TO ——, AT PARTING.

“A light and landmark on the cliff of fame.”

He has ever possessed those rare faculties which induce the trust of others; to him has always been consigned the task which involved most of peril and demanded most of the power which overcomes it; and it is singular that every prominent action of his life has been a conflict with an adverse superiority, in which he has always triumphed. The greatest generals of the past have been applauded as fortunate; but Taylor has triumphed, at every step, with fortune against him. He has trusted nothing to luck; his achievements have been the result of a genius fertile in resources, prompt in their application, resolute to the exclusion of a doubt, and energetic to compel the result which had been determined upon.

The outrages of England upon our commerce fired every generous spirit in the west, and as early as 1808, about the time when the outrage upon the Chesapeake thrilled through every nerve of the republic, young Taylor determined to wed his fortunes with those of his country. The character and the influence of his family readily secured him a commission as lieutenant in the seventh infantry. He addressed himself with characteristic ardor to his profession, and before the war broke out, had arisen to the rank of captain. His first commission was granted by Jefferson, his second and third by Madison, his fourth by Jackson, and his subsequent commissions by Polk. He received the first reward of valor, granted in the last war—a brevet majority; and his rise to his present lofty position has been gained, not from the patient indolence of rank, but from brevets for victories.

The most vulnerable point of our country, in the commencement of the last war, was the sparsely settled West, encompassed as it was by ferocious Indians in the pay of the British Government. This was naturally the sphere of exertion for the young hero. In a war abounding with almost daily and ever deadly skirmishes with the Indians, he was, of course, exposed to a series of perilous adventures which escape the attention of the historian. He was early appointed to the command of one of the most important defences of the west, Fort Harrison. In this post he won the first laurels, and the first brevet, of the late war—the oldest brevet in the army.

Fort Harrison, a rude structure, was garrisoned by fifty men, though but ten or fifteen were in health and effective; and it was crowded with the sick,with women and children. Every precaution had been taken, though it was impossible to raise a guard of more than six men and two commissioned officers. It was known that the Indians, in great strength, were in the vicinity; and at 11 o’clock on the night of September 3d, 1812, the attack was made. The odds were fearful; and the fort, though it contained many souls, could boast few prepared to meet the exigency. The night was dark, and the forests rang with the yells of hundreds of Indians. The little band, forewarned of their danger, were at their posts. But scarcely had the attack been made, before a broad glare of light, rising in the gloom of midnight, informed the feeble garrison that the block-house connected with the fort had been fired by the Indians. Every being, save Taylor, within the fort, was panic-stricken at this terrible intelligence. The alternative seemed a death in the flames, or by the tomahawks of the Indians. The yells of the Indians, the shrieks of the devoted women and children, heard above the reports of the Indian rifles, which poured a death-shower upon the fort, appalled the garrison, who, enveloped in smoke, and exposed by the glare of the conflagration to the rifles of the foe, shrank and cowered. It was the trial-hour that determined the character of the young hero. He rose above the exigency; he rallied his few assistants, disconnected the block-house from the fort, by throwing off the roof, subdued the fire, fortified the gap made by the destruction of the block-house, and, after a desperate encounter of seven hours, drove off the overwhelming force that beleaguered him. The triumph was his alone; for all, save he, had fettered under what seemed an inevitable doom. In his after career he has encountered no darker danger; and this achievement, though small the numbers under his command, forms a worthy opening to the daring and lustrous actions which followed.

He held the fort until the population of the West gathering around him, rendered the post secure. For this achievement he was brevetted by Madison, and admired by the nation; but, although glowing with a desire to distinguish himself in the fields that followed, his orders compelled him to remain in the seat of dangers which he had proved himself so well qualified to encounter. In active and perilous service in this section of the country, he remained until the close of the war, and long after. A soldier of the republic, he has never repined at any duty imposed upon him, and never desired to gratify his ambition by abandoning an humble post to win laurels in other and more favorable fields. He was, however, distinguished in all the operations in the west; and in the expedition of Major Gen. Hopkins, received, in the dispatches of that officer, thanks “for a prompt and effectual support in every instance.”

In the war of 1832, against Black Hawk and his tribe, Col. Taylor was actively engaged. He commanded the regulars, under Gen. Atkinson, in the trying march through the wilderness, in pursuit of Black Hawk; and was at their head in the destructive and decisive battle of the Wisconsin. The result of that battle was the capture of Black Hawk and the Prophet, who were surrendered to Col. Taylor. This sanguinary conflict closed the war.

