Читать книгу: «The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, June 1844», страница 2
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 gentleman1 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.
The number of prisoners on my arrival at the dépôt 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;
’Twas 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 élite 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.
On the second day of the gathering, toward noon, Mary May arrived, and with her father, mother and sisters, entered that enclosure of merry hearts. She hoped to see at the festival the youth who had so strongly impressed her; and the moment she entered the rude structure, her eyes eagerly ranged round the assembly until they rested upon the person of her rescuer, who as eagerly returned her significant glance. During the continuance of the feast and frolic, the lovers had many interviews; and before it closed, their faith and vows were exchanged. They were to have been married the month after her capture; and now, since her return and deification, she had not learned a word about her ‘brave,’ and had come to the determination if he proved false to destroy herself. Day after day passed without the presence of the only one who could drive the dark cloud from her mind, and it was becoming every day more dense and oppressive, until she gave way to utter despondency, and bitterly bewailed her fate. One afternoon, about two months after her return, while some of her kindred were bowing before her in heathenish worship, hasty steps were heard approaching; the next moment the young brave appeared and clasped his lost treasure to his heart; and taking advantage of the bewilderment of the worshippers, occasioned by his sudden appearance, the happy pair escaped to the sea-coast, and passing over a portion of the bay, found a secure retreat among the Mickmacs, to which tribe the young brave belonged.
And there may they rest. I sometimes, though quite infrequently, meet with some one from Newfoundland; and among the first questions I ask is one touching the ‘Red Indians;’ and although I have not heard any thing which went to confirm the hope that they may yet be brought to place confidence in the white man, yet I still trust that I shall; and when this result is brought about, or any other thing of interest shall be learned of these strange mortals, I shall take much pleasure in communicating the information, for the benefit of the readers of the Knickerbocker.
BIRTH-DAY MEDITATIONS
I stand upon the wave that marks the round
Of Life’s dark-heaving and revolving years;
Still sweeping onward from Youth’s sunny ground,
Still changed and chequered with my joys and fears,
And colored from the past, where Thought careers,
Shadowing the ashes in pale Memory’s urn;
Where perished buds were laid, with frequent tears,
That on the cheek of Disappointment burn,
As blessed hours roll on, that never may return.
What have they seen, those changed and vanish’d years?
Uplifted, soaring thoughts, all quelled by fate;
Affection, mournful in its gushing tears;
And midst the crowd that at the funeral wait,
A widowed mother’s heart made desolate
O’er a war-honor’d Sire’s low place of rest;
These are the tales that Memory may relate:
They have a moral for the aspiring breast,
A lesson of Decay on earthliness impress’d.
Yet Hope still chaunts unto the listening ear
The witching music of her treacherous song;
Still paints the Future eloquent and clear,
And sees the tide of Life roll calm along,
Where glittering phantoms rise, a luring throng;
And voiceful Fame holds out the laurel bough:
Where rapturous applause is loud and long,
Frail guerdon for the heart!—which lights the brow
With the ephemeral smile of Mind’s triumphant glow.
C.
