It may be tedious to our readers, especially if they be British, but we cannot yet leave the subject of the inhuman treatment of the American prisoners of war, while on their passage from Halifax to Chatham. The condition of the soldiers was the most deplorable. Some of these men were born in the interior, and had never seen the salt ocean; they enlisted in Boestler's regiment, and were taken by the British and Indians, somewhere between fort George and York, the capital of Upper Canada. They were pretty much stripped of their clothing, soon after they were taken, and their march to Montreal was conducted with very little regard to their feelings; but when sick, they were well attended to by the medical men of the enemy; their passage from Quebec to Halifax, down the river St. Lawrence, was barbarous. They suffered for victuals, clothes, and every other conveniency. The men say that they had more instances of real kindness from the Indians, than from the British. But on their passage across the Atlantic, their situation was horrible, as may be well supposed, when it is considered that these soldiers had never been at sea, and of course could not shift, and shirk about, as the sailors call it, as could the seamen; they were of course, sea sick; and were continually groping and tumbling about in the dark prison of a ship's hold. They suffered a double portion of misery compared with the sailors, to whom the rolling of the ship in a gale of wind, and the stench of bilge-water, were matters of no grievance; but were serious evils to these landsmen, who were constantly treading upon, or running against, and tumbling over each other. Many of them were weary of their lives; and some layed down dejected in despair, hoping never to rise again. Disheartened, and of course sick, these young men became negligent of their persons, not caring whether they ever added another day to their wretched existence; so that when they came on board the prison ship, they were loathsome objects of disgust. A mother could not have known her own son; nor a sister her brother, disguised and half consumed as they were, with a variety of wretchedness. They were half naked, and it was now the middle of winter, and within thirty miles of London, in the nineteenth century; an era famous for bible societies, for missionary and humane societies, and for all proud boastings of Christian and evangelical virtue; under the reign of a king and prince, renowned for their liberality and magnanimity towards French catholics; (but not Irish ones,) and towards Ferdinand the bigot, his holiness the Pope, and the venerable institution of the holy Inquisition. Alas! poor old John Bull! though art in thy dotage, with thy thousand ships in the great salt ocean; and thy half a dozen victorious ones in the Serpentine River, alias the splendid gutter, dug out in Hyde Park, for the amusement of British children six feet high! Can the world wonder that America, in her present age of chivalry, should knock over these doating old fellows, and make them the derision of the universe?
I can no otherwise account for this base treatment of the Americans, than by supposing that the British government had concluded in the summer and autumn of 1813, that America could not stand the tug of war with England; that Madison was unpopular; and that the federalists, or British faction in America, were prevailing, especially in New-England; and that, being sure of conquest, they should commence the subjugation of the United States by degrading its soldiery and seamen; as they have the brave Irish.—They may have been led into this error by our federal newspapers, which are generally vehicles of misinformation. The faction may impede, and embarrass for a time; but they never can long confine the nervous arm of the American Hercules.
Candor influences me to confess, that there were more attempts than one, to rise and take these men of war transports. I find that several experiments were made, but that they were always betrayed, by some Englishman, or Irishman, that had crept into American citizenship. I hope the time is not far off, when we shall reject from our service every man not known absolutely to have been born in the United States. Whenever these foreigners get drunk, they betray their partiality to their own country, and their dislike of ours. I hope our navy never will be disgraced or endangered by these renegadoes. Every man is more or less a villain, who fights against his own country. The Irish are so ill treated at home, that it is no wonder that they quit their native soil, for a land of more liberty and, plenty; and they are often faithful to the country that adopts them; but never trust an Englishman, and above all a Scotchman. It is a happy circumstance that America wants neither. She had rather have one English manufacturer than an hundred English sailors. We labor under the inconvenience of speaking the same language with the enemies of our rising greatness. I know by my own personal experience, that English books, published since our revolutionary war, have a pernicious tendency in anglifying the American character. I have been amused in listening to the wrangling conversation of an English, Irish and American sailor, when all three were half drunk; and this was very often the case during this month of January, as many of our men who had been in the British naval service, received payment from government; and this filled our abode with noise, riot, confusion, and sometimes fighting. The day was spent in gambling, and the night in drunkenness; for now all would attempt to forget their misery, and steep their senses in forgetfulness. The French officers among us, seldom indulged in drinking to excess. Our men said they kept sober in order to strip the boozy sailor of his money, by gambling.
