Part 6

I read the laws by which the heav’ns revolve. My guide great Newton, through their shining paths. Of crumbled empires o’er the dust I mused; Rome saw me ’mid her sacred tombs descend; Of holiest manes disturbing the repose; The dust of heroes in my hands I weighed, Asking their senseless ashes to restore That immortality each mortal seeks. What say I? hanging o’er the bed of death, I sought it even in expiring eyes; On summits darkened by eternal clouds, On billows tortured by eternal storms, I called; I braved the shock of elements. Like to the sybil in her rage divine, I fancied nature in those fearful scenes Some portion of her secrets might reveal: I loved to plunge amid those horrors dread. But vainly in her calm and in her rage This mighty secret hunting, everywhere I saw a God, and understood him not. I saw both good and ill, without design, As if by chance, escaping from his hands; I saw on all sides evil, where there might Have been the best of good, and too infirm To know and comprehend him, I blasphemed; But breaking ’gainst that heav’n of brass, my voice Had not the honor to e’en anger fate. One day, however, that by mis’ry wrung, I wearied heaven with my fierce complaint, A light descended from on high, that filled My bosom with its radiance, and inspired My lips to bless what madly they had cursed. I yielded, grateful, to the influence, And from my lyre the hymn of reason poured.

“Glory to thee, now and for evermore, Eternal understanding, will supreme! To thee, whose presence space doth recognise! To thee, whose bright existence every morn Announceth! Thy creative breath hath stooped To me, and he who was not hath appeared Before thy majesty! I knew thy voice Ere I had known myself, and at its sound Up to the gates of being I did rush. Behold me! nothingness doth here presume To hail thee at its coming into life. Behold me! but what am I? what my name? A thinking atom—who may dare to hope Between us two the distance e’er to scan! I, who in thee my brief existence breathe, Myself unknown and fashioned at thy will, What ow’st thou, Lord, to me, were I not born? Before or after, naught—hail end supreme! Who drew all from himself, to himself owes all. Enjoy, great artist, of thy hands the work. I live thy sov’reign orders to fulfil. Dispose, ordain, control, in time, in space; My day and sphere, for thy own glory mark; My being, without question or complaint, In silence hasten to assume its place.

* * * * * * *

Glory to thee! annihilate me, strike! One cry, one cry alone shall reach thy ear— Glory to thee, now, and for evermore!”

* * * * *

THE LIFE GUARDSMAN.

BY JESSE E. DOW.

The Life Guard of Washington! Who can think upon this band of gallant spirits without feeling a glow of patriotism warming his heart, and stirring up the sluggish feelings of his soul? Fancy paints again the figures which history has suffered to fade away, as the shadows departed from the magic mirror of Cornelius Agrippa; and the heroes of the past start up before us like the clan of Roderick Dhu at the sound of their chieftain’s whistle. They come from Cambridge, and from the Hudson, from Trenton and from Princeton, from Yorktown and from the Brandywine, from mountain pass and woody vale, gathering in battle array around the lowly bed of their sleeping leader, amid the solitary shades of Vernon.

The life guardsmen are fast fading away. One by one the aged members have departed, and now Lee’s corporal slumbers beside his commander. Their march of life is over.

A more efficient corps never existed on this side of the Atlantic than the Life Guard. Animated by one motive, guided by one object, they surrounded their beloved commander-in-chief, and gloried in being known as his body guard. Was there any difficult duty to perform? it fell to this body, and gallantly did they perform the service entrusted to them. The eye of the general glistened with delight as they filed before him in the shade of evening, or returned into camp from some successful incursion beyond the enemy’s lines, ere

“Jocund day stood tiptoe on the mountain top”—

or the _reveillé_ aroused the army from their slumbers.

* * * * *

It was the anniversary of the battle of Princeton, when an aged man, with a stout staff in his hand, was seen trudging manfully down Broadway. As he passed along from square to square, he cast his eyes upon the signs and door-plates, and muttering, continued on his course.

