University of Virginia Library

THE
SOLDIER OF THE REVOLUTION.

Almost every man, who is advanced in
years, has, in his past life, some particular
period which is remembered with peculiar interest.
The circumstances connected with
that period are treasured in the memory, often
repeated, and but few topics of conversation
can be introduced without furnishing an opportunity
of referring, at least, if not expatiating
on the important affair. It is deserving of notice
that what is, in fact, the engrossing pursuit
of the multitude, namely, the acquisition
of wealth, is not, even by the most devoted
worldling, accounted matter of such glorious
triumph as those deeds which shame the propensity
he is indulging. You rarely hear such
an one boast of the cunning bargain which
laid the foundation of his fortune, or the plodding
thrift by which he accumulated his thousands.

Avarice is a deep rooted passion in the human
breast, and its gratification ministers to

vanity, yet none are vain of being thought
avaricious. There is a feeling of degradation
in the mind, if known to place its sole affections
on the paltry, perishable things of earth, which
should admonish even the most stupid, of that
more noble destiny which man was formed
capable of enjoying. But feats of personal
strength and activity, and `hair breadth 'scapes'
from danger, are recounted with a satisfaction
commensurate to the labors performed, and the
perils encountered; because there is a pride of
personal desert in such achievements and escapes.
But above all, the glory gained in the
tented field, is the theme which those who
have any claim to the title of soldier, are the
most ambitious to display. They all appear
to feel somewhat of that yearning for martial
fame which agitated the princely hero of Agincourt
when he exclaimed—

Yet whoever has heard, or read the narratives
of the veterans of our revolutionary war,
must have remarked that they dwell not so
much on the detail of the battles and skirmishes
in which they were engaged, as on the effect
those actions had in deciding the contest
in favor of liberty and independence. The
causes which roused the Americans to take up
arms, were most favorable to the developement

of the virtuous energies of men, and consequently
that recklessness of moral character
and abandonment of pious principles, which
too often fatally distinguishes the mass of that
profession, when composed of hired mercenaries,
never attached to the soldiers of our
armies. It was doubtless matter of astonishment
to the governments of Europe, that no
disturbance followed the disbanding of the
American troops; those foreigners did not
know that our soldiers, when assuming that
name, never abandoned the one of citizens.
In fact the latter was the most gratifying to
those who fought the battles of freedom,—and
when the necessity for farther resistance ceased,
they gladly relinquished their weapons and
returned to the firesides their valor had preserved
from insult and spoliation. It was their
boast to have fought for their country, and
to their country they cheerfully resigned the
laurels they had won. This generous devotedness
of the American soldiery to the principles
of liberty and equal rights, and their prompt
obedience to civil government, have no parallel
in history. They have never been adequately
rewarded, but let them be gratefully
remembered. They deserve to have their
deeds the theme of story, and of song; and a
sketch of one of those veterans will not surely
be considered inappropriate in a work like this,
especially by those who consider how much
the ladies of America are indebted to the free
institutions established by the war of the Revolution,
for their inestimable privileges of education,
and that elevation of character and
sentiment they now possess.

`This walk has quite tired me,' said old
Captain Blake, seating himself in his capacious
armed chair, and placing one foot on the low
stool his grandaughter Maria arranged for
his accommodation. `A little matter over-comes
me now, I find. Maria, my love, bring
me a tumbler of beer. Well, Mr. Freeman,
you look as if nothing could fatigue you; and
I have seen the time when I thought no more
of walking a dozen miles, than I do now of
creeping as many rods. I remember when I
marched with General Starke to Bennington—
that was the first time I went as a soldier. I
was then just twenty, and I carried my gun
and ammunition, and a huge knapsack, containing
clothing and provisions, for my kind
mother was very much afraid I should suffer
with hunger; and I marched with all that load
about forty miles in one day, and never thought
of complaining.'

`You had then a glorious object in view to
animate your spirit,' said Horace Freeman.

