Disagreeable as may be the task to probe a wound not yet
completely
cicatrized (healed)* and awaken sympathies
over which the curtain of forgetfulness may perhaps have been before this
lowered, yet to cherish the remembrance of those who have driven the Hyena from
our
domicile (habitation) is but a niggard
tribute—in comparison with their merit. To you who labor so assiduously
for the promotion of happiness, and so zealously proclaim the equality of
freemen, there are no sounds so cheering as the strains of gratitude. It is not
the summer passion of prosperity, nor an evanescent feeling, that while clouds
of war are thickening over our heads & invasion threatens her gorgon front
upon our frontier, sacrifices all at the shrine of friendship, but blows off
with the coming storm; it is an unalterable, deep-rooted sense of obligation to
those who have bled out their lives in a stream of misery for the salvation of
their country. The conduct of the
British in
the last war is so perfectly understood, even by those whose minds have
skimmed the surface (received a small degree of) of
information, that to give you a regular detail, is supposing you have been deaf
to the cries of innocence and have slept amidst the desolation of our cities
and the
prostitution of virtue (ravages of vice.) But,
if the Syren songs of flatterers have lulled you to repose; if your hearts are
still animated by the enthusiasm of Freemen and are responsive to the tones of
woe, the mention of the scenes of
HAMPTON,
2
where the veil was torn from the shrine of purity—and the vestal garb was
wantonly debased by the lust of man, must curdle the blood of generous ardor in
your hearts, and expel the flimsy delusion.
Without retailing scenes which would cause the most abandoned
proselyte of infamy "to blush
himself into
virtue,"† I will tell that, which though it does not so much
affect the ear of modesty, calls as loudly for execration. Proud and haughty
England,
possessing all the frail morality of ancient
Carthage, seeing with envy a Republic arising that would
shake Tyranny to its centre, and unfurl the banners of Liberty amidst her more
than Eastern corruption, pushed to their extremity all the vile arts of
malignant policy and diplomatic collusion. If, my audience, this duplicity had
alone been confined to the politicians rule, or been wailed within the pales of
policy, we might have considered it as a species of modern warfare; but, when
to this is added the baseness of unexampled cruel[t]y, the olive of
forgetfulness that was offered for acceptance is thrown into the fire that
lights the soldier to the field; no longer can we open our arms to receive into
our bosoms so ungrateful a foe—the sacred name of friendship cannot be
prostituted by an union so repugnant to feelings of honor, so discordant with
sentiments of humanity.– The soul, recoiling from the grasp of this
minotaur still reeking with the blood of virgins and clotted with the gore of
youth, no longer startles at destruction. Decked with the jewels of virtue,
sitting upon the throne of justice, she looks misery in the face, like
"patience upon a monument smiling at grief."
3
The massacre of
DARTMOOR
4 is
one of the vilest deeds of violated faith recorded in history. The
Persians have been condemned for sacrificing their
prisoners; the
Grecians
have been censured for the butchery of their supplicants and even
Rome in the
brightest era of her glory had the odious stigma of inhumanity fixed upon her,
but they were Pagans,—their minds were not irradiated by the Sun of
Righteousness,—they knew not that charity and mercy were the steps to
heaven. But
England
has shown us a
Christian people born at the foot of the altar,
consecrated to the God of mercy—whose first draught was from the chalice
of the Church—whose first sound breath was a petition to a Saviour,
(professedly and pretend[ed]ly with superior advantages, has shewn us people)
despising the laws of nations[,] breaking the golden chain of justice, and
building the throne of tyranny with the bones of massacred prisoners.– If
reflections like these cannot rouse our indignation; if imagination cannot
supply the want of feeling, whence shall we procure a drug that will stir the
latent power of affection? Have
Americans sunk into that torpidity congenial to slaves? Or
had ingratitude barred the door to their hearts? Can we call to mind the
tragical scenes of that more than horrid night; can we picture to ourselves the
maimed and butchered soldier, thrown in to a cell unfit for the dog of an
enemy, bereft of every consolation that amidst the agony of his wounds might
soothe him to repose, and while rent with innumerable tortures breathing out
with his last sigh a prayer for his country? Can we, I say, as brothers, as
countrymen, or as men, read the tale of such complicated misery, without
permitting the gush of feeling to wash clean the blackened page? No! it is
impossible. The throb of generous sympathy now trembles in your breast, and the
tear of pity glistens in your eye. See the dying Soldier gasping in the last
agony of death, lifting the supplicating eye to heaven as if to implore a
benediction upon those that would give him drink; but alas! his cup is of
vinegar, and his relief the ball that sends him to his
God. Roll back
memory the briny surge of recollection, its taste is the bitterest gall, it
thrills a horror through my soul, and makes me tremble in every nerve! Wrap it
in the mantle of night, and if the eye of scrutiny will penetrate the mist,
call up fable to your aid, enroll it amidst legendary lore, that even credulity
may doubt. O, tell not to posterity, that a civilized people landed upon our
shore, ravaged our country, and lighting the torch of war at the shrine of
God
,
(wickedness) consumed the temple of chastity in a more than Ephesian
conflagration. Tell it not, that
England,
the mistress of the world,
the stay of righteousness, the
staff of religion; whose vessels teem with missionary philanthropists, that
make the savage dens of
Hindostan reverberate the anthems of
God, erected a
trophy of her glory upon the plains bleached with the bones of women and
children! Beauty, at whose feet the
Saracaen bowed and the
Mahometan worships in blind adoration; whose looks when
graced with sorrow, are sufficient to rob the arrow of its barb and the ball of
its power; but, when tuned in supplication, like the irresistable strains of
Orpheus,
draw brutality along a captive in her train; even the signet of respect placed
upon you by the Divinity, could not defend you from his more than seven times
Saracaen brutality! And not satisfied with standing in the threshold and
beguiling the unwary those unfortunate Patriots that fell into their hands, as
if more criminal for fighting for their country, were plunged into the horror
of captivity.– Who is there that does not catch with rapture the least
glimmering of relief through the crevices of
misfortune?