Col. Taylor remained in the West, in command of different posts, until the period of the Florida War. In this long interval of peace, his attention was directed to study, and to the improvement of his private fortune. He married a lady of Maryland, who blessed his fire-side with one son and two daughters, one of whom married Col. Davis, of the Mississippi regiment, severely wounded at Buena Vista. During this period Col. Taylor, (for in 1832 he was advanced to that rank,) established, throughout the entire west, a reputation for enlarged intelligence, bold sagacity, and high moral character, which marked him out as the hero of an exigency. Such an one arrived, and secured for him the confidence and admiration of the government and the nation.

It is unnecessary to characterize the failures of the Florida War, or the war itself. It is sufficient to say that our boldest and best sank under its hardships, and were left to the wolf of the wilderness, while no encounter won laurels, and no advantage promised success. Col. Taylor was, in 1836, ordered to Florida, and soon became distinguished for his energy, perseverance, and indomitable hardihood and resolution. His determination was to bring the Seminoles to battle, and this was effected by efforts of the most extraordinary character.

On the 19th of December, 1837, he received intelligence that all efforts for conciliation had failed, and being then in command of the first brigade, at Fort Gardiner, he struck into the wilderness. He bore but twelve days’ rations, and had with him about one thousand men. He had learned that the Seminoles and Mickasaukies, under their chiefs, Alligator and Sam Jones, had selected a post deemed impregnable, and that they challenged him to the encounter. Advancing with caution but celerity, and overcoming every obstacle, he arrived on the 25th of December at the point selected by the enemy, upon the lake of Okeechobee. They were concealed in a thick hammock, which could only be approached by a swamp three quarters of a mile in breadth, covered with grass five feet high, and knee deep in mud and water. Our forces advanced; the volunteers were received with a fire from the hammock, and after a brief resistance, retired across the swamp. The regulars, however, persisted in advancing, and drove the enemy back. The struggle was terribly severe. The advantages were all against us. Our officers signalized themselves by their valor, and many of them fell. The battle lasted from half past twelve until three P. M. The immediate command of Col. Taylor suffered most severely; and his own preservation, conspicuous as he was, for he refused to dismount, was almostmiraculous. Our victory was complete. The enemy received a blow which, more than any thing that occurred during the war, broke their spirits and prepared them for submission. The loss of Col. Taylor was severe. To use his own words, “besides the killed, there lay one hundred and twelve wounded, officers and soldiers, who had accompanied me one hundred and forty-five miles, most of the way through an unexplored wilderness, without guides, who had so gallantly beaten the enemy, under my orders, in his strongest position.” His humanity was, however, as conspicuous as his valor; and though the wounded were conveyed back to their post with incredible difficulty and labor, every thing was done which the most delicate sensibility could have suggested in their behalf. The detachment commanded by Col. Taylor in this desperate encounter numbered about five hundred. The enemy were seven hundred strong, and from their concealment, and the extraordinary advantages of their position, confidently calculated upon a victory. The battle was the most successful of the war; and the victory was only won by an extraordinary effort of heroism—more than one-fourth of the whole number engaged being killed or wounded.

The government appreciated, applauded, and rewarded the conduct and heroism of Taylor in this bloody conflict, and immediately promoted him to the brevet rank of brigadier general, and gave him the chief command of the war. On taking this command he fixed his head-quarters at Tampa Bay, and continued to prosecute what was termed “a war of movements,” with a vigor and enterprise which no ordinary energy of mind and body could have endured. The foe, after the lesson taught at Okeechobee, afforded him no subsequent opportunity of meeting them in a general battle; but in the prosecution of a contest peculiarly exhausting and dangerous, he manifested the rarer qualities of patience, vigilance, and unwearied promptitude and vigor which form so large a part in the character of a great military leader.

In 1840 he was relieved from duty in Florida, and in the following year was assigned to the command of the second department on the Arkansas, in which station he continued, performing his duties with characteristic diligence and success, until the difficulties with Mexico opened a new and more glorious career for the development of those powers matured by so long a career of arduous and devoted service.

In prospect of the annexation of Texas, Gen. Taylor received from the Department an order, dated 17th September, ordering him to hold the troops under his command in readiness to march into Texas, and repel any hostile incursion of Indians. An “Army of Observation” upon the south-western frontier having been determined upon, the Administration selected Gen. Taylor for that command. The relations of our country rendered it a post of great difficulty, requiring the highest qualities of civil and military intellect; and the choice of Gen. T. in preference to those of superior rank, was a distinguished evidence of the confidence of the Government. He was commanded to take a position between the Neuces and Rio Grande; and in August, 1845, established his camp at Corpus Christi. The army remained in this position until March 11th, 1846.