`Yes, and we obtained it,' replied the old
gentleman, briskly, sitting upright in his chair;
`and the country is now enjoying the reward
of our labors and sufferings. Those were
dark days,' he continued, with the air of one
who is endeavouring to recall ideas of scenes
and feelings long past, and almost forgotten.
`Dark days and perilous times for America,
Mr. Freeman;—and the events of that period

cannot be too often related to the rising generation.'

He paused, and seemed gathering strength
and breath for a long harangue, and the young
people expected the history of his three campaigns.
Horace Freeman had heard the whole
just six times over, and Maria at least sixty—
but she was never tired of listening to her
grandfather, and Horace, if he might but look
on her, could listen very patiently.

It is probable the old gentleman noticed the
glances interchanged by the lovers, and that
they recalled forcibly to his mind some passages
in his early life—at least it might have
been so inferred, as the circumstances he proceeded
to narrate he had never before been
heard to mention.

Captain Blake resumed—`It is easy for you
young men to imagine the deeds of valor you
should have performed, had you lived in the
days that tried men's souls—but it is not in
the battle that the heart or courage is most
severely tested. Indeed there are but few
men who feel any fear to fight when once the
engagement has begun; 'tis the anticipation
of the combat that makes cowards, and sometimes
brave men tremble. But the most painful
moment of a soldier's life, at least of those
who have a dear home and kind friends, is
when they part from them. I said the expedition
under General Starke was the first I joined.
When the news of the Lexington battle
arrived, I was eager to be a soldier—but my
father objected. `No, my son,' he said, `you

are not yet arrived at your full strength, and
the country requires the assistance of men. I
will go.' And he went, and fought at Bunker
Hill—and in the retreat across Charlestown
neck he was wounded by a cannon ball from
the British man of war. The ball shattered
his right knee, and amputation was found necessary.
It was some time before he could be
brought home, and he never recovered his former
health. My father was a poor, but a very
respectable man; for in those days the display
of wealth was not necessary to make a man
respected. Good sense, industry, economy
and piety were passports to the best society
among the descendants of the pilgrims. My
father possessed all these requisites; and,
moreover, his reputation for personal courage
and tried patriotism was firmly established,—
for who could doubt either, when his harangues,
justifying the proceedings of Congress and
condemning the British ministry, were always
followed by a vivid description of the Bunker
Hill battle, and the pain he endured from his
wound; the whole closed by the solemn declaration,
that his greatest anxiety and distress,
during the whole operation on his limb, arose
from the conviction that he was for the future
incapacitated from taking an active part in defending
the liberty of his country. My father
had one enemy and opponent. This was a
man by the name of Saunders, our nearest
neighbour. They moved into the wilderness
together, and it might have been expected that
mutual hardships would have made them mutual
friends. But, in the first place, there was
no similarity of mind or temper between them
—and in the second place, Saunders married
a rich wife; giving him an advantage in point
of property, which he was very fond of displaying.
My father, though various untoward accidents
kept him poor, was nevertheless proud,
and knew his own abilities were far superior
to those of his neighbour; and so, the more ostentatiously
Saunders displayed his wealth, the
more contemptuously my father treated his
opinions. There was scarcely a point on
which they agreed; and when the troubles between
Great Britain and the Colonies commenced,
they immediately took different sides;
my father was a flaming whig, and it was perhaps
as much to avoid being termed a follower
of his, for my father always took the lead in
town meetings,—as from principle, that Saunders
declared himself for the government.

