them; and what more could
be expected of a man who could be so base as to do what I will here state?
About three years ago I met an old ship-mate. We went to India in the same
ship. He held a midshipman's warrant in the United States' navy, and went
out on this voyage for practice in seamanship. He was made prisoner at the
same time I was. In the shiftings and changes which took place, we were
separated; and when I saw him, several years after, he stated that after
parting with me he remained in London, endeavoring in vain to get
employment on board some ship; that becoming destitute, he went to Mr.
Beasly, (_Beastly_ it should be,) to get advice and assistance, stating
who and what he was; and that, in consequence of the unsettled mode of
life in which he had been living, he had unfortunately lost his warrant;
and urged him, as an act of humanity, to point out some method whereby he
might help himself. He turned away from him with indifference, saying he
could do nothing for him. After a lapse of several days, finding no hope
of extricating himself from his embarrassed situation, as a last resource
he went once more to Mr. Beasly, and asked assistance. The reply was: 'Be
off! and if you trouble me again I will put you on board of an English
man-of-war!' This gentleman[1] is now Lieutenant Commandant in our navy.
He told me he had seen Mr. Beasly not long before, in his official
capacity as consul at Havre, but did not make himself known to him. Is it
not strange, that one who was so regardless of the duties of his office
and the feelings of humanity should hold so lucrative and responsible a
situation as the one which he enjoys to this day? There have been serious
complaints made against him, within a year or two, by several respectable
captains of vessels.
[1] STEPHEN B. WILSON, Esq.
The number of prisoners on my arrival at the depot I understood to amount
to about three thousand; notwithstanding the deaths had gradually
increased, the number was kept good by detachments sent in from time to
time, many of them from English ships of war, who had been impressed into
the service; and although they had frequently asked for a discharge, they
could not get it until the European war had ended, and there was but
little farther use for them. But they obtained their dismissal, and with
it the pay and prize-money due to them at the time.
Such occasions afforded a kind of jubilee, as the money they brought was
soon put in circulation through the prisons, from whence it speedily
evaporated, being spent in provisions, vegetables, and fruits, brought
there by the country-people for sale, and for which an enormous price was
paid. Many of the men thus delivered up, had spent several years of the
prime of life in fighting the battles of a foreign nation, and were then
dismissed with the most brutal treatment. As an instance: a man by the
name of SLATER, a tall, robust man, just such an one as they like to get
hold of, in the service where he had been several years, had made frequent
but unavailing applications for a discharge. At length when the war broke
out, he made more urgent solicitations for a release. The answer was,
'Yes, you shall have it; but we will first give you something to remember
us by.' And tying him up, they gave him three dozen lashes, and sent him
to Dartmoor. Such was the reward of his services!
THE SONG OF DEATH.
I.
Silent and swift as the flight of Time,
I've come from a far and shadowy clime;
With brow serene and a cloudless eye,
Like the star that shines in the midnight sky;
I check the sigh, and I dry the tear;
Mortals! why turn from my path in fear?
II.
The fair flower smiled on my tireless way,
I paused to kiss it in summer's day,
That when the storm in its strength swept by
It might not be torn from its covert nigh;
I bear its hues on my shining wing,
Its fragrance and light around me cling.
III.
I passed the brow that had learned to wear
The crown of sorrow--the silver hair;
Weary and faint with the woes of life,
The tempest-breath and fever-strife,
The old man welcomed the gentle friend
Who bade the storm and the conflict end.
IV.
I looked where the fountains of gladness start,
On the love of the pure and trusting heart;
On the cheek like summer roses fair,
And the changeful light of the waving hair;
Earth had no cloud for her joyous eye,
But I saw the shade in the future's sky.
V.
I saw the depths of her spirit wrung,
The music fled, and the harp unstrung;
The love intense she had treasured there,
Like fragrance shed on the desert air:
I bore her to deathless love away;
Oh! why do ye mourn for the young to-day?
VI.
I paused by the couch where the poet lay,
Mid fancies bright on their sparing way;
The tide of song in his heaving breast
Flowed strong and free in its deep unrest;
His soul was thirsting for things divine--
I led him far to the sacred shrine.
VII.
The sage looked forth on the starry sky,
With aspiring thoughts and visions high,
He sought a gift and a lore sublime
To raise the veil from the shores of Time,
To pierce the clouds o'er the soul that lie;
I bade him soar with a cherub's eye.
VIII.
And now, neath my folded wing I bear
A spotless soul like the lily fair;
The babe on its mother's bosom slept;
Ere I bore it far, I paused and wept;
'T was an angel strayed from its fairer home:
Peace to the mourner!--I come! I come!
_Shelter-Island._ MARY GARDINER.