Having received positive orders to take a position upon the eastern bank of the Rio Grande, Gen. Taylor commenced his march. At the Rio Colorado he was met with a stern resistance, and assured that an attempt to cross would be followed by actual hostilities. It is scarcely necessary to add that he crossed, notwithstanding. On the 24th, Gen. Taylor left the advancing army, and, with a body of dragoons, repaired to Point Isabel, which place he occupied, and received, from steamboats opportunely arriving, supplies for the army. Gen. Taylor soon rejoined the army; a position was occupied opposite Matamoras, and the army proceeded to fortify their camp. On the 11th of April, Gen. Ampudia, in command at Matamoras, summoned Gen. Taylor to break up his camp, and retire beyond the Neuces within twenty-fours, adding that if he did not, arms alone must decide the question. In reply, Gen. Taylor informed him that his instructions would not permit him to retrograde from the position he occupied.

Col. Cross, of our army, having been murdered when absent, and alone, some distance from the camp, a party was, on the 17th, sent to discover and seize the murderers. They were set upon by a large party of Mexicans, and some of them killed. On the 19th, Gen. Taylor blockaded the Rio Grande, a measure which elicited an immediate protest from Ampudia; and it was vindicated by Taylor as the necessary result of the Mexican declaration of a determination to commence, and actually commencing, hostilities. The character of the two letters is in singular contrast, that of Gen. Taylor being high-toned and masterly, but moderate and courteous. A collision had, from the first movement to occupy the western bank of the Rio Grande, been inevitable; and every day precipitated that result. Addresses, over the signature of the Mexican general, were scattered throughout our camp, inviting desertion. The communications between Fort Brown and Point Isabel were forcibly interrupted by large bodies of the enemy. The war had begun. On the first of May Gen. Taylor took up his line of march for Point Isabel, leaving a small but sufficient force at Fort Brown. His departure was the signal for a furious but ineffectual attack, which resulted in the death of the gallant commander, Major Brown, and continued until the glorious return of Gen. Taylor.

The course of Gen. Taylor in this trying emergency has elicited the praise of the greatest surviving captain of the age—Wellington. The exigency was a fearful one. Surrounded by an enemy greatly superior in force, his supplies limited, and all communication cut off, he resolved, not on retreat—for he left his flagflying in face of the enemy—but on resuming his position. He reached Point Isabel, May the 3d, without interruption; and the Mexicans exulted in the division of his army—one portion at Fort Brown, and another at Point Isabel, and a superior force between them. Intelligence was received at this latter place of the successful resistance of Fort Brown, and the embodiment of vast masses of Mexican troops to oppose the return of Gen. Taylor. He waited for no reinforcements, although they were daily expected; he did not even take with him the untrained soldiers at Point Isabel—for the conflict was to be one in which the blenching of a single company might be ruin. On the 7th of May he moved forward, and the next day, about noon, at Palo Alto, he found the enemy. His force consisted of less than 2300 men—the enemy had in the field 6000 regular troops, the irregular force not known. He encountered the flower of the Mexican army, fully equipped, provided with ten pieces of artillery, and confident of victory.

Gen. Taylor paused a time, that his panting host might slake their thirst in the water of Palo Alto, and then moved on to the conflict. The enemy were drawn in line of battle, stretching a mile and a half across the plain—their resplendent lancers in advance on the left, and their overpowering masses of infantry, and batteries of artillery forming the rest of the line. On our side, Col. Twiggs commanded, with the 3d, 4th, and 5th infantry, and Ringgold’s artillery, on the right; Col. Belknap on the left, with the 8th, and Duncan’s artillery; and Lieutenant Churchill commanded the two eighteen pounders in the centre. The battle was almost wholly one of artillery—and never did artillery such service as ours that day. Ringgold opened with terrible effect; the gallant cavalry of the enemy fell as if smitten by lightning; yet they recovered, and making a sweep, threatened our rear, where they were met and repelled by the infantry in square. While Ringgold mowed his fatal harvest on the right, Duncan on the left poured volley upon volley into the reeling columns of the foe; and in the centre, the two eighteen pounders kept up a steady and staggering fire. Still the enemy, notwithstanding the obvious superiority of our artillery, maintained their fire with vigor, and urged the battle with determination. At length, as if to swell the horror of the scene, the prairie took fire, and for a time veiled the combatants from each other, and stayed the contest. When suddenly dashing, like incarnate spirits, through the flames, which rose ten feet high, Duncan and his men took position on the flank of the enemy, and opened with terrific effect, rolling back the ranks of the enemy, who recoiled in confusion. Assailed in front and flank, they retired into the chapparal; and thus night found the combatants—the victors encamping where they fought, amid the dying and the dead, with the promise of a bitterer and bloodier conflict for the morrow. That night the Mexicans retired to Resaca de la Palma. Their loss was two hundred killed and four hundred wounded; and ours was four men killed, three officers, and thirty-seven men wounded, several mortally, and among the latter, Major Ringgold and Capt. Page.

