Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

The stockings of the ancients were made of little pieces of cloth sewed together. We cannot say with certainty in what country the stocking-frame was invented. France, England and Spain respectively claim this useful discovery. A short time before the unfortunate tournament, in which Henry II. lost his life, he put on the first pair of silk stockings ever worn. Five years afterward, we see in England, William Ryder presenting a pair, as a very precious article, to William, Earl of Pembroke. Ryder had learnt the method of making them from an Italian merchant.

Many persons probably know not that _wooden shoes_ date from a very remote period; for the Jews wore them long before the age of Augustus. Perhaps they were not made exactly like the wooden shoes so common among the poorer classes in France; but it is not less true that this kind of covering for the feet was generally adopted among nearly all the people of Judæa: sometimes, however, we observe leather shoes among them; and the Jewish soldiers covered their feet with copper, or with iron. The shoes of the Egyptians were of _papyrus_; the Chinese and the Indians manufactured theirs of silk, of rushes, of the bark of trees, of iron, of brass, of gold or of silver, according as their fortune permitted, or their fancy dictated. At Rome, as in Greece, leather was the material which covered the feet of every one. The Roman women wore _white_ shoes: the common people wore _black_: and the magistrates set off their feet with _red_ shoes on solemn occasions. A thousand years ago the most powerful sovereigns of Europe had wooden soles to their shoes. Under William Rufus, son of the great Duke of Normandy, who conquered at Hastings, in 1066, a fashion was introduced into England of giving to the shoes an excessive length; the point which terminated them was stuffed with tow, and curved up on high like a ram’s horn. In the fourteenth century they thought of connecting these points with the knee, by means of a gold chain. Great must have been the surprise of the worthy Anglo-Saxons, on beholding this strange species of vegetation sprouting up suddenly amongst them! Some called to remembrance the history of the serpent’s teeth, which Cadmus sowed, whence a swarm of soldiers issued; others conceived that it was the costume of magicians; and little children sometimes, when going to bed, asked their mothers if there was no danger that their heads might be metamorphosed in the night into those of a horrible deer? Before leaving this paragraph upon shoes, we would call to recollection the antiquity of the art of the leather-dresser: open for that purpose the Iliad, and you will find in the Seventeenth Book, tanners preparing skins to make leather of them. This class of manufacturers composed, three hundred years ago, a very important body, since we possess the account of a furious quarrel which broke out, under Queen Elizabeth, between them and the shoe-makers. We are pleased to record here the perfection with which they manufacture leather at this date in the New World. In South Carolina, as well as in the state of Virginia, the Indian women are so skilful in this branch of industry that a single person can dress as many as ten deer-skins a day.[4] Of all the transformations which are wrought in the arts, that of the animal substance into leather is, without doubt, one of the most curious. The process, by means of which they set about accomplishing it in old times, was the result of a calculation still more ingenious than that of changing two opaque bodies into a transparent body to make glass, for instance; or else two transparent bodies into an opaque body for making soap. Besides, you know that chemistry actually teaches us that leather is a real salt, a _tannate of gelatine_. This assertion was not uttered with confidence until M. Pelouze had extracted from tan in late years the tannic acid in a state of remarkable purity. Besides this, you may now explain a phenomena which is repeated at a great distance upon the ocean, at the time of some lamentable shipwreck. The journal which records for you the history of one of these sad events often tells you that in the last moment of famine, the unhappy survivors took to eating their shoes, and that life is sometimes prolonged by these means! Certainly, for the gelatine possesses nutritious properties, even when its peculiarities are stained with a thousand impurities, as is leather.

The subject upon which we have endeavored to present some observations, is so capable of being extended that a large volume in octavo would scarcely suffice to contain all the historical knowledge relating to it. But such a dissertation, carried out to the extent or with the exactness which it admits of, would only constitute at last a kind of catalogue or bare enumeration of the thousand modifications which human vestures have undergone down to our times. The memory of the reader would be unable to retain so prodigious a number of minute particulars, and the curiosity of his mind, fatigued by so many useless details, would be extinguished before finishing the third part. These changes have often, it is true, nothing for their object but the accessory and secondary parts of dress, as the following passage, which we meet with in the _voyages_ of M. de Chateaubriand, seems to point out.

“One thing has at the same time struck me and charmed me; I have met in the dress of the Auvergne peasant the attire of the Breton peasant. Whence comes this? It is because there was formerly for this kingdom, and for all Europe, a _groundwork_ of a common attire.” (Vol. 2., p. 296.)

