_Charleston, S. C. June 28—the day of Fort Moultrie—1836._
_Dear Sir_—Your favor of Richmond, June 18—the anniversary of the
battle of Waterloo—reached me here, a few minutes ago. The vacations
of South Carolina College have begun, and I am here waiting for a
vessel to carry me to the Island of Porto Rico, whither I intend to
proceed for the sake of recreation! A strange way of getting cool, you
will say, to go from South Carolina to the West Indies, from degree 31
northern latitude to degree 18—it is a more formidable experiment than
the process of annealing, by which glass is passed into an oven not
quite so hot as the first in which it was melted. I allow, it may be
strange; still I shall go. But here I am, not only without any
materials or memoranda, but confined to the sofa by a _faux-pas_,
which has made of me, ever since, a lame man. Now if you sum up all
these items—vacations just begun, without books or papers, lame and
windbound in a seaport, a voyage of considerable interest before me,
for which one ought to prepare himself a little—you will own that they
are as many difficulties in the way of granting your request, which
otherwise it would have given me much pleasure to comply with.
A lame man feels poor—helpless, much more so than a man with an
injured arm. How interesting does not a young officer look with his
arm in a sling; but his comrade with a crutch attracts nothing but
bare, sheer pity. Limping—the mere idea of limping, makes all the
difference. Has not the Prussian government {536} decided, after the
wars against Napoleon, that the old law, which prohibits a cripple
from officiating as priest or minister, is to be interpreted, that an
individual who has lost a leg is a cripple, but if he has lost an arm
only, he is not to be considered such. They thought, perhaps, of the
noble Cervantes, who lost his right hand in the battle of Lepanto, and
wrote his immortal Don Quixotte with the left.
I am without books. Well! did not Ercilla write his Auracana in the
very face of the Tudian enemy, and the conquering Spaniard, probably,
carried no _bibliothéque volante_ with him. True, but had he a
dislocated toe, did he wait for wind, had he to buy a hundred trifles,
and to make the place before his sofa a real bazaar? Napoleon, you
reply, dictated some of his most inspired and inspiring proclamations,
in the saddle. True, but it is easier to address an army before or
after a battle, than to address the public through a monthly
periodical before or after a sea voyage. Again you say—did not Walter
Scott compose his Lady of the Lake chiefly in his bed, where most
afflicting pains confined him? True, but he had his books and papers
around him, and he did not wait for wind. Did not Körner compose his
_Adieu_ when wounded on the field of battle? True, once more, and so
would I write a touching poem on dislocated toes—how limping Vulcan
would inspire me!—were I master of the English tongue; but an article
for a review is another thing. And then the heat—the thermometer
stands this moment at—_Impatience Boils_—and the musquitos, who play
their scornful music long around your frightened ear, before, at
length, they yield to their Timour-like disposition, as the malicious
servants of the Holy Inquisition tormented their victims long before
the actual infliction of the refined torture, by showing and trying
the racking instruments—and the tickling, inexhaustibly persevering
flies, which have entered into a most malignant conspiracy against the
human nose—what can you possibly expect? Nothing but an anecdote. But,
sir, anecdotes, however witty or trifling, are like the glorious
pictures which a Raphael painted for the altars of his church—they
lose much of their merit if out of their place. Still, I should like
to give what is so kindly asked for, and ——
The wind has changed—to-morrow morning we sail—I have to get some ice
packed (free intercourse distributes comfort like a blessing far and
wide; how could we otherwise have northern ice!) and other things to
attend to; my writing will be a hurried business, and I am afraid my
communication turn out as so many administrations or notes do—the
introductory or promissory part will be the best of it, however poor
even this may be. Now, sir, pray let the following succeed immediately
after the _and_ above: if you think that the subsequent lines will do,
they are quite at your service, though I consider it hard that I must
give, whatever I may send, “_with my name_”—a condition you have
underlined. If you think you had better “lay it on the table to be
taken up this day six months,” I shall have no objection.
* * * * *
Prussia had been humbled, almost annihilated in the battle of Jena;
one Prussian fortress after the other surrendered, except Colberg on
the Baltic. She retained what is called in German military language,
her maiden reputation. Nettelbeck, an old sea captain and Major
Schill, contributed most by their patriotic exertions, to the holding
out of this place against the French, who overflooded all the Prussian
provinces. Schill had been seriously wounded in the battle at
Auerstædt, near Jena; but this did not prevent him from collecting
some scattered infantrists and cavalrists and forming them into a
corps, motley from without, but unanimous within. He restored to them
confidence, and from the rallying of this small band must be dated,
perhaps, the regeneration of Prussia. Schill's perseverance and the
brave obstinacy of Colberg altogether, had a good effect upon
Königsberg, whither the king and queen had fled, and a powerful one
upon the whole kingdom. The mere idea—there is one spot at least,
where the sweeping eagles of Napoleon have not been able to
perch—became a moral rallying point for the stunned hearts of the
Prussians. Schill was made lieutenant colonel, and he had the honor of
being the first Prussian soldier that returned to the capital.