It would be a curious inquiry to trace the
operation of the causes that have contributed
to establish those principles, which men often
boast of having adopted solely from a conviction
of their truth and usefulness. How much
of personal convenience, of private pique, of
selfishness, envy, anger or ambition, would be
found to mingle in the motives of the patriot
and the politician! But this we will not now
discuss. My father was a firm friend of his
country, and a fervent christian; but he had,
like other good men, his infirmities; and among
them, perhaps none was more conspicuous
than a persevering habit of advancing his own

sentiments on almost every occasion, and a
dogmatical obstinacy in defending them. And
he availed himself to the utmost of the advantage
which the popularity of his own opinions
gave him over his adversary. Though I embraced
with enthusiasm my father's political
sentiments, yet one reason made me regret,
very much, the animosity that seemed every
day more bitter, between him and Mr. Saunders.
There was a fair girl in the case, and I
was just at the age when the affections of the
heart are most warm and romantic. Mary
Saunders was not an extraordinary beauty: I
have seen fairer girls than she; but I never
saw one whose expression of countenance
was more indicative of purity of mind and
sweetness of temper. But you can judge for
yourself, Mr. Freeman, for Maria here is her
very image—all but the eyes. Mary Saunders
had black eyes; and black is, in my opinion,
much the handsomest color for the eye, and
generally the most expressive. Maria's eyes,
you see, are blue—do, my love, look up—but
their expression is very much like her grandmother's
eyes.'

Horace Freeman was doubtless very glad
of an opportunity of examining, and that too
by the permission of her guardian, the eyes
of the girl he adored; but her confusion and
blushes admonished him that the indulgence
of his passion was fraught with pain to the object
of his affection, and he endeavoured to
change the conversation to the subject of the
battle of Bennington.

`You observed, you accompanied General
Starke,' said he to the old man; `were you
present when the tories under Baum were
defeated?'

`Was I?' returned the old gentleman, his
eyes flashing with the keenness of youthful ardor—`I
guess I was, and I believe I have told
you the whole story; nevertheless I will detail
it again, some time, as I find you like to
hear such accounts, as indeed all sensible
young men do; but now I was intending more
particularly to tell my own feelings and views
when I first left home. Accounts of battles are
quite common, but we seldom read or hear a
description of that warfare of mind which every
soldier must undergo when he, for the first
time, girds himself and goes forth to fight.
I said I loved Mary Saunders, and she returned
my affection; but the difficulties, every
day increasing, between our families, threatened
to prevent our intercourse. Mr. Saunders
was the first to object, and he intimated
that my father encouraged the match, notwithstanding
his pretended aversion to tories, because
he thought it advantageous. This accusation
kindled my father's anger to a high
degree, for nothing roused his spirit like a
charge of meanness—and so he absolutely
prohibited me from seeing or speaking to Mary,
or corresponding with her in any manner.
How absurdly our passions are often allowed
to control our reason and judgment, and even
our inclination. At the time when Mary and
I were thus positively forbidden to meet

had our fathers spoken their real sentiments, I
am persuaded they would both of them have
approved our affection for each other. I was
always a favorite with Mr. Saunders, and as
Mary was an only child, and had no companion
at home, she had passed much of her time
with my sisters, and my parents had seemed
equally fond of her as of their own daughters.
But now all intercourse between the families
was annihilated, and for us to have met, would
have been considered a great crime.

Party spirit was then, and always will be,
wherever indulged, the bane of society and
good neighbourhood. But the peculiar circumstances
in which the whigs were placed justified,
in some measure, the asperity they cherished
against all denominated tories. There
are some nowadays that write histories of that
war, and pretend to describe the feelings and
spirit that then pervaded America, but this
cannot be done. There was at that time agitation
in the minds of men which words can
never describe. The uncertainty that hung
over the destiny of our country, the exertions
and sacrifices that all good patriots felt must
be made before success could be hoped for—
the possibility of a failure, and a dread of
the consequences that must ensue, all these
thoughts pressed on the soul, filling it with an
indescribable anxiety and gloom. But though
there was, sometimes, in the mind of the firmest
and most determined patriot, doubt, there
was seldom dismay. He considered the principles
for which he contended so important,