In another particular also, men have always been constant, that they have never ceased to seek for the material to compose their clothing from the animals which the Creator has placed in their respective climates. It will probably be the same till the end of the world. It is thus that the nations under the temperate zone have recourse for covering to wool, because, being a bad conductor of caloric, it prevents the escape of it from their bodies. In the frozen zone the Russians, the Esquimaux, and the Greenlanders, clothe themselves in furs, a material which is a still worse conductor of caloric; while the natives of countries under the influence of the torrid zone, make their dresses of hair or horse-hair, whose conducting properties are in an inverse ratio to those of furs. It is worth remarking that the animals which in temperate regions are covered with wool or ordinary hair, are provided, when they inhabit countries really cold, with an under-fleece of very fine wool: it is the case with goats, sheep, dogs, horses, and Thibet cows.

If by a game of metempsychosis, you were enabled to return to existence two hundred years hence, what unheard of changes would you not see in the dress of individuals. Transport in anticipation your shade to a point commanding one of the public promenades of the capital; suppose yourself, for instance, on the top of the Vendôme Column, on a fine summer’s evening; you would, perhaps, perceive the _dandies_ of the time strutting in frocks, whose leg of mutton sleeves are as voluminous as those of our sylphides at this day. Their hats, instead of being of beaver or of fur, have a similar shape to that which our ladies adopted in 1839. For the young folks a notched veil would be the prescribed mode; the men, of a certain age, would embellish their hats with a superb scarlet plume. As to the women, who will now dare to affirm that they will not then cover their heads with perukes _à la_ Louis XIV. topped off with three-cocked hats, and that from their chin there will not descend a band _à la procureur du roi_? Extend your Pythagorean glance farther into the ages, and you will, perhaps, discover another part of mankind adding to their dress an enormous pair of wings! We may doubt that the gnomes, the sciences, will never render the attempt to make use of them more effectual than that of the son of Dædalus in old times; but in return, posterity may fly by another process, in case the æronauts can discover the secret of steering themselves in mid-air. Should this expectation be realised, we may then hear one of your future grand-nieces (who will be the belles of the noble Faubourg) say to her domestic on rising from her breakfast, “Ganymede! my balloon, with its boat; I wish to go dine to-day with my cousin, at Florence.”

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[2] It is generally believed that the word _calico_ is derived from Calicut, a city on the coast of Malabar in Hindostan, whence the first patterns of this stuff came to Europe.

[3] Dyers now know how to produce a very durable red by dipping their stuffs in a solution of acetate of alum, before subjecting them to the action of the madder. It would be desirable that they should begin to derive some advantage, on a large scale, of a new substance, lately discovered by Mr. Robiquet, which possesses the property of producing a red amaranth or pansy, very agreeable. Chemists call this substance _orsine_.

[4] This will be news to the people “in South Carolina, as well as in the state of Virginia.” _Translator._

Philadelphia, May, 1841.

* * * * *

TO LORD BYRON.

FROM THE FRENCH OF LAMARTINE.

BY R. M. WALSH.

Thou, whose true name the world doth yet not know,
Mysterious spirit, mortal, angel, fiend,
Whate’er thou art, oh! Byron, still I love
Thy concerts’ savage harmony, ev’n as
I love the noise of thunder and of winds
Commingling in the storm with torrents’ voice!
Night is thy dwelling, horror thy domain;
The eagle, king of deserts, thus doth scorn
The lowly plain; he seeks, like thee, steep rocks
By winter whitened, by the lightning riven;
Shores strewn with fragments of the fatal wreck,
Or fields all blackened with the gore of carnage:
And whilst the bird that plaintive sings its griefs
’Mid flow’rets, builds its nest on bank of streams,
Of Athos he the summits fearful scales,
Suspends his eyre o’er the abyss, and there,
Surrounded by still palpitating limbs,
By rocks with bloody banquets ever foul,
Soothed by the screaming anguish of his prey,
And rocked by tempests, slumbers in his joy.