“Here,” said he, “was Clinton’s Quarters”—“Edward Mallory silks and laces”—“and here was the house that Washington stopped at”—“John Knipherhausen, tobacconist,” “and here was where the pretty Quakeress lived, who used to furnish the commander-in-chief with information as to the enemies movements”—“Câfé de mille colonnes”—“all, all are changed; time has been busy with every thing but the seasons—they are the same—the sun and the rain—the evening and the morning—the icicle and the dew-drop—the frost and the snow-drift change not: but man and his habitations—aye, the very names of places and people have been altered, and the New York of the Revolution is not the New York of ’37.”

As the old man said this he seated himself upon a marble door-step, and wiped the perspiration from his brow; for he had walked a long way that morning, and the thousand associations that pressed upon his memory wearied him.

A company of volunteers, in all the pomp and circumstance of city war, now approached by a cross street. The bugle’s shrill note, mingled in with the clarionet and cymbals; and the glance of the sun upon their bayonets and polished helmets, lit up the martial fire that slumbered in the old man’s soul. He rose upon his feet.

“It is pleasant enough now to look upon such gatherings,” said he, “but those who have heard the drums beat to drown the cries of the wounded and the dying, cannot forget their meaning, though youth and joy accompany them, and though the smiles of beauty urge them on.” And the old man wept, for the men of other days stood about him; and the battle-fields, then silent and deserted, teemed with the dead and the dying; and the blood formed in pools amid the trampled grass, or trickled in little rills down the smoky hill-side.

A servant now came out of a neighboring house and invited the old man in. He thankfully accepted the hospitality of the polite citizen, and soon stood in a comfortable breakfast room. A young man of twenty-one received him with kindness; and a tall, prim woman of eighty-six cordially insisted upon his joining her family at the breakfast-table. A beautiful girl of eighteen took the old man’s hat and cane, and wheeled up an old arm-chair that had done the family some service in ancient days. The old man as she seated herself beside him, patted her upon the head, and a firm—“God bless you”—escaped from his wrinkled and pallid lips. The old lady suddenly paused in her tea-table duty, and looked earnestly at her guest. The old man’s eyes met hers—they had seen each other before—but the mists of time shrouded their memories, and blended names and places and periods strangely together.

“Will thee have another cup of tea?” said the matron to the old man.

“I have heard that voice,” thought the stranger, as he took the proffered cup with gratitude, and finished his breakfast in silence.

“Oh! grandmother,” said the maiden, springing to the window, “here come the Iron Greys; how splendidly they look.”

“I cannot look at them,” said the matron, in a trembling voice—“thy grandfather was killed by the Brunswick Greys at Princeton.”

“What was his name?” said the old man, fixing his dim eye steadily upon the speaker’s face.

“Charles Greely,” said the matron, shedding an unexpected tear.

“Charles Greely,” said the old man springing up—“why he was a Life Guardsman, and died by my side—I buried him at the hour of twilight by the milestone.”

“And thou art?” said the matron, earnestly.

“Old Hugh Maxwell, a corporal of Washington’s Life Guard at your service,” said the stranger guest.

“Oh! well do I know thee,” said the matron, weeping—“it was thee who gave me directions where to find him, and delivered to me his dying sigh. This is an unhappy day to me, Hugh Maxwell, but thy presence lends an interest to it that I had no idea of enjoying. William and Anne, thy grandfather died upon Hugh Maxwell’s breast in battle—let us bless God that we are permitted to entertain the gallant soldier upon the anniversary of that day of glory.”

And the son brought forth the old family bible, and the widow Greely prayed after the manner of the Quakers, amid her little congregation.

When the service was over, and the breakfast equipage had been removed, the son and the daughter each drew a seat beside the old veteran, while their grandmother carefully wiped her spectacles and took a moderate pinch of Maccouba. Then seating herself as straight as a drill sergeant in her cushioned seat in the corner, she turned her _well ear_ toward the old corporal and looked out of the window.

“Tell us about the battle of Trenton and of Princeton, Mr. Maxwell,” said the grand-children, in one voice. The old man looked inquiringly at the widow Greely.

