The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, June 1844. Various

      One morning in the latter part of the month of October, invited by the clearness of the air and a fresh breeze which had scarcely strength sufficient to ruffle the water of the harbor, I left my humble apartment and ascended the steep hill of Pera. The view—from the small tuft of graves near the Galata tower, some of which were fresh; of the surrounding villages and the great city itself, where, although devastation had been and still was being carried on with horror, there seemed to reign the most perfect tranquility, resembling the calm bosom of the treacherous sea, quiet over the lifeless bodies of its victims and the wreck of the noble vessels which had furrowed its surface—relieved the monotony of my existence. I gazed longingly upon the many ships lying before me at anchor in the stream, which could in a few days bear me far away from the scenes of death and desolation that surrounded me; or I exchanged a word with any passing acquaintance who ventured from Pera to his counting-house in Galata. A longer walk gave rise to too many sad reflections. Farther on was the Petit Champ des Morts, a small Turkish cemetery, here and there spotted with new-made graves, over which more than one aged female mourned the loss of her life’s companion, or perhaps it would be one of fewer years, who wept the fatal destiny of her young husband, brother, sister, or child.

      After spending the best part of the day in walking about, I returned to the house of my residence. As usual, I found the door fastened; I knocked, but no one answered me. Again I knocked, and called repeatedly before my voice was heard. At length a low moan, and then a scream, issued from within. Petraki, the widow’s son, opened the door, and with a pale and frightened countenance told me his mother had suddenly been taken very ill. There was no alternative. I entered her sitting-room, where in the company of the family I had spent many quiet hours. Now how changed! The mother lay upon the sofa, pale; and breathing with difficulty. Aleukâ, the daughter, knelt by her side on the floor, though greatly agitated herself, and endeavoring to calm her mother’s apprehensions. Without once reflecting on the possible consequences, I sat down on a chair beside the sufferer, felt her pulse, and as well as I could, made inquiries after her health. Her pulse was quick, her tongue white and thickly furred, and extreme lassitude was shown by her dejected countenance. Uncertain as to the nature of her disease, and unable to offer any alleviation of her sufferings, I retired to my apartment. There I did reflect on the danger which I had incurred, and the possibility of the widow having caught the plague.

      Every hour she became worse; her sufferings were intensely painful; and to shorten the recital of the sad scene of that night, I will only add, that the horrid disease showed itself on her person before midnight, and at break of day her spirit fled. Of course my mind now prepared for death. I felt confident that I also should soon be a victim to the plague. Early in the morning I called a passing priest and had the widow’s remains conveyed to their last abode—I knew not where. I had no place to fly to; every door would be closed against me; and I retired to my apartment, feeling that I was stepping into my tomb while yet alive. There I was not long kept in suspense, for soon the plague attacked first Petraki then myself. When giddiness, the first symptom of the plague, seized me, and I could no longer stand, but fell despairingly on my bed, what were my feelings! But let me not recall them now; the mental agony which I suffered it is impossible to describe, and I shudder at the recollection. Aleukâ attended upon me and her brother with all the tenderness and care and forgetfulness of self which is so characteristic of the female character. I begged her to leave me to die alone, to place water by my side and depart, but she would not hear of it.

      The first night after his attack Petraki expired, and on the following morning was borne away; and I have an indistinct recollection of being visited on the evening of the same day by the priest and porters. They endeavored to prevail upon Aleukâ to desert me, saying that in a few hours I would cease to exist. But she constantly refused, determined she replied, to remain by my side until my sufferings were ended.

      For several days I was delirious. I remember I knew of nothing; nothing but water passed my lips. Sores broke out over my body, and those on my groins and arm-pits were not closed for some months. My neck however was free, and this no doubt saved my life. On the seventh day I regained my senses, and found myself in my apartment, the wasted figure of my guardian angel still watching over me. I remember, on perceiving in me a favorable change, how her countenance was lit up with joy! Oh, Friendship! how seldom are you found with the sincerity which I then beheld in an humble and uneducated girl! Just when I thought all my prospects in life were blighted; when I had keenly felt the unkindness of mankind, and despaired of ever again finding any thing in this world worth living for; when I had already bidden it farewell, and the other world was full in view; I found what alone can make life delightful even in poverty and misfortune—friendship and love. Soon the violence of the disease abated, and I was saved.

      I must hastily pass over my long and painful convalescence. A month elapsed before I could venture to go beyond doors. Aleukâ attended upon me, and through her economy my purse yet held out. The plague had greatly subsided; the month of December set in with uncommon severity of cold, and checked its progress. Oh! the exquisite delight with which I left my hard and burning bed and close apartment, the scenes of all my sufferings, for the first time! With a prayer of thankfulness on my lips, I crossed the threshold of the humble dwelling, and once more slowly mounted the steep hill of Pera.

      It was a bright, sunny, clear morning; the fresh, cool breeze from the Black Sea blew over me, infusing new strength and life into my shattered frame. The streets were again re-peopled, and business renewed. No one recognized me in my pale, haggard and swollen countenance; and when I presented myself at the door of a countryman in Pera, he drew back with an exclamation of surprise, as if he had beheld a spirit.

      My short story is told. I have comprised in a few words the tale of many long days of agony and suffering, both mental and corporeal. I fast regained my strength and vigor; the hollow furrows of my forehead and cheeks soon gave way to the effects of a generous diet; and I once more stood forth in health and full powers.

      But you will ask, ‘And where is she who watched over you during your moments of suffering?—whom you called your guardian angel, and of whose friendship and love you spoke in such feeling terms?’ I reply, that she sits even now at my side; her handsome and intelligent countenance reading in my face the varied emotions to which the tracing of these lines give rise. Devoted Aleukâ is my loving and much-loved wife.

      A SONG