Schill, you know, marched in 1809, when the Tyrolese had risen under Andrew Hofer, against the French, to second an insurrection, which had broken out in Westphalia, under Count Dörnberg. Schill marched, without order of his government, had several fights with the French, but could do nothing, as the insurrection in Westphalia was soon put down, after the brilliant success of Napoleon's army in the campaign of 1809 against the Austrians. Schill took Stralsund, and fortified it in haste; but on May 31 it was taken by Dutch troops, and Schill fell after a valiant resistance. His head was sent in spirits of wine to Holland; the King of Westphalia had offered ten thousand francs for it, when yet on his shoulders.
Twelve officers of the corps of Schill were taken prisoners, and sent to Wesel; a French court-martial sentenced them to be shot; for they were treated as common robbers. A maid of honor, at the court of Jerome, King of Westphalia, obtained, through the latter, a pardon from Napoleon for one of the officers under sentence of death. It arrived before the execution, but he firmly refused it, if it could not be extended to all. He was shot with the rest. Twelve trees designate to this day the spots where this brotherhood in death sank into the grave.
I have heard a calm and prudent kind of a reasoner, maintain that the officer had no right to refuse his pardon; that his action approached very closely to suicide. To me, it approaches rather to that offering of our life for our friends, which the Scripture designates as so holy a deed. Yet however that may be, a boy of stern and noble metal surely he must have been, and he is worthy to be mentioned together with the brave Van Spyke, who blew up himself and his crew rather than see the flag of his country insulted.
When we hear the word Dutch, we generally connect the idea of wide breeches, a long clay pipe and a placidly puffing mouth with it—things not very poetical in their association. And yet, these Dutch people have erected the most poetic monument to their youthful hero. A penny collection has been made throughout the country, for the amount of which they have erected a light-house far out in the sea, off the estuary of the Scheldt; and on the light-house stands written with colossal letters of iron, VAN SPYKE—nothing more. There, to direct the lonely mariner on the dangerous coast by night, burns the guiding light, and reminds him of a great deed; and when he passes in the day, the white pile, reared out of the tossing waves, he reads that name, which he, to whom it once belonged has added—a noble bequest—to the rich inheritance which his brave people—foremost in liberty, foremost in enterprize, foremost in readiness to die for religion—possess in the many pages of their proud annals.
Let us not laugh at the Knickerbockers and Rip Van Winkles, but rather imitate their nation and inscribe, with the single names of the bravest sailors, our naval history on the many light-houses which garnish our shores. Thus they would form instructive annals, intelligible to every hand before the mast—each light-house a chapter, telling a great story, inciting the commander as well as the aspiring youth, when they pass it to carry into distant seas our stripes and stars, and with them respect to our name, or greeting them with the best welcome a sailor desires, when they return from long and ardent cruizes. Long ere the wife or brother could welcome them, would thus their country have cheered their hearts by these simple but speaking monuments of acknowledged faithfulness to home and country. Let Congress decree, as the best reward for the noblest actions at sea, that the commander's name shall stand in huge letters of bronze on these warning or guiding beacons—the pyramids of modern industry and modern civilization—to indicate that as the sea shall never wash away these names, so shall no tide of time wash them out of the grateful hearts of their countrymen. And now Sir, I must take leave; the captain wants me on board. I am, &c. &c.
FRANCIS LIEBER.
To Edgar A. Poe, Esq.