Gen. Taylor’s bearing in this battle was marked by every trait that ennobles a hero. But his victory had not relieved him from the danger that over-shadowed his little host. He had won glory, but not safety. Should he advance, it must be against an enemy overpowering in his superiority of numbers, and with an advantage of position. A council was held on the early morn of the next day. Its advice was against an advance; Gen. Taylor closed its deliberations by declaring that, if living, he would sleep that night in Fort Brown. The army advanced against the foe.

The next morning disclosed the retreat of the Mexicans. Reinforced by 2000 men, they had selected a position of great strength, with a ravine in front, guarded by a pond on one flank, and the chapparal on the other, defending their position with eight pieces of artillery, and with a vast superiority of force, they awaited the approach of the American army. Their expectations were not baffled. The field is known, and will be remembered as Resaca de la Palma.

The advance of our army was accompanied by every precaution, and at length the presence of the enemy was ascertained. The artillery of Lieut. Ridgely moved rapidly to the front and encountered that of the enemy. The infantry, meanwhile, pressed upon those on the right, and though met with resolution, succeeded in penetrating through the chapparal, and gaining his flank; while on the left a murderous fire was kept up by our advancing troops. But, in the centre, the enemy maintained a steady and destructive fire, from which Gen. Taylor, when entreated to do so, refused to retire. Lieut. Ridgely, unlimbering, advanced, from time to time, toward the enemy, discharging his canister at a distance of one hundred yards upon the foe. The Mexicans, however, with a well-directed fire, continued to sweep our lines. At this crisis Gen. Taylor ordered Capt. May to charge the battery with his dragoons. His words were, “Capt. May, you must take it.” That gallant officer, saying to his company, “Men, we must take it,” leapt to the charge. It was successful. With those who survived the discharge with which they were met, he swept through the enemy’s line, and was immediately followed and sustained by a fierce onslaught from the infantry at the point of the bayonet. The enemy’s centre was broken, and the fortune of the day decided. The flight of the Mexicans became general, and was soon hurried into panic by the ardor of the victors. Every thing was left to the conqueror; and rushing on in one confused mass, the Mexicans trampled down each other in the eagerness of fear. The victory was complete as it was wonderful. Never, in any field, was the omnipotenceof heroism more signally displayed; and of those most calm, yet most ardent—in every chasm made by the swoop of the artillery—in every scene that demanded the cool, clear intellect, and the daring heart—the foremost was Taylor.

This conflict was one to be remembered. Taylor brought into the action but 1700 wearied men, against a force of at least 6000, well disciplined, officered and conditioned. The enemy had every advantage of position, and that position was not only strong, but was valiantly maintained. The victory was the result of no sudden panic on the part of the enemy; it was wrested from them by fair, open, hard fighting. Our loss in this contest was about 110 killed and wounded. That of the enemy was probably tenfold, though not ascertained, as many perished in the river. The triumph was affluent in standards, artillery, prisoners and other evidences of victory. To use the language of Gen. Taylor’s dispatch—“Our victory has been decisive. A small force has overcome immense odds of the best troops Mexico can furnish—veteran regiments, perfectly equipped and appointed.”

Gen. Taylor’s promise was fulfilled, and Fort Brown was rescued. But it was found impossible immediately to follow up the victory. Every obstacle was, however, by untiring energy and perseverance overcome; when, on the 17th of May, Arista offered an armistice. It was now too late: the offer was declined. The next day Taylor, without resistance, took possession of Matamoras.

His instructions required his advance into the interior, but for a long period, a period filled up by the hero with impatient protests to the War Department, and entreaties for further means of transportation, and anxious efforts, on his own part, to supply them, he was compelled to remain inactive. At length, however, the army was set in motion. Its object was Monterey, a place strong by nature, amply fortified, and maintained by an army of 7000 troops of the line, and 3000 irregulars. Against this stronghold he marched with an army comprising 425 officers, and 6220 men. Against the forty-two pieces of cannon of the Mexicans, he arrayed but one 10 inch mortar, two 24 pounder howitzers, and four light field batteries of four guns each—the mortar being the only piece suitable to the operations of a siege. With these fearful odds against him he advanced upon Monterey.

Gen. Taylor arrived before the city on the 19th, and established his camp three miles from its defences. Reconnaissances were made, and it was found possible to turn the position of the enemy, and gain the heights in his rear. The gallant Worth was detached upon this duty, and to carry the enemy’s works. From this moment the operations became two-fold—the assailing party of Worth being independent of the command of Taylor, and the object of the latter principally to divert the enemy from Worth.