and the prize so glorious, that even though
assured that he could not have succeeded, he
would not have yielded. `Give me liberty
or give me death!' was not the motto of Patrick
Henry only,—thousands of our citizens
subscribed to the same sentiment. I remember
when the news of the approach of Burgoyne's
army, and the retreat of the Americans
from Ticonderoga, reached us. We were at
dinner when a messenger, sent by General St.
Clair, to rouse the inhabitants of New-Hampshire
to come to the assistance of the retreating
army, entered our house abruptly, without
even the ceremony of rapping at the door.
The dress of the man showed him to be a soldier,
and his countenance displayed such deep
concern, that my father seemed instantly to
guess his errand. He dropped his knife and
fork, and turning his chair so as to face the
messenger, demanded his news. I was always
something of a physiognomist, and while the
man related the disasters that had befallen our
troops, and described the numbers and appearance
of the British army, I watched my father's
features, and never did I see such an
expression as his then displayed. During the
first part of the recital there was an eagerness,
an agitation, a quivering of the lips and eye-lids,
that showed the deep, even painful sympathy
he felt for the embarrassments of the
American general—but when the royal commander
was named, his brow instantly contracted,
his eye dilated, every muscle of his
face grew rigid as with determined resolve,
and the stern expression of his features seemed
bidding defiance to the whole British army.
At length, while the man was proceeding to
describe the proud array of the invading foe,
and the number of the Indian allies, my father
suddenly struck his clenched hand on the
table, with a force and clatter that made all
the children instantly start from their seats,
while he exclaimed—`O! if it had only been
God's will that I should have kept my leg, I
would soon be on the ground and show them
red coats the metal of a Yankee.' I caught
his eye as he ceased, and there was an instant
change in his countenance. I presume he
noticed the eagerness of my look, for there
was nothing on earth, except to see Mary, that
I then longed so much to do as to become a
soldier. This my father had never appeared
willing to permit. He could face danger without
shrinking, but he trembled for me. I urged
my wishes to go. He appeared for a few
moments irresolute—drew his hand twice
across his forehead, and then calmly said—
`My son, you may go. The crisis demands
the sacrifice of all selfish and private feelings
on the part of Americans—You shall go.'

To know the whole merit of the sacrifice my
father then made, it will be necessary to state
that I was the eldest of eleven children, all
girls, excepting myself and the youngest babe.
My father was not able to do any labor—it was
in the month of July, when the farmer has, necessarily,
so much business on his hands, and
yet I am persuaded there was not one self-interested

motive, excepting his fears of the danger
to which I would be exposed, that caused
his hesitation.

It is impossible, in these days of peace and
plenty, to estimate truly the generous, devoted,
self-denying spirit that was exhibited during
the revolution. The thirst for private gain,
that is now so engrossing, was then a feeble
passion, compared with the ardor to promote
the public good; and the final success of our
arms is mainly to be attributed to the virtue
and patriotism of the people. We had, to be
sure, a commander worthy of our cause and
country, one undoubtedly designed and prepared
by Heaven for the task he performed—but
then, his powers and those of the Congress
were so limited, he never would have succeeded,
but for the zealous and spontaneous co-operation
of our citizens. But I am wandering
from the subject of my own feelings,' he continued,
smiling, `as indeed I am very apt to
do whenever I begin to think, or speak of the
public excitement. But to comprehend rightly
an old man's story, you must allow him to
tell it in his own way. Often when he appears
to wander the most widely from his purpose, it
is not that he forgets it, but because so many
circumstances, which he thinks important, connected
with the event he would relate, press
on his mind, that he fears you will not get a
right understanding of his subject, unless he
relates all those circumstances. It is not so
often from loss of memory that the aged are
garrulous, as from remembering too much.

It was settled I should depart next morning,
and all was bustle to prepare me for the expedition.

