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Updated: June 5, 2025
A century ago a missionary, preaching before an audience made up of financiers and grandees, did justice to this odious morality. "What have I done?" he cried, with tears. "I have saddened the poor, the best friends of my God! I have preached the rigors of penance to unfortunates who want for bread!
There are fractious men everywhere who dispute the plainest facts. With these unfortunates I am willing to argue for a time, but if they grow impudent about Alexander the Great, or Julius Cæsar, or any of those men who have made a noise in the world, I bring against them one invincible argument my sword. I am no great lover of the pistol. My sword is enough, and it never misses fire.
Indeed, as Levinsohn remarks, the wonder is that, despite the fiendish persecution they endured, these unfortunates should have preserved a spark of love of knowledge. Yet a little later it was to burst into flame again and bring light and warmth to hearts crushed by "man's inhumanity to man."
The unfortunates were gallant men, devoted comrades in service, but, as the agonies of suffocation began to take hold on them, they forgot all else, and became involved in a hideous struggle, each one for himself, and against all others, to force a way to one of the small apertures of the prison at which alone it was possible to get a breath of air.
Old Tom Welch, whom I well remembered, and his partner, while trying to prospect in the snow, had been frozen to death; and there had been some talk of lynching the individual who had undertaken to supply them with provisions, upon whose failure to do so the two unfortunates had essayed to return to Council in a storm which had cost them their lives. Some others had met a like unnecessary fate.
The negation of love, as exemplified in that unsentimental individual, was thus brought home to many a seafaring man, long debarred from the society of the gentler sex, with startling abruptness and force. Those unfortunates were not victims of the gangsman's notorious hardness of heart, but of their own misdeeds.
The nags were of the huckleberry or flea-bitten variety, a freckled white. Perhaps the quack had fed them with his refuse pills. These knobby-legged unfortunates we of course named Xanthus and Balius, not of podargous or swift-footed, but podagrous or gouty race. Balius was in equally deplorable mood. Both seemed more sensible to "Whoa" than to "Hadaap."
Presently, as I had expected, Nicephorus, the priest-Caesar, and his four brethren came into the garden. Two of them led the blind man by the hand, and the other two clung close to him, for all these unfortunates loved each other dearly. The four with the split tongues gabbled in his ears.
"How old?" "She will soon be six," and he described her as flaxen-haired, lively, but in very frail health, requiring multiple precautions and constant care. "You must have very sad evenings," said Mme. Chantelouve, in a voice of emotion, from behind the curtain. "Oh yes! If I were to die tomorrow, what would become of those two unfortunates?" His imagination took wing.
She and her sons at once set about making the unfortunates as comfortable as the extent of their habitation and the state of their larder would admit. But the widow Merton was not the only one of the Albany settlers who had to offer hospitality during the continuance of that terrible catastrophe of 1823, and Edwin Brook's was not the only family that was forced to accept it.
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