MARY MAY: THE NEWFOUNDLAND INDIAN.
BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.
The tribe of aborigines to which MARY MAY, the heroine of our little
sketch, belonged, has been named by the Newfoundlanders, 'Red Indians;'
for what reason, I could never learn. This tribe, or probably the
miserable remnant of it, since the English have settled the island has
been regarded as altogether remarkable and undefinable. They have never,
in a single instance, been induced to visit the white settler since
British subjects have resided there. Little is known of their numbers,
habits, or general spirit, although the most sedulous exertions have been
made to bring about an amicable understanding and a reciprocal
intercourse. They have chosen to remain isolated and insolated; keeping
their history, their wisdom, and their deeds to themselves. They will hold
no communion with others of their own race. There are the Esquimaux, very
near their northern boundary; a people disposed to extend the rites of
hospitality in peace, and a trading tribe; but these have no more
knowledge of the 'Red Indian' than the white man; and they remain wrapt up
in a historical mantle as dark as the shades of their own impenetrable
complexion.
Much, of a marvellous character, has been said about the Red Indians. The
fishermen of the island, as a mass, believe that these poor creatures are
semi-human. They will tell you of their having been seen one moment
cooking their venison, and composedly regaling themselves, and the next,
upon learning the contiguity of the white man, they would vanish from
sight, and not a trace could be found of their departure; that they
descend far under ground in winter, and lead a kind of fairy life; that
they have power to change themselves into birds and fishes, and to sustain
life for hours together under water. But all this is of course unnatural
and absurd. The Indians of Newfoundland are flesh and blood, and partake,
in common with other races of rational beings, of properties holding them
within 'delegated limits of power.' And in my opinion, they are as much
entitled to a character of consistency as the generality of tribes on our
continent. The secret of their shyness, and their unsocial and vindictive
disposition, may better be accounted for, from the probable fact that they
were inhumanly treated by the early discoverers of the island, the
Portuguese and Spaniards. These monsters without doubt butchered and made
havock of these poor natives as they did the South American Indians, and
indeed wherever their lawless adventures led them, in this new world.
Various governors have been appointed to the Newfoundland station since
Great-Britain has possessed the island, and all have used more than
ordinary means to reach the Red Indians, and reconcile them to the
pale-faces, who have taken possession of the bays and harbors of their
bold and rugged coast. The last, of any magnitude, that was made, was
during the summer of 1830, and immediately preceding the administration of
Sir Thomas Cochran. It consisted of a regular exploring expedition,
numbering about fifty persons, a part of whom were regular soldiers, and a
part volunteer citizens, which left St. John's, the capital of the island,
with instructions to explore the interior, and traverse every portion of
it in quest of the Indians, and to bring some back with them; but to use
no cruelty, unless absolutely necessary. After traversing the internal
wilds for some ten days, the expedition discovered smoke in the distance,
and in a few hours came upon a party of Indians in their wigwams. The red
men were greatly surprised, and appeared much alarmed. But upon being
presented with some showy ornaments, accompanied by smiles, and other
friendly indications, their fears somewhat subsided, and two of them
became apparently willing to accompany the expedition into St. John's, on
learning by signs that two of the white men would remain as guarantees of
their good treatment and return. The white men left were supplied with a
large quantity of ornaments and trinkets to distribute among other Indians
whom they might find during the absence of their party, a period which was
not to be prolonged beyond a month. The good-bye was given, and the
expedition started on their return home. It had not travelled many hours
before an uncontrollable disposition seized them to go back again to the
spot of separation to see if all was well, for some declared that they had
a presentiment that there had already been foul play. Back they went, and
when they reached the spot where good wishes had just been interchanged,
the first spectacle which met their eyes was the mutilated dead bodies of
their faithful hostages! Without any consultation, or a moment's delay,
the commander of the expedition ordered the two Indians in their keeping
to be shot, and their bodies left exposed, as they had found those of
their comrades. This order was promptly executed.