“Thee may tell it, though it may be a sad tale to me,” said the matron, and Hugh Maxwell, after resting his head upon his hand for a moment, began his account of

THE BATTLES OF TRENTON AND PRINCETON.

The twenty-fifth of December, 1776, was a gloomy day in the American camp. An army of thirty thousand British soldiers lay scattered along the opposite side of the freezing Delaware, from Brunswick to the environs of Philadelphia. Gen. Howe commanded the British cantonment, and Lord Cornwallis was on the march from New York to reinforce him.

The British soldiers were flushed with success. They had driven us through the Jerseys. New York Island and the North River were in their power. They had tracked us by our bloody foot-prints along the gloomy, though snow-clad hills: and they looked eagerly forward to the day when the head of our illustrious Washington should be placed upon Temple Bar, and the mob of London should cry out while they pointed at it, “there rests the head of a Traitor.” The banner of England floated heavily in the wintry air, and the fur-clad Hessian paced his rounds on the gloomy hills, with his bayonet gleaming in the stormy light; videttes were seen galloping along the hill sides, and the valleys echoed with the martial airs of England. But in our camp all was sadness. Five thousand men, ill-armed, and worse clad, without tents or even camp utensils, sat crouching over their lonely watch-fires.

But this was not all. The crafty British general had offered a pardon to all who would desert the American cause, and many men of property, aye! even members of Congress, recreant to honor and principle, pocketed their patriotism with the proclamation, and basely betrayed their country in the hour of her peril. Members of Congress did I say? Yes, those that had been members: and let me repeat their names, lest perchance they may have been forgotten in the age of sham power and speculation. Galloway and Allen deserted, and joined the enemies of freedom in the fall of 1776.

Such was the state of things at this period. All was silence in the American camp. The spangled banner hung drooping over our head quarters, and the sentinel by the low door-way stood leaning in melancholy mood upon his rusty and flintless gun. The commander-in-chief held a council of war. At the close of it he gave his opinion—he had heard of the scattered cantonment of the British army.

“Now,” said he striking his hand upon an order of battle, and pointing from the window of the little farm house toward the wild river, “now is the time to clip their wings.” It was a master-thought; the council of war concurred with their leader, and each member retired silently to prepare for immediate action.

The regiments were mustered—the sentinels were called in—a hasty meal was devoured—the evening shut in with darkness and storm—the word was given—and we began our march. One party moved down, one remained stationary, and one passed up to a point above Trenton. I was with Washington. No one in the ranks knew where he was to go—all was mystery; until we wheeled down the steep bank of the Delaware.

“Onward,” was the word. “Cross the river,” thundered along the line, and our freezing legions moved on. Who shall describe the pains and the perils of that terrible march? Who shall reward the noble spirits, who, trusting in their illustrious leader, moved onward, amid famine, nakedness, and the winter’s storm? Surely at this day a generous nation will not let the poor, old veteran die who has his scars—but no certificate—to testify to the glory of that night—better feed an imposter than starve a hero.

But to my tale.—Upon a high bank Washington, and Knox, and a few staff officers, wrapped in scanty military cloaks, sat upon their shivering chargers, and awaited the progress of the broken line.

We moved on—some on cakes of ice—some on rafts with the artillery—and some in little boats. Dark reigned the night around—the wild blast from the hills swept down the roaring stream—the water froze to our tattered clothes, and our feet were blistered and peeled by treading upon the icy way. The snow, like feathers borne upon a gale, whirled around us—the dark waters yawned fearfully before us—at every step we were in danger. Now precipitated into the stream, and now forced to climb the rugged sides of the drift-ice, still we advanced. At length the cannon and tumbrils were landed, and the last soldier stood upon the opposite shore.

Shivering with cold, and pale with hunger and fatigue, our column formed and waited for the word. Washington and his staff were at hand. “Briskly, men, briskly,” said he, as he rode to the head of the line; and then the captains gave the word from company to company, and the army marched on in silence. A secret movement of an army at night keeps the drowsy awake, and the hungry from complaining. Man is an inquisitive animal, and the only way to make him perform apparent impossibilities, is to lead him after he knows not what. Columbus discovered America in a cruize after Solomon’s gold mine, and the vast field of chemistry was laid open to human ken, in a search for the elixir of life, and the philosopher’s stone.