The effect of the misfortune which had befallen the royal house, was
not that of alienating the subjects from the afflicted king and his
beautiful consort. During the seven years war, the Prussians had
become proud of their name; the government under Frederick William II,
had certainly done much to cool all attachment of the people; now,
after the disaster of Frederick William III, who was universally known
to love justice, every one felt again strongly attached to the
government, the country, the name of Prussia. The French, at whose
hands the people received such galling insult and grinding oppression,
were hated—calmly, thoroughly hated. No wonder then that the
inhabitants of Berlin prepared for this day in the spring of 1808 as
for a great festival. My father considered it so with the rest.
His youthful years had fallen in that momentous time when Frederick
the Great made the Prussians a nation. As the great Dante has raised
the Italian idiom from a “vulgar dialect” to a language stamped with
his gigantic mind, and erected at once the most noble and most
enduring monument with it, so has Frederick of Prussia elevated his
people to a nation, stamped it with his mind, and at once led it into
the temple of glory. There was no greater man in all the pages of
history, for those who lived under Frederick, than himself. How often
have I heard my grandfather describe the pillage of Berlin by the
Russians after the unfortunate battle at Cunersdorf, how they stripped
him of every thing, wounded him, and took him away as prisoner,
ill-treating him in all possible ways. Still he would always end his
story by—“But that was nothing; my greatest grief was about
Frederick.” Nor can I forget the intensity of veneration with which my
father would explain to us children some engravings on the walls of
our sitting-room, representing some memorable actions of “his great
king.” His greyhounds were forgotten on few of them.
My father went early with us to see the entrance of Schill. Coaches
were out of question; they could not have proceeded in the throng. We
soon lost my brothers in the dense crowd; but they were old enough to
look out for themselves; I only remained with my father, and he
grasped my hand firmly, to pull me through the almost impenetrable
masses of loyal people. I suffered considerably, for I was very
little, and {537} frequently did I look from my lower regions at the
patches of blue sky which now and then appeared above the heads of my
taller equals, with a longing desire for some pure air and free
breathing. After much tossing and pulling we found a place, where, as
my father believed, I might see the whole procession from the top of a
garden gate; he placed himself beneath me. It seems to me that we
waited fully two hours, when, at length, the rumbling sound “he comes,
he comes,” rolled toward us from a great distance. The sound was
swelling, the trumpets could be discerned in the roaring noise of the
crowds, and the yelling “_vivat Schill_” of the boys. I stretched my
neck, I saw the four hussars, who opened the procession, cutting with
great labor, their way through all the patriotism and loyalty; they
approached, they were close by us, but with them had also come an
irresistible, compact mass. Where is Schill? There he comes; do'nt you
see?—and in this moment the wedge-like crowd broke down the fences,
and I tumbled from the place where I had been envied by thousands of
passers by. I fell upon another crowd, which had conglomerated behind
the fence, and was carried along like an Imperator of old,—like a
Franconian king after his election. But I did not remain long in this
elevated situation, for the searching eyes of my father had discovered
me. “This is my boy”—he exclaimed, “this is my boy!” while he was
striving to press through the crowd; but when has a crowd listened to
any thing? On it went, and I floated on a sea of heads and hats. At
last my father, impelled by a parent's anxiety, almost driven by
despair, succeeded in severing this piece of human mosaic. He grasped
my foot, and down I went. My situation was in no way bettered, for the
current of men continued to roll on; as Socrates threw himself over
his beloved Alcibiades or Epaminondas over Pelopidas (I compare the
great to the small) so resolved my father to form a shield over his
urchin. This necessarily soon created a mountain of tumbling and
scrambling individuals over me, and I should surely have been
suffocated, had not most happily the layer over my father consisted of
a huge grenadier, who, torn or driven from his line, had met with this
living stumbling block. “There is a boy below,” he shouted, with a
stentorian voice; “by G— he sha'nt be killed.” I considered this a
very sensible speech, quite to the purpose; and felt happy indeed,
when my Trim—if he was no sergeant, I would have given him the
cheveron on the spot, had I possessed the power—succeeded in
excavating me. Oh, with what feeling I drew breath! but Schill was
gone; I heard the music at a distance long past by, while my father
hugged me, his eyes beaming with joyful gratitude for my delivery.
We now mingled with the soldiers, and my father picked out three or
four, to take quarters with us. So great was the ardor of the citizens
of Berlin, to have some of the followers quartered with them, and in
such a degree was all military order broken into, that it was
impossible for the commanding officer to give any orders before his
followers were dismissed, and he was obliged, the next morning, to
publish the order, where and when the rendezvous should take place,
through the police of the city. My father had caught an officer and
several privates; we made them tell us of Colberg the whole livelong
day, and pestered them with a thousand questions.
