University of Virginia Library

Smith's Heroes of the Lake.

“Another Naval Victory, my dear George,
has rewarded the courage and enterprise of American
sailors, and the name of Lawrence is now
inscribed with those of Hull, Decatur, Jones, and
Bainbridge, on an imperishable pillar of glory.

“On the twenty-fourth day of February last,
while cruising off Demarara, the American sloop
of war Hornet, commanded by captain Lawrence,
fell in with the British brig Peacock, captain
Peake, and captured her, after a sanguinary action
of fourteen minutes. The contest commenced
within half pistol shot, and so tremendous was
the fire of the Americans, that when she surrendered
she was an absolute wreck, in a sinking
condition, displaying a signal of distress. Notwithstanding
every exertion was made to keep

her afloat until the prisoners could be removed,
she sunk with thirteen of her crew, and three
brave American tars, who thus nobly perished in
relieving a conquered foe.

“The slaughter on board of the Peacock was
very severe; among the slain was found the body
of her commander, captain Peake. He was twice
wounded in the course of the action; the last
wound proved fatal. His body was wrapped in
the flag of his ship, and laid in the cabin to sink
with her; a shroud and sepulchre worthy so brave
a sailor.

“It is a fact worthy of note, and in the highest
degree honorable to our brave tars, that on the
day succeeding the destruction of the Peacock,
the crew of the Hornet made a subscription and
supplied the prisoners (who had lost almost every
thing) with two shirts and a jacket and trowsers
each.

“It is singular, that in this action, when the first
broadsides were exchanged at half pistol shot,
the pendant on the mainmast of the Hornet was
shot away, one man was killed in the top, and the
upper rigging much injured, but no mark of a
ball was seen below the main-top. The Hornet's
fire had quite a different effect on the Peacock;
it was so well directed, that several of the shot
pierced the hull of the Peacock through and
through, killed a number of men, and, in a measure,
decided the contest.

“This victory (says a morning paper) will excite
afresh the wonder of the world! The sinking
the British sloop of war Peacock, by the United
States sloop of war Hornet, in fifteen minutes, will
fill England with amazement and dismay. The
Peacock was as large a vessel as the Hornet, and

carried more guns. To cut this ship to pieces,
to kill and wound between thirty and forty of
her men, while the American ship lost but one
killed and two wounded, is a circumstance so extraordinary,
that it impresses the minds of our
countrymen with an exultation mixed with solemnity!
Is it merely our prowess—or is it the
finger of Heaven pointing to the path of our future
glory? These successes fill not the mind with
a noisy and giddy joy, but with a solemn and
grateful sentiment towards that Power which controls
the world, and giveth us the victory, by
“teaching our hands to war, and our fingers to
fight!”

“But enough, for the present, of `blood stained
glory.' Accompany me, for a few minutes, in
the humbler walks of civil and domestic life, and
let the subject of our contemplation be Woman,
`Heaven's last, best gift to man.' Harriet Palmer,
whose gentle manners, amiable disposition,
and unassuming excellence, had secured her the
love of all her acquaintance—has gone to taste the
fruits of virtue in `another and a better world.'
Amelia and myself have just returned from paying
the last sad duties to her mortal part, which
has just been committed to its kindred earth.
Her affectionate parents are in the deepest affliction,
having previously received some distressing
intelligence respecting Sophia, who married
the old German, in New-York, where she has
since resided. I am ignorant of the particulars,
but believe that the connexion is not productive
of the promised felicity. It was a money match,
and they are seldom happy. This circumstance,
it is believed, hastened the death of Harriet—

Be this as it may, her little earthly drama is
concluded, and the curtain dropped. Her character
was amiable, chaste, and correct—and for
filial affection and domestic virtues, she has not
left her equal—nor will the slightest blemish ever
be discovered on the spotless purity of her fame.
Whatever may have been her secret sorrows, she
is now (I have no doubt) a happy angel in that
permanent world of which this is but an imperfect
shadow, like the broken image of a beautiful
landscape reflected from the trembling surface of
a troubled lake.

“Who can be ashamed to pay homage to a
virtuous woman? It should be our ambition—our
pride. She is the purest abstract of Deity that
can be found in all his works. She is the image
of love, of purity, and truth—and she lives and
moves in the person of Amelia.