All night our troops moved down the west bank of the river, and as the morning spread her grey mantle over the eastern hills, we reached Trenton.

The Hessians, under Rawle, slept. No one feared Washington,—and the moustached soldier dreamed of the Rhine and the Elbe, and the captain slept careless at his inn. But suddenly the cry was raised,—“He comes! he comes!” Our frosty drums beat the charge; the shrill fifes mingled in with a merry strain; and our hungry army, with bare feet entered the city. Like the Scandinavian horde—in impetuosity and necessity—before the eternal city, we rushed up the streets, and attacked the surprised enemy at every turn. The startled foe endeavored to defend themselves; but, before any body of them could collect, a charge of our infantry cut them to pieces. Their colors were absolutely hacked off of their standard-staff, while they advanced in line, by a sergeant’s sword, and their officers were cut down or taken prisoners. Our victory was complete. One thousand men were killed and made prisoners, and the artillery, consisting of nine pieces, was captured. Such was the effect of the Battle of Trenton upon the enemy; but to us the consequences were the reverse. Our hungry men were fed, our naked were clothed, the rank and file were armed, and the officers promoted.

The same evening we re-crossed the river, but it was not the terrible stream of the previous night. The foot-prints of boots and shoes were left on our trail, and the drums beat a merry call, while the bugles answered sweet and clear.

In a few hours the Hessian tents shrouded the captors on the site of our old encampment; and Rawle’s officers had the pleasure of drinking _their own wine in their own tents_, with General Washington, and his subalterns, as prisoners of war. So well planned was this attack that we lost but nine men, and two of them were frozen to death after being wounded.

On the 29th of December, 1776, we again crossed the Delaware, and at 1 P. M., our eagles floated over Trenton.

* * * * *

The “merry Christmas” of our evening party astonished and aroused the king’s generals. Lord Cornwallis hastened to form a junction with General Grant at Princeton; and on the 2d of January, 1777, the British army marched against Trenton.

It was late in the afternoon when the advance guard of the enemy appeared in sight, their red coats forming a striking contrast with the winter’s snow. Our drums now beat to arms, and General Washington, with 5,000 of us, crossed the rivulet Assumpinck, and took post upon the high ground facing the rivulet. A heavy cannonade speedily commenced, and when night came on, both armies had a breathing spell.

Fresh fuel was now piled upon the camp-fires—the sentinels were posted in advance—small parties were stationed to guard each ford—the cry, “all’s well,” the quick challenge, and the prompt answer; the tramping of a returning vidette—and the occasional tapping of a drum in the guard-room, were heard in our camp. The British general rejoiced in the belief that the morning sun would behold him a conqueror of our leader and ourselves. Secure of his prey, the enemy made preparations to attack our camp on the first blush of morning. The noise of hammers—the heavy rumbling of cannon wheels—the clashing of the armorer’s hammer, and the laugh of the artizan and pioneer, came over upon the night-wind, and grated harshly upon our sensitive ears.

An officer, mounted, and wrapped in a military cloak, was now seen silently approaching the commanders of regiments in quick succession. He whispered his orders in a low tone—the colonels started with astonishment,—they looked—it was their general, and they immediately sent for their captains. Each officer heard the new order with astonishment, but to hear was to obey. The captains whispered it to their orderlies, and in twenty minutes after it was communicated to commanders of regiments the whole army stood upon their feet in battle array. Our tents were struck, and our baggage wagons were ready for a march.

The sentinels paced their rounds as though nothing was about to happen. The laugh of the relieved guard was heard above the din of both armies, and “all’s well” rang above the night.

