CHAPTER I.
A little to the west of the point where Connecticut river pours itself into Long Island Sound, lies a small, circular piece of land, called Duck Island. It is some two miles in circuit, and perhaps two miles from the shore, which here consists of the fine old town of Saybrook.
It is now about seventy years since this place was the seat of a hospital for the small-pox. At that period the kinepox, since employed to check the most fearful and formidable disease that ever afflicted mankind, was unknown. The only mitigation of small-pox was obtained by inoculation, which produced the disease in a milder form. Those who caught it by infection, or had it the natural way, to use the common phrase of that period, were always supposed to be in imminent danger of losing their lives.
The hospital of Duck island was therefore resorted to by persons who wished to be inoculated for the small-pox. The reason for selecting such a situation was, that no danger of the infection could arise when there were no inhabitants near.
The island itself was originally a barren, sandy knoll, without trees; but the proprietor, Dr. Joinly, had taken pains to cultivate and embellish it, and, at the time of which we speak, it possessed a fertile and inviting aspect. Two large and handsome buildings, with a variety of out-houses, were erected upon the island, and furnished accommodations for the patients of the hospital. The establishment had acquired great reputation, arising from the high professional standing of the proprietor, and the admirable manner in which it was conducted. Nearly a hundred patients were constantly in the hospital, which, with the necessary attendants, made the little island seem like a small city in the midst of the sea.
It might seem that an institution so benignant in its operation should find shelter even from the ravages of war; but it was not so. The revolutionary struggle commenced in 1775, and soon pervaded the whole country. The British fleet, under Lord Howe, fled from Boston in the spring of 1776, and in the course of the summer, after severe fighting, New York fell into the hands of the enemy. Long Island Sound was soon occupied by British ships of war. The hospital on Duck Island was respected for a time,――as much, perhaps, from a fear of infection, as from sentiments of humanity. But this at last fell a victim to the ruthless spirit which animated the foe.
A British ship of war was one day passing near the island. In mere wantonness she opened her battery, and the deadly cannon shot came ploughing up the soil and rending the out-buildings of the hospital. All within the establishment was instantly converted into confusion and uproar. The sick patients leaped from their beds and fled screaming through the passages; while shot after shot now struck the houses, and, piercing them through and through, rendered the whole a scene of indescribable terror and misery. Two or three children were killed, and their blood was spattered upon the walls of the rooms where patients lay, too sick to move from their beds. Some expired from fright, while others, almost naked, and wasted to a shadow, leaped up in frenzy and went raving forth into the open air.
We need not dwell upon this fearful scene, which is only one of the common fruits of the great game of war――a game which has made Alexander and Cæsar and Napoleon so glorious. Dr. Joinly did everything in his power to calm his agitated patients, but in vain. The time of trial was, however, short; the commander of the ship of war only desired to clear out his guns, which had been loaded for some time, and when he had done this, and had some fine sport, he and his iron battery passed on. What was sport to him, however, was agony and death to others. The hospital of Duck Island was destroyed; the buildings were torn to rags by the cannon shot; several persons were killed outright, and others died of agitation and exposure. It was in vain to think of continuing the establishment, when it was exposed to occurrences like this; the patients were removed to the main land, the island was deserted, and the buildings were left to moulder into dust.
It was scenes like this, proceeding from the wanton cruelty of the British forces, that roused the American people to resistance, and united them, heart to heart, for liberty or death. The feelings which the British officers brought to this country, were composed of hatred and contempt; they hated us as rebels, and despised us as Yankees, which, in their ignorant prejudice, meant everything mean and cowardly. They made war upon us, as the sportsman pursues noxious game, which it is a pleasure not only to kill, but to worry, irritate and torment. The attack upon the hospital of Duck Island no doubt passed for a good joke among the British officers; but if so, it was a joke somewhat dearly bought, as we shall see.
The indignation of the people of Saybrook, and indeed of the people generally along the Connecticut shore, on account of the destruction of the hospital, knew no bounds. A movement was immediately made to raise a body of troops, and despatch them against the enemy, now quartered upon Long Island. A regiment was soon assembled, and Dr. Joinly was chosen as colonel. Their proceedings we shall relate in another chapter.
Having a Good Time.
On the opposite page is seen an engraving from one of the pictures of the celebrated Scotch painter, David Wilkie. This artist was a faithful painter of scenes in rustic life; he represented things, honestly, as they are――and he has here given us a picture of what may be called _Having a good time_; a very common and familiar incident, in many countries. And what is this _having a good time_?
[Illustration]
Look at that man in the picture――by the side of the horse-trough――beastly drunk. Reader, man is an immortal being; he has a soul, destined to live forever; and yet such a being has found the art of making himself, soul and body, that disgusting thing which you see in the picture. And this is called _having a good time_!