My father would himself inspect and arrange
my military equipments. I had an excellent
rifle, and a sufficient quantity of powder, but no
bullets—but that deficiency was soon supplied.
My mother tendered her pewter basons,
and we manufactured a sufficient quantity of
shot to kill a whole regiment. My mother
also packed among my clothes a huge roll
of linen, for bandages, remarking as she did
so, that she hoped I would not need it, but
I might perhaps have it in my power to bind
up the wounds of some poor creature. At
that time the soldier had often to carry about
him his hospital, as well as magazine. During
all this my parents neither shed a tear nor uttered
a desponding word; they even reproved
my sisters for weeping, saying, that tears
should be reserved for the dead—that they
ought to rejoice they had a brother capable
and willing to defend his country and family
from the ruthless savages; and that God would
not suffer the injustice of their oppressors long
to triumph, if every American did his duty.
In the mean time, my own mind was suffering
a severe conflict. I did not fear the battle—I
longed to engage in the fight; but there was
something in this preparation for wounds and
death, that could not but be somewhat appalling
to one who had always lived in the security
and shelter of home. I reflected on the possibility
that I might never see that home again.

All the kindness and affection of my parents
and sisters, came fresh to my mind. The happy
circle we had always formed around the
fireside would be broken, and I knew there
would be mourning for me. But there was
one who I thought would weep bitter tears. I
had not seen Mary, excepting at church, for
more than six months; but I gathered from
the expression of her countenance, that her regard
for me was unaltered. She had doubtless
suffered more from the separation than I. Women
are more constant in their attachments
than men, and they have fewer employments
and resources to vary the current of their
thoughts, and a disappointment of the heart is
to them a constantly corroding sorrow. Mary
had grown very pale and thin, and when I gazed
on her as she joined in singing the praises
of God, I had often felt as if she must soon be
transferred to a happier world. And I had
sometimes taxed my father with cruelty and
injustice, in separating us, though, at the same
time, I respected the high minded integrity
that dictated the command; but I had never
thought of disobeying him. He had in his
look and manner, that kind of authority which
seems to be delegated from Heaven, and which
will not brook to be disregarded; such as we
may imagine distinguished the patriarchs. Our
pilgrim ancestors possessed this domestic authority
in an eminent degree; and their descendants
for several generations inherited it, though
less dignified—but it now seems to be nearly
extinct. Whether it was on the whole, more
favorable to human improvement in virtue and
happiness, than the present reasoning manner
of family government, is a question I have never
seen decided. I wish some one qualified
for the task would give us their opinion on the
subject. But to return to Mary, from whom
my thoughts then seldom wandered. I could
not endure the idea of leaving home without
seeing her. I went to my father—I trembled
in every joint, and the sweat started in large
drops on my forehead, but nevertheless I retained
sufficient firmness to tell him I must
and would see Mary; that I wished for his
consent to visit her, and that perhaps it was
the last request I should ever make him; and
then I added, that if I lived to return, I would
still be as obedient to his commands as I had
hitherto been. How I summoned sufficient
courage to tell him so much, was afterwards to
me a matter of astonishment; it might be that
I felt rather more boldness from knowing I was
soon to be a soldier.

I believe my father's first impulse was to rebuke
and refuse me, for he assumed one of his
stern looks that always quelled all opposition
—but luckily for us both, he looked in my face,
and I suspect he became sensible I was not in
a state to bear rebuke or disappointment. His
first words were, `Do you wish to be friends
with the enemies of your country, with traitors?'

I said, No—but that Mary was not an enemy
of her country.

`But her father is,' he replied, `and children

do adopt, indeed they ought to adopt, the opinions
of their parents.'

`Not if they think that opinion wrong,' said
I. `And I have told you before that Mary
does not approve her father's sentiments, and
that she ought not to be judged and condemned
on his account.'

`I know,' he replied, `that you think favorably
of her. At your age this is not strange,
but remember, that though I do not forbid your
seeing her, if you insist upon it, I warn you of
the consequences. The path of duty is now
plain before you; it is to fight manfully for
liberty and independence. You seem to have
such strength and courage given you, as we
may hope will bear you up; but if you join
hands with those who are wishing to riot in the
blood of their country, you will probably be
forsaken by Him who is the God of battles.'