While the Frenchmen keep sober, the American and English sailor would indulge in their favorite grog. In this respect, I see no difference between English and American. Over the can of grog, the English tar forgets all his hardships and his slavery—yes, slavery; for where is there a greater slavery among white men, than that of impressed Englishmen on board of one of their own men of war? The American, over his grog, seems equally happy, and equally forgetful of his harsh treatment. The Englishman, when his skin, is full of grog, glows with idolatry for his country, and his favorite lass; and so does the American: The former sings the victories of Bembow, How, Jervase and Nelson; while the latter sing the same songs, only substituting the names of Preble, Hull, Decatur and Bainbridge, Perry and Macdonough. Our men parodied all the English national songs.—"Rule Britannia, rule the waves," was "Rule Columbia," &c. "God save great George, our King," was sung by our boys, "God save great Madison;" for every thing like federalism was banished from our hearts and ears; whatever we were before, we were all staunch Madisonians in a foreign land. The two great and ruling passions among the British sailors and the American sailors, seemed, precisely the same, viz. love of their country, and love of the fair sex. These two subjects alone entered into all their songs, and seemed to be the only dear objects of their souls, when half drunk. On these two strings hang all our nation's glory; while, to my surprize, I found, or thought I found, that the love of money was that string which vibrated oftenest in a Frenchman's heart; but I may be mistaken; all the nation may not be gamblers.—Remember, politicians, philosophers, admirals, and generals, that Love and Patriotism are the two, and I almost said, the only two passions of that class of men, who are destined to carry your flag in triumph abound the terraqueous globe, by skillfully controlling the powers of the winds, and of vapor.
One word more, before I quit this national trait. The English naval muse, which I presume must be a Mermaid, half woman and half fish, has, by her simple and half the time, nonsensical songs, done more for the British flag than all her gunnery, or naval discipline and tactics. This inspiration of the tenth muse, with libations of grog, have actually made the English believe they were invincible on the ocean, and, what is still more extraordinary, the French and Spaniards were made to believe it also. This belief constituted a magical circle, that secured their ships from destruction, until two American youths, Isaac Hull, from Connecticut, and Oliver H. Perry, from Rhode Island, broke this spell by the thunder of their cannon, and annihilated the delusion. Is not this business of national songs a subject of some importance? Love and Patriotism, daring amplification, with here and there a dash of the supernatural, are all that is requisite in forming this national band of naval music. We all know that "Yankee Doodle," is the favorite national tune of America, although it commenced with the British officers and Tories, in derision, in the year 1775. When that animating tune is struck up in our Theatres, it electrifies the pit and the upper galleries. When our soldiers are marching to that tune, they "tread the air." "With that tune," said general M——, the same gallant officer, who took nine pieces of cannon from the British, planted on an eminence, at the battle of Bridgewater—"with that tune these fellows would follow me into hell, and pull the devil by the nose." For want of native compositions, we had sung British songs until we had imbibed their spirit, and the feelings and sentiments imbibed in our youth, are apt to stick to us through life. It is high time we had new songs put in our mouths.
Unless we attend to the effects of these early impressions, it is almost incredible, the number of false notions that we imbibe, and carry to our graves. A considerable party in the United States have sung Nelson's victories, until those victories seemed to be their own. Even on the day of the celebration of the Peace, the following Ode was sung in the hall of the University of Cambridge—a captain and a lieutenant of the navy being among the invited guests. It was written by the son of the keeper of the States Prison, in Massachusetts.
ODE, &c.
Columbia and Britannia
Have ceased from Warfare wild;
No more in battle's rage they meet,
The parent and the child.
Each gallant nation now lament
The heroes who have died.
But the brave, on the wave,
Shall yet in friendship ride,
To bear Britannia's ancient name,
And swell Columbia's pride.
The flag-staff of Columbia
Shall be her mountain Pine;
Her Commerce on the foaming sea
Shall be her golden mine.
Her wealth from every nation borne,
Shall swell the ocean wide,
And the brave, on the wave, &c. &c.
To Britain's Faith and Prowess,
Shall distant nations bow,
The Cross upon her topmast head,
The Lion at her prow.
No haughty foe shall dare insult,
No Infidel deride;
For the brave, on the wave, &c. &c.