(adversity). Who is there that holds life with such stoical indifference that
he would not hazard all for its preservation? How, then, can we blame those
unfortunate prisoners, robbed of light and air, doomed to hold converse dungeon
damps, and tell unto the stones their misfortunes, administered unto by men who
live like mushrooms but from corruption, for catching at the brittle reed to
save them from destruction? If we do, we know not the sufferings of our captive
brethren.– Consider that the idea of wife, of children, and of home, was
smothered beneath the chains and manacles of captivity; that hope, arrayed in
all its visionary colors, as it rises to give a glimpse of future bliss, is
quenched in a moment; that they were thrown into a gloomy, disconsolate cell,
where no sound drew them from the misery of thought, but the groans of
affliction and the passing watchman's cry of "all is well." But there
is a prophetic thought within that intimates his approaching fate, & tells
him.
"That wife, nor children, more shall he behold,
"Nor friends, nor sacred home."
5
Too well he sees the sword of cruel revenge hung o'er
his head, and expectation stands in horro[r] awaiting the approach of the
executioner.
In this scene of inward death, despair, the herald of destruction,
summoned them to exertion,—that disregard of life, when robbed of liberty
so congenial to an
American, excites them to resist an enemy whom neither
principles of honor could reform, or the appeals of humanity soften. Who would
not have thought, that in such a cause, such arms must sure prevail; but,
unfortunately for humanity and the name of
England,
the hour of her victory was the grave of her glory. They are dragged into a
dungeon, to receive no anodyne but contempt, no sympathy but reproach. No
friendly hand pours into his wound a balsam for its pain, or in the accents of
sympathy drops in the milk of kindness, more sweet than
Hybla's
honey. And, even here, while groaning under multiplied grievances, the
recollection that he died in the struggle of freedom, warms his fond heart and
beats in every pore. A ray of joy animates his countenance at death, arrayed
like the ministering angels of mercy, appears to lead him to the confines of
bliss, with no alloy to the heavenly flame, than that he had but one life to
lose for his country.
6
Such are the effects of our admirable Government, that the prisoner, when
racked with
Carthagenian torture, like another
Regulus
, spurns life when earned by ignomy.– Who
then, shall say, that the slave chained to the oar of his lord, can oppose the
free-born sons of
America?
No vassal, driven to the field by the scourge of tyranny, or impelled by the
hope of lucre, shall ever prevail over the soldier who fights for his country
and liberty! The (
Christian)
American, (in the cause of justice) when he rushes into
the battle, as animated by the spirit of
WASHINGTON, which descending from heaven, covers him with
the light of glory; exhort him to victory; for
God is his
leader!
Have I mentioned the name of
WASHINGTON, and shall I not give it the tribute of a
grateful heart? Have I touched the heavenly theme that rivets the attention of
the untutered soul and kindles a sacred flame in the breast of man, that raises
him to something more than mortal?– Magnanimous Warrior! ascending the
American
Pisgah, you saw your country a land of promise to the
world; but, not like
Moses expiring at the view, you came and freed us from an
enemy worse than a pestilence, and more to be feared than the fiery serpents.
Did I possess the divine strains of
Melpomene, the earth would be too narrow for the theatre
of your praise; and the arch of heaven too low to re-echo your glory! I would
tell unto the astonished world, that this Phoenix of greatness expired not like
conquerors surrounded with the incense of flattery, but be bewailed by the
tears of affection, which spake their gratitude more exquisitely than words,
"For a man that was in war the mountain storm,
"In peace the gale of spring."
7