There was in my father's manner a solemnity
that awed me, but still his prophetic warning
had no effect to deter me from my purpose
of seeing Mary. I knew, what my father
would not credit, that she was an enthusiast in
the cause of her country, though the mildness
and modesty of her disposition, and respect for
her parent, restrained her from openly expressing
her sentiments. Indeed, it is worthy of
notice that during the whole war, the American
women were almost universally patriots;
and they encountered their full share of privation
and suffering, and that too with a cheerfulness
and fortitude that often infused courage
and vigor into the hearts of the almost desponding

soldiery. And they not only submitted to
separations from their friends without murmuring,
but they exerted themselves to provide
for their families at home, by performing much
of the labor and business that usually devolves
on the men. A volume of anecdotes might be
collected of the heroism and devotion to freedom,
manifested by the ladies during that period.
There were wives, and mothers, and
sisters, who encouraged and assisted to prepare
for the battle, those they held dearest on
earth. And there were maidens who animated
their betrothed lovers for the fight. I was confident
Mary was not deficient in this generous
self-denying spirit, and I had no fear she would
exert her power over me by endeavouring to
dissuade me from going into the army. I did
not then hesitate a moment on my own account;
but I had to procure the consent of her father,
as well as mine, for the meeting. I wrote to
Mr. Saunders, and very respectfully requested
permission to visit his daughter, stating my
reasons, and that my father had consented. I
afterwards learned it was that which made Mr.
Saunders object. He would agree to nothing
that my father approved. He wrote me a
very cool and provoking answer, in which he
took care to repeat all the account of Burgoyne's
success, and warn me against joining
in a sinking cause; and he concluded by
declaring he would not allow one who was
intending to fight against his sovereign to visit
at his house, and that his daughter entirely
agreed with him in opinion. I was never so
disappointed in my life, and I do not remember
that I was ever more angry. The more so
perhaps, because my father seemed to enjoy
my chagrin. I did not believe Mary was thus
indifferent about seeing me; but still a young
man scarce twenty, and a lover beside, is not
usually the most reasonable being under the
sun. I thought of a thousand things, and imagined
a thousand improbable events. These
were some of my fancies. If the enemy should
succeed, Saunders would doubtless join the
victorious army, at least, he would wish to pay
his compliments to Burgoyne; and he might
take Mary with him; and I was too deeply in
love to imagine any person could see her with
indifference. And then I thought it probable
some English officer would admire her, and
succeed in gaining her hand—and then I felt
as if I could annihilate the whole British host.

While I was indulging in one of these paroxysms
of feeling, a boy who lived with Mr.
Saunders appeared at the end of the lane leading
to our house. I knew him in a moment,
although it was nearly dark, and hastened to
meet him. He brought me a letter from Mary.
I know you expect I treasured that letter
in my mind, and remember it now—and
though it may sound rather silly to hear an old
man like me, saying over his love-letters, I will
repeat it. It had been begun with `Dear
Samuel,'—but those words had been scratched
out, though not so entirely but I could trace
them. The next beginning was—`Worthy
Friend, I have just seen a letter you sent my

father, and from what he has told me, I fear
you will think I am ungrateful and have forgotten
you. But this I never shall do. I
think of you almost constantly, and pray that
you may be directed in the path of duty. I
believe you are now pursuing it. I feel that
our country needs aid, and wish I could render
it. But that is out of my power; but if
prayers and tears could avail to save you from
harm, I would offer them daily. I do not say
this to discourage you, but to show you that I
approve your determination to be a soldier.
May God shield you.—Mary Saunders.

`P. S. I hope you will not forget me.'

`Such was the letter, word for word,' continued
the old man. `I remember it well, for
I carried it three years in a little pocket book,
and read it pretty often, as you doubtless guess.
It was at the time a precious treasure, for it
assured me of Mary's affection, and that she
approved my being a soldier, and perhaps I
departed with a lighter heart than I should
have done had we actually met.