This order was given on the 19th; and the next day at 2 o’clock Worth moved forward, and succeeded in reaching a position above the Bishop’s Palace. The succeeding morning, that of the 21st, commenced the conflict which determined the fate of Monterey. Worth pressing forward, encountered the enemy in force, and overcame him; he gained the Saltillo road, and cut off his communications; and he succeeded in carrying two heights west of the Saltillo road, and turned a gun on one of them upon the Bishop’s Palace. These triumphs were confident auguries of victory. Meanwhile, a vigorous assault was made upon the city from below, by the force under Gen. Taylor. It would be vain to attempt a description in limits so brief as those allotted us, of this terrific and bloody contest. Our loss was heavy, from the character of the enemy’s defences, and the daring ardor of our troops; and where it was heaviest, Gen. Taylor, seeming to bear a charmed life, was exposed unhurt. His object was, however, attained; he diverted attention from the operations of Gen. Worth, carried one of the enemy’s advanced works, and secured a strong foothold in the town. Thus passed the third day of this desperate conflict. The fourth saw Worth victorious at every point. The Bishop’s Palace was taken at dawn, the palace itself at mid-day; while the force under Taylor pressed upon the city, the lower part of which was evacuated that night. On the fifth day, the 23d, the troops under Taylor advanced from square to square, every inch of ground being desperately disputed, until they reached within a square of the principal Plaza; while Worth, with equal vigor, pressed onward, encountering and overcoming difficulties insuperable, except to such energies as he commanded. At length the period had arrived for a concerted storm of the enemy’s position, which was determined upon for the ensuing day. The morning, however, brought an offer of capitulation. The negotiation resulted in the surrender of the city. This victory, though won at the expense of about 500 hundred killed and wounded, secured the possession of an immense territory, and a vast amount of military spoil.

Monterey now became Gen. Taylor’s head-quarters. Saltillo and Parras were occupied; and the Mexicans fell back to San Luis Potosi. This movement was, however, the precursor of a fresh and most formidable effort against our army under Gen. Taylor. Santa Anna was recalled to Mexico, and placed at the head of the government and army. He proceeded immediately to raise and organize an army, and before December, had 20,000 men under his command. With this force he determined to encounter and crush Taylor, and redeem the extensive provinces conquered by the Americans. While he was thus engaged, our government, for the purposes of an attack upon Vera Cruz, withdrew from Gen. Taylor the most effective portion of his force, leaving him with an extended line of territory to defend, a formidable foe in front, and a small force, principally untried volunteers, with which to encounterthe enemy. He was advised by the Department to retire to Monterey, and there defend himself; but such a policy would have opened the entire country, as far as the Rio Grande, and probably the Neuces, to the enemy, and have given a severe, if not fatal, blow to our arms. He therefore determined to encounter the foe at an advanced position, and selected Buena Vista for that purpose. This field was admirably chosen, and the hero and his little band there awaited the shock of his powerful adversary. Santa Anna brought 20,000 men into the field, and was encountered by a force of 334 officers and 4425 men.

On the 22d of February, Santa Anna summoned Gen. Taylor to surrender, vaunting his immense superiority, and the impossibility of successful resistance. The hero’s reply was a brief and polite refusal. It was followed by the attack of the Mexicans upon our extreme right, in an effort to gain our flank, and the skirmishing was continued until night. During the night the enemy threw a body of light troops on the mountain side, with the purpose of out-flanking the left of our army; and at an early hour the next morning the engagement here commenced. Our limits will not permit us to give its details. On the part of the Mexicans it was conducted with consummate skill, and maintained with courage and obstinacy. Overpowering masses of troops were poured upon our weakest points, and at several periods of the battle their success seemed almost inevitable. But Gen. Taylor was found equal to every crisis of the conflict. Calm, collected, and resolved, he rose superior to the danger of his situation, and compelled a victory. It is admitted by all who were present, that no man but Gen. Taylor could have won the victory of Buena Vista. The battle raged with variable success for ten hours; and the carnage on both sides was terrible. At length night put an end to the conflict. The Americans slept upon the field of their heroic achievements; and the foe, shattered and disheartened, retired, and the next day were in full retreat to San Luis Potosi. Our loss in this extraordinary conflict was 267 killed, and 456 wounded; that of the enemy was from 1500 to 2000. A distinguished officer present, thus describes the demeanor of Gen. Taylor during the battle:

“During the day an officer approached our lines with a flag of truce, and requested to be shown to General Taylor. The brave old man was sitting quietly on his white charger, with his leg over the pommel of the saddle, watching the movements of the enemy, when the Mexican officer was presented. In a very courteous and graceful manner the officer stated that ‘he had been sent by his excellency General Santa Anna to his excellency General Taylor, to inquire, in the most respectful manner, what he (General Taylor) was waiting for?’ From the silence of General Taylor’s batteries, and the quiet manner in which he received Santa Anna’s terrific cannonading, the Mexican supposed he was asking a very proper question; to which, however, old Rough and Ready gave the very pertinent reply that ‘he was only waiting for General Santa Anna to surrender.’ The Mexican returned hastily to his lines. This message proved to be aruseto ascertain where General Taylor’s position was, for after the return of the Mexican officer to his own ranks, the whole Mexican battery seemed to open upon Gen. Taylor’s position, and the balls flew over and about him like hail. Utterly indifferent to the perils of his situation, there sat the old chief on his conspicuous white horse, peering through his spy-glass at the long lines of Mexican troops that could be seen at a great distance on the march. The persuasion of his aids could not induce him to abandon his favorite point of observation, nor to give up his old white horse. To the suggestions of his staff that ‘old whitey’ was rather too conspicuous a charger for the commander, he replied, that ‘the old fellow had missed the fun at Monterey, on account of a sore foot, and he was determined he should have his share this time.’”

The victory of Buena Vista closed the war in that quarter of Mexico. Since that period Gen. Taylor has found no enemy willing or able to encounter him.

The character of Gen. Taylor has been throughout his life, from the commencement of his career of victory at Fort Harrison down to the present moment, consistent and self-sustained. Its leading trait has been a disinterested devotion to his country, and the dedication of his life and energies to its service. In public and in private, he has always been distinguished for the lofty and iron integrity of an Aristides or Cincinnatus. Always independent and self reliant, he owes nothing to the patronage of the great, or the partiality of the powerful, but has fought his way up to the lofty eminence which he now occupies in the minds and hearts of his countrymen. His triumphs have been won by his own genius and virtues—his own counsels have directed, his own energies sustained him. His vigor of character, his power of will, and fertility of resources, have swept every obstacle from his path; laborious and intense in his exertions, patient and perseverant in the pursuit of his object, he has risen superior to the most perilous exigencies, and made every trial a triumph. To these high qualities he has added a sagacity which nothing could baffle or elude, and which, in the course of his long career, has in no emergency been found in error. Unerring and profound, it has been prompt to discover every advantage and powerful to improve it. His dispatches, in answer to questions propounded by the Department, in relation to the general policy, disclose a grasp and comprehension of intellect, an extent of information, and a depth of judgment that would distinguish any living statesman; while the style of his correspondence, simple, but polished, eloquent, but unostentatious, may be and has frequently been cited as a model of that species of composition. Gen. Taylor’s disposition is kindly and affectionate;his heart glows with benevolence, and his manners are gentle and pleasing. To those under his command his demeanor has ever been paternal and affectionate; and he has been rewarded in a devotion on their part as zealous and ardent as any which soldiers ever cherished for the hero that led them to victory. To his officers his deportment has always been generous, affording them, as in the case of Worth, every opportunity to win distinction, and eager to secure for them the admiration and reward which they merited. Even the foe not only learned to fear him as an enemy, but to revere him as a protector. His refusal to sack Monterey and expose the helpless and innocent women and children to the mercy of the flushed soldier, rough, and hard of heart, will be remembered as one of the noblest incidents of the war. His tenderness to the wounded of the foe, and his anxiety to secure sepulture for their dead, approve him to be as humane as he is heroical. Gen. Taylor is now fifty-seven years of age; he is about five feet ten inches in height, well built, muscular and hardy in his appearance. Our portrait may be relied upon as a correct and characteristic delineation of the features of one who will hereafter live in the most cherished affections of our people, and on the brightest page of our country’s history.

TO ——, AT PARTING.

———

BY CAROLINE A. BRIGGS.

———

Thousayest thou wilt ne’er forget;That I shall ever beA green spot on Life’s desert waste,A star of love to thee—A ray to cheer and warm—and yet,Believe it not; thouwiltforget!A few short years perchance thou’lt keepMy mem’ry fresh and green,Recalling e’en each look of mine,Without a mist between—And think ’twillayebe so—and yet,Believe it not;thou wilt forget!I’ve met with friends who’ve vowed to me,To love through good and ill;To cherish me till life’s great pulseWithin their hearts grew still—Forgetting me, oh, ne’er!—and yet,Alas! Alas! theydidforget.My name to them is now like someDim mem’ry of a songThey used to love to listen to—But that was long since—long—’Tis charmless now—and yet, and yet,Theysaidthey never would forget.A little time, and thou wilt writeMy name all names above,And then, perchance, thou too wilt findSome dearer one to love—Some fairer one whom thou hast met,And I, alas! thouWILTforget!Believe it not that I shall liveWithin thy heart for aye;Recall this weary parting hour,Some future, distant day—And thou wilt start to find that yet.Withallthy care,thouDID’STforget!

