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A journal, of a young man of Massachusetts, late a surgeon on board an American privateer, who was captured at sea by the British in May, eighteen hundred and thirteen and was confined first, at Melville Island, Halifax, then at Chatham, in England, and last at Dartmoor prison : $b Interspersed with observations, anecdotes and remarks, tending to illustrate the moral and political characters of three nations. To which is added, a correct engraving of Dartmoor prison, representing the massacre ofWaterhouse, Benjamin

History

A journal, of a young man of Massachusetts, late a surgeon on board an American privateer, who was captured at sea by the British in May, eighteen hundred and thirteen and was confined first, at Melville Island, Halifax, then at Chatham, in England, and last at Dartmoor prison : $b Interspersed with observations, anecdotes and remarks, tending to illustrate the moral and political characters of three nations. To which is added, a correct engraving of Dartmoor prison, representing the massacre of

Waterhouse, Benjamin

Dartmoor Prison; United States -- History -- War of 1812 -- Prisoners and prisons

It is now the 30th of November, a month celebrated to a proverb in
England, for its gloominess. We have had a troubled sky and foggy for
several weeks past. The pleasant prospect of the surrounding shores
has been obscured a great portion of this month. The countenances of
our companions partake of our dismal atmosphere. It has even sobered
our Frenchmen; they do not sing and caper as usual; nor do they swing
their arms about, and talk with strong emphasis of every trifle. The
thoughts of home obtrude upon us; and we feel as the poor Jews felt on
the banks of the Euphrates, when their task-masters and prison-keepers
insisted upon their singing a song. We all hung up our fiddles, as the
Jews did their harps, and sat about, here and there, like barn-door
fowls, when molting.

Our captivity on the banks of the river _Medway_, bordered with
willows, brought to my mind the plaintive song of the children of
Israel, in captivity on the banks of the river _Euphrates_, which
psalm, among others, I used to sing with my mother and sisters, on
Sunday evenings, when an innocent boy, and long before the wild notion
of rambling, from a comfortable and plentiful home, came into my head.
It is the 137th Psalm, Tate and Brady's version.

    When we our weary limbs to rest
      Sat down by proud Euphrates' stream,
    We wept, with doleful thoughts opprest,
      And _Salem_ was our mournful theme.

    Our harps, that, when with joy we sung,
      Were wont their tuneful parts to bear,
    With silent strings, neglected hung,
      On willow trees, that wither'd there.

    Meanwhile our foes, who all conspir'd
      To triumph in our slavish wrongs,
    Music and mirth of us requir'd,
      "Come, sing us one of Zion's songs."

    How shall we tune our voice to sing?
      Or touch our harps with skilful hands?
    Shall hymns of joy to GOD, OUR KING,
      Be sung by slaves in foreign lands?

    O, SALEM! Our once happy seat,
      When I of thee forgetful prove,
    Let then my trembling hand forget
      The speaking strings with art to move!

    If I, to mention thee, forbear,
      Eternal silence seize my tongue!
    Or if I sing one cheerful air,
      Till my _deliv'rance_ is my song.




CHAPTER IV.

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