I had not seen Schill, the object of our wishes, but, soon after his
arrival at Berlin, I began to make a heraldic collection, and it
struck me, that it would be a fine beginning, could I place at the
head the seal of Schill. So I went one day to his quarters and told
the sergeant in waiting that I wished to see Schill. I peremptorily
refused to tell him my business, and after some conversation, was
admitted. I found Col. Schill in the garden, shooting with the pistol
at a target. He asked me what I wanted. Your seal, sir, said I. And
why my seal? was the reply. Because, said I, I love you, and wish to
begin my collection with your coat of arms. Does your father love me
too? he asked. Yes, replied I, all the Berlin people do. He seemed
much moved, turned toward the other officers, while he treated me in
the kindest manner, and said something which I now forget, but the
import of which may be easily surmised. He then asked me to take
luncheon with them, and I remember that he helped me to a glass of
wine, saying—“Boy, be ever true to your country; here, let's touch our
glasses on its welfare.” I remember nothing of his appearance, except
the kind expression of his large blue eyes. I was a great man among my
school-fellows the next day, and refused to exchange one of the seals
which Col. Schill had given me, for the arms of the Emperor of
Austria. When the signet of the King of Saxony was added, I parted
with one of Schill's, but still I thought the advantage of the bargain
on the other side.
Schill, you know, marched in 1809, when the Tyrolese had risen under
Andrew Hofer, against the French, to second an insurrection, which had
broken out in Westphalia, under Count Dörnberg. Schill marched,
without order of his government, had several fights with the French,
but could do nothing, as the insurrection in Westphalia was soon put
down, after the brilliant success of Napoleon's army in the campaign
of 1809 against the Austrians. Schill took Stralsund, and fortified it
in haste; but on May 31 it was taken by Dutch troops, and Schill fell
after a valiant resistance. His head was sent in spirits of wine to
Holland; the King of Westphalia had offered ten thousand francs for
it, when yet on his shoulders.
Twelve officers of the corps of Schill were taken prisoners, and sent
to Wesel; a French court-martial sentenced them to be shot; for they
were treated as common robbers. A maid of honor, at the court of
Jerome, King of Westphalia, obtained, through the latter, a pardon
from Napoleon for one of the officers under sentence of death. It
arrived before the execution, but he firmly refused it, if it could
not be extended to all. He was shot with the rest. Twelve trees
designate to this day the spots where this brotherhood in death sank
into the grave.
I have heard a calm and prudent kind of a reasoner, maintain that the
officer had no right to refuse his pardon; that his action approached
very closely to suicide. To me, it approaches rather to that offering
of our life for our friends, which the Scripture designates as so holy
a deed. Yet however that may be, a boy of stern and noble metal surely
he must have been, and he is worthy to be mentioned together with the
brave Van Spyke, who blew up himself and his crew rather than see the
flag of his country insulted.
When we hear the word Dutch, we generally {538} connect the idea of
wide breeches, a long clay pipe and a placidly puffing mouth with
it—things not very poetical in their association. And yet, these Dutch
people have erected the most poetic monument to their youthful hero. A
penny collection has been made throughout the country, for the amount
of which they have erected a light-house far out in the sea, off the
estuary of the Scheldt; and on the light-house stands written with
colossal letters of iron, VAN SPYKE—nothing more. There, to direct the
lonely mariner on the dangerous coast by night, burns the guiding
light, and reminds him of a great deed; and when he passes in the day,
the white pile, reared out of the tossing waves, he reads that name,
which he, to whom it once belonged has added—a noble bequest—to the
rich inheritance which his brave people—foremost in liberty, foremost
in enterprize, foremost in readiness to die for religion—possess in
the many pages of their proud annals.
Let us not laugh at the Knickerbockers and Rip Van Winkles, but rather
imitate their nation and inscribe, with the single names of the
bravest sailors, our naval history on the many light-houses which
garnish our shores. Thus they would form instructive annals,
intelligible to every hand before the mast—each light-house a chapter,
telling a great story, inciting the commander as well as the aspiring
youth, when they pass it to carry into distant seas our stripes and
stars, and with them respect to our name, or greeting them with the
best welcome a sailor desires, when they return from long and ardent
cruizes. Long ere the wife or brother could welcome them, would thus
their country have cheered their hearts by these simple but speaking
monuments of acknowledged faithfulness to home and country. Let
Congress decree, as the best reward for the noblest actions at sea,
that the commander's name shall stand in huge letters of bronze on
these warning or guiding beacons—the pyramids of modern industry and
modern civilization—to indicate that as the sea shall never wash away
these names, so shall no tide of time wash them out of the grateful
hearts of their countrymen. And now Sir, I must take leave; the
captain wants me on board. I am, &c. &c.