Thousayest thou wilt ne’er forget;That I shall ever beA green spot on Life’s desert waste,A star of love to thee—A ray to cheer and warm—and yet,Believe it not; thouwiltforget!

Thousayest thou wilt ne’er forget;

That I shall ever be

A green spot on Life’s desert waste,

A star of love to thee—

A ray to cheer and warm—and yet,

Believe it not; thouwiltforget!

A few short years perchance thou’lt keepMy mem’ry fresh and green,Recalling e’en each look of mine,Without a mist between—And think ’twillayebe so—and yet,Believe it not;thou wilt forget!

A few short years perchance thou’lt keep

My mem’ry fresh and green,

Recalling e’en each look of mine,

Without a mist between—

And think ’twillayebe so—and yet,

Believe it not;thou wilt forget!

I’ve met with friends who’ve vowed to me,To love through good and ill;To cherish me till life’s great pulseWithin their hearts grew still—Forgetting me, oh, ne’er!—and yet,Alas! Alas! theydidforget.

I’ve met with friends who’ve vowed to me,

To love through good and ill;

To cherish me till life’s great pulse

Within their hearts grew still—

Forgetting me, oh, ne’er!—and yet,

Alas! Alas! theydidforget.

My name to them is now like someDim mem’ry of a songThey used to love to listen to—But that was long since—long—’Tis charmless now—and yet, and yet,Theysaidthey never would forget.

My name to them is now like some

Dim mem’ry of a song

They used to love to listen to—

But that was long since—long—

’Tis charmless now—and yet, and yet,

Theysaidthey never would forget.

A little time, and thou wilt writeMy name all names above,And then, perchance, thou too wilt findSome dearer one to love—Some fairer one whom thou hast met,And I, alas! thouWILTforget!

A little time, and thou wilt write

My name all names above,

And then, perchance, thou too wilt find

Some dearer one to love—

Some fairer one whom thou hast met,

And I, alas! thouWILTforget!

Believe it not that I shall liveWithin thy heart for aye;Recall this weary parting hour,Some future, distant day—And thou wilt start to find that yet.Withallthy care,thouDID’STforget!

Believe it not that I shall live

Within thy heart for aye;

Recall this weary parting hour,

Some future, distant day—

And thou wilt start to find that yet.

Withallthy care,thouDID’STforget!

SONNET FROM PETRARCH, ON THE DEATH OF LAURA.

———

TRANSLATED BY ALICE GREY.

———

Fallenis the lofty column, the laurel green;The refuge sweet of my o’er wearied thought.I have lost that, which may in vain be soughtThe stormy North and the sweet South between.My dearest treasure death’s cold arms enfold,The joy and glory of my every hour;And Earth cannot restore it; nor can power,Nor oriental gems, nor hoards of gold.Since fate such sorrow doth for me prepare,How can I choose but bear a bleeding heart,Eyes ever moist, and looks by grief inspired?Oh life! which seen afar appears so fair,How often in one morning doth depart,That which long years of suffering had acquired.

Fallenis the lofty column, the laurel green;

The refuge sweet of my o’er wearied thought.

I have lost that, which may in vain be sought

The stormy North and the sweet South between.

My dearest treasure death’s cold arms enfold,

The joy and glory of my every hour;

And Earth cannot restore it; nor can power,

Nor oriental gems, nor hoards of gold.

Since fate such sorrow doth for me prepare,

How can I choose but bear a bleeding heart,

Eyes ever moist, and looks by grief inspired?

Oh life! which seen afar appears so fair,

How often in one morning doth depart,

That which long years of suffering had acquired.

SALLY LYON’S

FIRST AND LAST VISIT TO THE ALE-HOUSE.[7]

———

BY T. S. ARTHUR.

———

WhenSally Lester gave her hand in marriage to Ralph Lyon, she was a delicate, timid girl of eighteen, who had passed the spring-time of life happily beneath her father’s roof. To her, care, anxiety, and trouble were yet strangers. The first few years of her married life passed happily—for Ralph was one of the kindest of husbands, and suffered his wife to lean upon him so steadily, that the native strength of her own character remained undeveloped.