Thou, Byron, like this brigand of the air,
In cries of woe dost sweetest music find.
Thy scene is evil, and thy victim man.
Like Satan, thou hast measured the abyss,
And plunging down, far, far from day and God,
Hast bid to hope farewell for evermore!
Like him, now reigning in the realms of gloom,
Thy dauntless genius swells funereal strains;
It triumphs; and thy voice in hellish tone
Sings hymns of glory to the god of evil.
But why against thy destiny contend?
’Gainst fate what may rebellious reason do?
It hath but (like the eye) a bounded scope.
Beyond it nor thy eye nor reason strain;
There all escapes us; all is dark, unknown.
Within this circle God hath marked thy place.
How? why? who knows?—From His Almighty hands
The world and human beings he hath dropped,
As in our fields he spread around the dust,
Or sowed the atmosphere with might or light.
He knows; enough; the universe is his,
And we can only claim the present day.
Our crime is to be man and wish to know:
To serve and know not is our being’s law.
Byron, this truth is hard, and long I strove
Against it; but why turn away from truth?
With God, thy title is to be his work;
To feel, t’adore thy slavery divine;
In th’universal order to unite,
Weak atom as thou art, to his designs
Thy own free will; by his intelligence
To have been conceived, and by thy life alone
To glorify him—such, such is thy lot!
Ah! rather kiss the yoke that thou wouldst break;
Descend from thy usurped rank of god;
All, in its place, is well, is good, is great;
In His regard, who made immensity,
The worm is worth a world; they cost the same!

This law, thou say’st, revolts thy sense of right;
It strikes thee merely as a strange caprice;
A snare where reason trips at every step—
Let us confess and judge it not, great bard!
Like thine, my mind with darkness is replete,
And not for me it is to explain the world:
Let Him who made, explain the universe.
The more I sound the abyss, the more, alas!
I lose myself amid its viewless depths.
Grief, here below, to grief is ever linked,
Day follows day, and pain succeeds to pain.
In nature bounded, infinite in wish,
Man is a fallen god rememb’ring Heaven:
Whether that, disinherited of all
His pristine glory, he doth still preserve
The mem’ry of his former destinies,
Or that the vastness of his wishes gives
A distant presage of his future greatness—
Imperfect at his birth, or fallen since—
The great, the awful mystery is man.
Within the senses’ prison chained on earth,
A slave, he feels a heart for freedom born,
And wretched, to felicity aspires.
He strives to sound the world; his eye is weak;—
He yearns to love; whate’er he loves is frail.
All mortals unto Eden’s exile bear
A sad resemblance—when his outraged God
Had banished him from that celestial realm,
Scanning the fatal limits with a look,
He sat him, weeping, near the barred gates,
He heard within the blest abode afar,
The sigh harmonious of eternal love,
Sweet strains of happiness, the choral song
Of angels sounding God’s triumphant praise;
And tearing then his soul from heav’n, his eye
Fell back affrighted on his dismal lot.
Woe, woe to him who from his exile here
Hath heard the concerts of an envied world!
When Nature once ideal nectar tastes,
She loathes the cup Reality presents.
Into the possible, in dreams she leaps;
(The real is cramped; the possible, immense;)
The soul with all her wishes there doth take
Her sojourn, where forever she may drink
From crystal springs of knowledge and of love,
And where, in streams of beauty and of light,
Man, ever thirsty, slakes his thirst.
And thus, with Syren visions charming sleep
On waking, scarce she knows herself again.

Such was thy fate, and such my destiny!
I too the poisoned cup did drain; like thine
My eyes were opened, seeing not; in vain
I sought the enigma of the universe;
I questioned nature for its cause; I asked
Each creature why created; down the abyss,
The bottomless abyss, I plunged my look;
From the atom to the sun, I all explored;
Anticipated time, its stream did mount;
Now passing over seas to hear the words
That drop from wisdom’s oracles; but found
The world to pride is ever a sealed book!
Now, to divine the world inanimate.
To nature’s bosom flying with my soul,
I thought to find a meaning in her voice.

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._

“Once” did this heart exult at coming spring,
My sunny smiles were bright as April skies!
Or if tears ever overflowed my eyes,
They passed as showers, which April clouds do bring,
And quick again my joyous soul took wing;
As when the bird from out its covert flies,
To welcome sunshine back with carolling,
New plumes its pinions, higher yet to rise.
But now, alas! I’m like the _wounded_ bird!
An arrow in this bosom pierces deep—
My spirit droops—my song no more is heard;
My harp to mourning turned, is only stirred
As with the plaintive tones of those that weep,
And I am sad, while Spring her festival doth keep.

* * * * *

UGOLINO,

A TALE OF FLORENCE.

BY M. TOPHAM EVANS.