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?
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!