We now stood ready in open column to march. General Hugh Mercer had command of the van-guard, and in a few moments our captains whispered, “forward, and be silent”—our living mass immediately moved onward, and filed off toward Allentown. Presently we heard the rear guard, with the artillery, rumbling in our rear, and then our camp, so quietly deserted, was lost sight of in the shadow of the hills.

For upward of two hours we moved on in comparative silence. Nothing but the whispers of the officers, and the heavy tread of men was heard. It was quite dark, and every breast seemed to be under the spell of mystery. At length a noise was heard ahead, and a staff officer galloped to the rear. As he passed along he said, in a clear voice, “the enemy are in sight.” In a few minutes the voice of the gallant Mercer was heard loud and distinct, giving his orders—“attention, van-guard, close order, quick time, march.” We sprang at the word—each soldier grasped his musket with a firmer gripe—and away we went upon the run.

Three regiments of light-infantry opposed us upon the plain at Maidenhead, and their drums were beating merrily as we drew near them—our front now came upon an open common. We broke into three columns, and headed by the gallant Mercer, dashed on. In a moment a stream of fire passed along the British line, the dead and wounded fell around me, and our columns wavered. At this instant while General Mercer, with his sword raised, was encouraging the van-guard to rush on and secure the victory, a bullet struck him, and he fell from his horse mortally wounded. For a moment only the battle was against us, but soon the firm voice of Washington was heard, as he pressed on to the front. Our musketry now echoed terribly; the enemy began to give way; a well-directed fire from the artillery told fearfully upon the small armed foe, and they were routed. At this moment a British soldier clapped his bayonet to my breast—Charles Greely thrust it away with his right hand—the soldier fired—his musket and the noble-hearted Greely fell upon my breast. I grasped his hand—it faintly returned my pressure—and then he straitened himself upon the ground, his eyes became fixed, his jaw fell, and he was dead. I bore him quickly to a wounded cart, and hastened to my platoon. The enemy were flying toward Brunswick, and we were masters of the field.

“On to Princeton,” shouted our noble leader, as he sent his wounded aid to the rear on a litter.

The line moved on in quick time, and soon we entered the town. Our visit was as unexpected here as at Trenton. A portion of the enemy had taken shelter in the college. Our general, as at Trenton, headed the charge in gallant style, while the troops, animated by his fearlessness, nobly seconded him. The artillery thundered against the garrisoned college, and the musketry rung wildly from every corner. Surrounded by a superior force, and not knowing but what Cornwallis had been routed, for they had heard the midnight cannon at Maidenhead, most of the enemy surrendered. A few, however, escaped by a precipitate flight along an unguarded street at the commencement of the attack. In this affair one hundred of the enemy were killed, and three hundred taken prisoners. Lord Cornwallis, as he lay on his camp bed, was roused by the roar of cannon. He started—the sound came from Princeton—he immediately ordered his troops under arms, and hastened to the scene of action. When he arrived the battle was won, and we were on our return march in triumph. As we crossed the Milestone river, we were halted to destroy the bridge at Kingston. I ordered a file of men to assist me, and hastily buried my companion in arms by the water-side, while the enemy’s cannon answered for minute-guns for the brave. Having shed a tear of sympathy over his lonely grave, we joined the main-body. At sun-set we trod upon the bleak hills of Morristown, and when the camp-fires were lighted the campaign of ’76 was over.

* * * * *

As the old man finished his tale, the widow turned away her head, and the grand-children hid their faces and wept. At length when they raised their eyes to their guest, his face was pallid—a wildness was manifest in his eyes; and his frame appeared to be stiffening in death. They sprang to him.

“Forward—on—to—Princeton!” said he, in a cold whisper; and then the last Life Guardsman joined his companions in Heaven.

The next day a numerous body of strangers followed the old veteran to the tomb; and the widow Greely placed a plain marble slab at the head of it, and inscribed upon it—

HERE LIES THE LAST OF WASHINGTON’S LIFE GUARD.

* * * * *

SONNET WRITTEN IN APRIL.

BY MRS. E. C. STEDMAN.

“My harp also is turned to mourning, and my organ into the voice of those that weep.”—_Job. 30, 31._