“Woman ever has been, still is, and always
will be, the main spring, the primum mobile of
every masculine achievement, from the hero to
the clown—from the man to the stripling; and
whether she fire a Troy, or excite emulation in a
game at marbles; whether she influence a court
or rule in a dairy, the end, cause, and effect, are
still the same. We may talk of Patriotism—we
may prate of Fame; but who could feel the one,
or seek the other, but for the sake of woman?

“In every character WOMAN is interesting,
though not always amiable—we may not love, but
we must admire. Whether as the venerable matron,
or the blooming maid; the chaste wife, or the
affectionate mistress; the tender sister, or the
blushing bride; old or young, married or unmarried,
virtuous or vicious—still she will command
our admiration, and influence our actions.

“You will not condemn me for enthusiasm, for
you are no stoic. I know that there are some
hearts, cut by capricious Fate from the icy coagulations
of the poles, or moulded from the frozen
snow-drifts of Siberia, that are not susceptible of
softening in the brightest rays that emanate from
celestial beauty. There are such hearts—but
let their possessors forbear to boast of them; they
are the mere abortions of Nature—the eternal
foes of genius; mere thistles and night-shade in
the garden of creation.

You know the rest of this beautiful passage in
Campbell's `Pleasures of Hope,' ending thus:
Blest with their smiles, this world becomes a
heaven—without them, heaven itself would lose
half its charms. O that you could have witnessed
Amelia at the death-bed of Harriet Palmer!
Never before did she appear so lovelyh in my
eyes. Day after day, and night after night, has
she watched by the pillow of her friend, administering
her medicine, sustaining her head on her
bosom, and wiping the clammy dews of death
from her sunken cheeks. O George, it is in such
a scene that lovely woman shines, and until I saw
your sister thus employed, I did not half appreciate
the treasure I possess in that angel of humanity.
Heaven grant me grace to be duly
thankful for the gift.

Our hero had scarcely finished reading this letter,
when a lad entered his apartment, and advancing
timidly forward, with a very modest
deportment, inquired—

“Is lieutenant Willoughby in want of an attendant,
during the approaching campaign?”

George (who was now folding a letter which
he had written previous to receiving Morse's)
was on the point of answering in the negative;
but on contemplating the applicant a moment, he
was struck with something peculiarly interesting
in his melancholy countenance and diffident manners,
which induced him to prolong the interview.
He therefore asked him—

“Who wants a situation in that capacity?”

“Myself, sir;” replied the lad; “and if I am
permitted to serve you, the gratitude I shall feel
will always be a spur to my duty.”

“Have you ever served as an officer's waiter?”

“No, sir; but I feel fully competent to discharge
the duties of one, and shall study diligently
to become acquainted with them.”

“I am much deceived,” replied George, “or
you possess education and talents superior to the
situation you are seeking. What then can be
your object?”

“I feel an enthusiastic predilection for a military
life, sir, but am too young for a soldier. To
be the personal attendant of a brave officer, during
one campaign, will at once gratify my taste,
and gradually initiate me into a profession I am
determined to adopt. Will you employ me?”

“How old are you?”

“A little more than fourteen.”

“What is your name?—Who are your parents?”

“My name is Reuben, and I am an orphan.
My education has been good, and my prospects
in life were brilliant; I looked forward to nothing
but happiness. A mercenary relation, however,
under whose protection I was placed, actuated by
motives of avarice only, bound me an apprentice
to a trade I hated and a master I despised. With
him, servitude was slavery, and I yet bear the
marks of his cruelty on my person. I at length
became wearied of existence, and determined to
leave him; and he, suspecting my intention,
watched me so very narrowly, that it was some
time before I could elude his vigilance, and make
my escape, which I at length effected in the night,
and immediately set out for the army, determined
to seek you, and solicit your protection.”

“Why me?” asked George; “Do you know
me?”

“Only by reputation, sir,” answered Reuben;
“though I have frequently seen you in Boston.”

Our hero thought the countenance and voice
were both familiar to him; but he could not recollect
the person of the lad. It was very probable,
however, that he had seen him in Boston.
He surveyed him a moment in silence, and then
asked—

“What are your terms?”

“Just such as you please to propose.”

“I will employ you. When do you wish to
commence?”

“Immediately,” replied Reuben with alacrity,
while his countenance brightened with a smile of
pleasure.

“To-day?” asked our hero.

“This moment, if you please.”

“Content. Take this note to the quarters of
lieutenant Cooke, and leave it without waiting for
an answer.”

Reuben was overjoyed at his success, and expressed
his gratitude and affection by kissing the
hand from which he received the letter; then,
making a graceful bow, he flew to execute his
commission.