Soon after Sir Thomas Cochran was appointed governor of Newfoundland, he
offered a reward of one hundred pounds for the harmless capture of a Red
Indian, the person to be brought him at the capital. This reward was
advertised in the summer of 1832; and the next spring a fisherman, at a
distant, unfrequented part of the island, saw on a pleasant afternoon a
young female Indian, laving at the edge of the water. She was alone, and
unconscious of danger, and went through the offices of the bath with
singular grace and activity. After watching her for some time, he took his
measures for her capture. He first cut off her retreat, then approached
her carefully, and at the instant of surprise, obtained possession of her
person. She made no resistance, but acted as one paralyzed by fear or
wonder. He brought her to Sir Thomas, and received his reward. It being
the month of May when she was captured, she was given the name of MARY
MAY. She was apparently about eighteen years of age; an angelic creature,
tall, with perfect symetry of proportion, agreeable features, good
complexion, and as agile and graceful as a fawn. The governor and the
officers of the garrison, and the elite of St. Johns, vied with each other
in plans and devices for her gratification. She was taken to parties, to
the theatre, to military reviews; in short, she was flattered, caressed,
and made the reigning belle. But the poor Indian showed an almost blank
indifference to the various schemes devised for her pleasure. She was not
_at home_. Every face, every habit, every object was new, and appeared
strange to her. She undoubtedly pined to go back again into the dark wilds
among her own people. Perhaps her heart, that wonderful controller of
human destiny, was in the keeping of some extolled brave: at all events,
it was not in the scenes that were passing before her; and the efforts so
generously put forth for her amusement and happiness were like the crystal
droppings upon the hard insensible stone, falling in full profusion, but
leaving no impress.
Mary was detained about a year, and was then given in charge of the
fisherman who captured her, with express directions that she should be
taken to the spot where he found her, and there be left to her own
guidance. She was richly clad and profusely decorated before she was given
her liberty, and was furnished with a large quantity of finery for
distribution among the members of her tribe. It was hoped that this
treatment, when communicated by one of their own blood, would cause a
change of feeling among the Red Indians, and that gradually a reciprocity
of confidence and intercourse would be established. But this experiment
and this hope proved futile and delusive. In 1836 I left the island of
Newfoundland, and up to that time not a glimpse of the red race had
flitted across the vision of civilization since the dark captive was
permitted again to bound over hill and dale without let or hindrance. Many
idle reports and tales were circulated about Mary May, after meeting with
her tribe; but little reliance is placed upon them, as they are for the
most part contradictory, and strongly savor of the marvellous. But I will
give the reader one, which is as well authenticated as any, and quite as
probable.
On the second day after Mary was liberated, she found a portion of her
people; and when they first saw her, they were much alarmed, judging from
her fanciful, brilliant habiliments that she was some celestial visiter.
But hearing their own language addressed to them, the parentage of the
girl, and the cause of her absence, they became gradually calm, and
curiosity took the place of fear, and this gave place to admiration, until
the lost one was fairly constituted by acclamation a goddess, and to her
surprise and grief, worshiped as such! The daughter's return had been
communicated to the father, with such exaggerations and extravagances as
pertain to the grossly superstitious; and he, instead of falling upon his
child's neck, and receiving her as the lost found, came bowing and doing
reverence and worship. Mary was bewildered, and almost wished herself back
again with the pale-faces.
But there was one link in the chain of her destiny yet to be proved; if
_that_ should be found true, she had not returned in vain. About a year
previous to her capture, on a sunny afternoon, she had strayed a mile or
two from her father's camp, invited partly by the romance of her own
nature, and partly by the novelty of new scenery, opened up by a change of
camping-ground. While hesitating concerning her return, and gracefully
leaning against a young sapling, she heard a rustling of leaves near her;
and quickly directing her eyes to the spot whence the alarm came, she saw
with terror a full-grown panther steadily and cautiously approaching her.
She had no weapon of defence, and Indian though she was, had never
participated in blood and strife. She knew that flight would be vain, for
what human being could outrun a hungry panther? She raised one
alarm-whoop, and awaited her fate. At the loud, piercing cry, the fierce
animal seemed alarmed in his turn, and paused in his progress. But after
some five minutes, he recovered his courage, and was making ready for the
fatal spring, when an arrow pierced his heart; and the next moment a
young, athletic brave sprang from the thicket, and clasped the dark damsel
to his breast. She remained an instant, passive and bewildered; the next,
she sprang from the embrace of the stranger, and with Indian dignity
thanked him for his kind and timely aid. She then turned her face toward
her father's camp, and with the fleetness of an antelope passed the
intervening space, and soon found herself safe in her changing habitation.
But notwithstanding the assumed dignity and apparent coldness with which
she addressed the young stranger, Mary in that moment of rescue was
awakened to a new and impassioned existence. The image of the stranger was
before her by day and in her dreams by night. Six or eight months passed,
when the chiefs of the tribe celebrated a great festival, to which all the
members were invited. The ceremonies were to last a week; many did not
arrive until after the first day, and the father of Mary, and his camp,
were of this number. But toward the evening of the first day of the
festivities, a tall, graceful young brave stalked into the assembly, and
with cool solicitude scanned the faces of the female visiters; and not
appearing satisfied, he folded his arms upon his breast, and leaning
against a rude post, listlessly observed the sports. But a close observer
would have seen his eye lit up with unwonted interest when any new arrival
was announced. No one knew him; his dress was peculiar; still he spoke
their language, and the old chiefs passed him by for a future examination.