Early the next morning every thing was
prepared, and the family all attended while my
father made a most fervent and impressive
prayer. I observed that he dwelt more earnestly
on the salvation of his country, and prayed
more heartily that the men who were going
forth might have strength and resolution given
them to conquer their proud and cruel enemies,
than he did that they might be saved from danger
and returned in safety. When he concluded,
he took my hand; the pride of a soldier

was in his eye as he glanced over my military
equipments, but I observed a moisture there;
and when he spoke, it was in a sharp, quick
tone, as if he feared to trust the expression of
his feelings, and even felt angry with himself
for indulging them. `Sam,' said he, wringing
my hand as he spoke. `Sam, remember your
duty. Your country now requires your services;
and next to your duty to God, your country's
claims are sacred. Go, and fight manfully
for liberty. Remember it is better to die
free than live a slave. Go, and God bless
you.'

`Samuel,' said my mother, taking my hand
in both of hers, and pressing it tenderly, while
the tears gushed from her eyes—I had not
seen her weep before. `Samuel, your father
has told you what is your duty, and I know
you will do it. I shall pray for you, and if you
are hurt, remember the bandages and salve.
I have put some salve into your pack, that is
very excellent for wounds. Heaven keep you
—farewell.'

I do not particularly remember what my
sisters said, nor indeed distinctly anything
else that passed, till I found myself on the
brow of a hill that overlooked the farm of my
father, and part of that belonging to Mr. Saunders.
I paused there, and looked back on the
scene I had left. The sun had not risen, but
the eastern sky, as if preparing for his coming,
was kindled up with those beautiful hues that
the light of noonday never imparts. I saw the
green woods stretching away on every side till

they blended with the blue of the distant mountains.
In those woods I had hunted many a
time. I heard the birds singing their morning
songs; all spoke of peace except the shrill
cry of the jay, and that sounded in my ear like
a call to battle. Beneath me lay the fields I
had traversed so often—the windings of the
little brook, the boundary that divided the estate
of my father from that of his tory neighbor,
were easily to be traced by the mist that
hung over it; and I could distinctly see the
favorite fishing place where I had passed many
happy hours. And then there was the home
in which I was born, and the trees in whose
shade I had so often played with my sisters—
and, in the small meadow, a seat beneath an
old elm, where Mary and I had often met.

I saw all these, and the recollections they
awakened, and the thought that, in all probability,
I should never see that spot, and those
objects, and my dear family, and Mary, again,
came so painfully on my heart that my fortitude
was overcome, and I wept and even sobbed
aloud. I was in the battle at Bennington
—I fought at Saratoga—I was one of the twenty
under the command of Lieutenant Knox at
the capture of Stoney Point—I have been
wounded, and a prisoner. I have heard bullets
whistle as they fell like hail, and seen men
dropping around me like leaves in autumn, and
I have been in want of a crust of bread, but I
never felt that fear, that utter despondency,
that misgiving of spirit, which I endured when
taking my leave of home.'

`But you did return, my dear grandfather,'
said Maria, wiping her eyes. `You did see
that home again?'

`Yes,' he replied, `I returned to dwell there,
and I married Mary; but, it was after my constitution
was broken by fatigue and hardship,
and my arm rendered, as you see, nearly useless
by a fracture in the elbow. Nor had Mary
been exempt from sorrow and suffering.
The chagrin her father endured in being, as
he was, confined to his farm, and knowing himself
the object of suspicion, hatred, and contempt
of his neighbours, and the disappointment
he felt at the failure of the British army,
whose triumph he had so confidently predicted,
all these things troubled him, and finally undermined
his health. He fell into a consumption;
but before he died, he renounced his tory
principles, and my father and he became reconciled,
and he consented I should marry Mary.
And so when I returned from my last
campaign, where I was disabled, by this wound
in my arm, from further service, Mary was
the first to welcome me. But O! how pale
and thin she looked. You young people have
no experience, and can hardly form an idea of
the trials we had endured. But we had the
satisfaction of thinking our country would be
free and independent; and it is so: and yet
few, in these days of peace and prosperity,
seem to remember that their freedom and privileges
were purchased by the sweat, and toils,
and blood, of the old soldier.'