Alas, how fearfully has society strayed in the path of error, to have reached this point! That drunkenness should be thought happiness; and that scenes of this kind should have become so familiar and so little disgusting, as to be selected by the painter with a view to pleasure the world――is a fearful evidence of the strength and pervading nature of those bonds under which a dreadful vice has laid society.
The truth, however, is beginning to manifest itself. That intoxicating liquors are poisonous; that drunkenness is an abomination; that temperance is the path to health and wealth, to happiness here and hereafter, are truths now beginning to be felt by every member of society. Who is there, among us, so dead to truth, so indifferent to human happiness, as not to join heart and hand in the glorious cause of temperance; that great cause which aims at the banishment of the most fruitful sources of human misery; and which aims at the elevation of man to that dignity, peace and happiness for which his Creator, when he formed him after his own image, designed him!
Reader, there is an old-fashioned mode, adopted by the pilgrim fathers of New England, to determine what is right and what is wrong. Anything, said they, is wrong, for the success of which we cannot pray to God. Let us apply this in the present case. Can any one pray for the success of the grog-shop? Can any one pray for the success of the bar-room――the tippling room? Can any one pray for the success of the distillery? Can any one pray for the success of the wine cellar――the brandy trade――the rum voyage? What does the success of these things mean? Their success means the degradation of mankind; the destruction of soul and body; the gradual preparing of human beings to commit crimes――theft, burglary, robbery and murder; the preparation of human beings to become insane――to be the victims of disease――to be outcasts and paupers. The success of the rum trade――the wine trade――the cider trade――in all their forms, retail and wholesale, means all this. Who, then, can pray to God for the success of these trades? and who will venture to promote or follow a system which they know excites the frown of Heaven, and must finally bring the curse of mankind?
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EXAMINATION AT BOW STREET.――A prisoner being brought up to London, the following dialogue passed between him and the sitting magistrate: “How do you live?”――“Pretty well, sir; generally a joint and pudding at dinner!”――“I mean, sir, how do you get your bread?”――“I beg your worship’s pardon; sometimes at the baker’s, and sometimes at the chandler’s shop.”――“You may be as witty as you please, sir; but I mean simply to ask you, how you do?” “Tolerably well, I thank your worship; I hope your worship is well.”
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HONEST TAR.――John Barth, the Dunkirk fisherman, rose by his courage and naval skill to the rank of commodore of a squadron in the navy of France. When he was ennobled by Louis XIV., the king said to him, “John Barth, I have made you a commodore.” John replied, “You have done right!”
[Illustration]
July.
Now comes July, and with his fervid noon Unsinews labor. The swinkt mower sleeps; The maid walks feebly; the warm swain Pitches his load reluctant: the faint steer, Lashing his sides, draws sulkily along The slow encumbered wain in mid-day heat.
Such is the picture of this month, drawn by an old English poet. With us the heat is still greater than in England; yet the farmers keep busily at work in the fields; and, to say truth, it is about as comfortable to be at work as to be idle. You see in the picture that our fat friend, who is only looking on, wipes his face and seems as hot as those who are in the field at work, hoeing the corn.
Leigh Hunt, an elegant English writer, says: “The heat is greatest during this month, on account of its duration. There is a sense of heat and quiet all over nature. The birds are silent. The little brooks are dried up. The earth is parched. The shadows of the trees are particularly grateful, heavy and still. The oaks, which are freshest because latest in leaf, form noble, clumpy canopies, looking, as you lie under them, of a strong, emulous green, against the blue sky. The traveller delights to cut across the country, through the fields and the leafy lanes, where, nevertheless, the flints sparkle with heat. The cattle get into the shade or stand in the water. The active and air-cutting swallows now beginning to assemble for migration, seek their prey among the shady places, where the insects, though of differently compounded natures, ‘fleshless and bloodless,’ seem to get for coolness, as they do at other times for warmth. The sound of insects is likewise the only audible sound now, increasing rather than lessening the sense of quiet, by its gentle contrast. The bee now and then sweeps across the ear with his gravest tone.”
On the 24th of this month commence the dog-days, which are a number of days preceding and following the rise of Sirius, or the dog-star, in the morning. There were formerly many superstitions concerning the dog-star. Some old authors say, that “On the first day that this star rises in the morning, the sea boils, wine turns sour, dogs begin to grow mad, all animals feel languid, and the diseases it occasions in men are fevers, frenzies and hysterics.” The Romans used to sacrifice a brown dog, every year, to the dog-star, on his first rising, to appease his rage. The heat of the weather during the dog-days is very great; the sun darts his rays almost perpendicularly upon the earth, and some diseases are consequently at that time more to be dreaded. But the exaggerated effects of the rising of Sirius are quite groundless.
Jumping Rabbit’s Story.