Ralph Lyon was an industrious mechanic, who always had steady work and good wages. Still, he did not seem to get ahead as some others did, notwithstanding Sally was a frugal wife, and did all her own work, instead of putting him to the expense of help in the family. Of course, this being the case, it was evident that there was a leak somewhere, but where it was neither Ralph nor his wife could tell.

“Thomas Jones has bought the piece of ground next to his cottage,” said Ralph one day to Sally, “and says that next year he hopes to be able to put up a small frame-house, big enough for them to live in. He paid sixty dollars for the lot, and it is at least a quarter of an acre. He is going to put it all in garden this spring, and says he will raise enough to give him potatoes, and other vegetables for a year to come. It puzzles me to know how he saves money. He doesn’t get any better wages than I do, and his family is quite as large.”

“I am sure,” returned Sally, who felt that there was something like a reflection upon her in what her husband said, “that Nancy Jones doesn’t spend her husband’s earnings more frugally than I do mine. Every week she has a woman to help her wash, and I do it all myself.”

“I am sure it isn’t your fault—at least I don’t think it is,” replied Ralph; “but something is wrong somewhere. I don’t spend any thing at all, except for a glass or two every day, and a little tobacco; and this, of course, couldn’t make the difference.”

Sally said nothing. A few glasses a-day and tobacco, she knew, must cost something, though, like her husband, she did not believe it would make the difference of buying a quarter of an acre of ground, and building a snug cottage in the course of a few years.

Let us see how this is. Perhaps we can find out the leak that wasted the substance of Ralph Lyon. He never drank less than three glasses a-day, and sometimes four; and his tobacco cost, for smoking and chewing, just twelve and a half cents a week. Now, how much would all this amount to? Why, to just sixty-five dollars a year, provided but three glasses a-day were taken, and nothing was spent in treating a friend. But the limit was not always observed, and the consequence was, that, take the year through, at least eighty dollars were spent in drinking, smoking, and chewing. Understanding this, the thing is very plain. In four years, eighty dollars saved in each year would give the handsome sum of three hundred and twenty dollars. Thomas Jones neither drank, smoked, nor chewed, and, consequently, not only saved money enough in a few years to build himself a snug little house, but could afford, during the time, to let his wife have a washer-woman to help her every week, and to dress much more comfortably than Sally Lyon had been able to do.

The difference in the condition of the two families sets Mrs. Lyon to thinking very seriously about the matter, and thinking and calculating soon made the cause quite plain to her. It was the drinking and the smoking. But with a discovery of the evil did not come a cheering consciousness of its easy removal. How could she ask Ralph to give up his glass and his tobacco, to both of which he seemed so strongly wedded? He worked hard for his money, and if he chose to enjoy it in that way, she had no heart to interfere with him. But from the time that Ralph discovered how well his neighbor Jones was getting along, while he, like a horse in a mill, had been toiling and sweating for years, and yet stood in the same place, he became dissatisfied, and often expressed this dissatisfaction to Sally, at the same time declaring his inability to tell where all the money he earned went to.

At length Sally ventured to hint at the truth. But Ralph met it with —

“Pooh! nonsense! Don’t tell me that a glass of liquor, now and then, and a bit of tobacco, are going to make all that difference. It isn’t reasonable. Besides, I work very hard, and I ought to have a little comfort with it when I’m tired, a glass warms me up, and makes me bright again; and I am sure I couldn’t do without my pipe.”

“I don’t ask you to do so, Ralph,” replied Sally. “I only said what I did, that you might see why we couldn’t save money like our neighbor Jones. I am sure I am very careful in our expenses, and I haven’t bought myself a new gown for a long time, although I am very bare of clothes.”

The way in which Ralph replied to his wife’s suggestion of the cause of the evil complained of,determined her to say no more; and as he felt some convictions on the subject, which he was not willing to admit, he was ever afterward silent about the unaccountable way in which his money went.

In about the same ratio that the external condition of Thomas Jones improved, did that of Ralph Lyon grow worse and worse. From not being able to save any thing, he gradually began to fall in debt. When quarter-day came round, there was generally several dollars wanting to make up the rent; and their landlord, with much grumbling on his part, was compelled to wait for the balance some two or three weeks beyond the due-day. At length the quarter-day found Ralph with nothing laid by for his rent. Somehow or other, he was not able to earn as much, from sickness, and days lost from other causes; and what he did earn appeared to melt away like snow in the sunshine.

Poor Mrs. Lyon felt very miserable at the aspect of things; more especially, as in addition to the money squandered at the ale-house by her husband, he often came home intoxicated. The grief to her was more severe, from the fact that she loved Ralph tenderly, notwithstanding his errors. When he came home in liquor, she did not chide him, nor did she say any thing to him about it when he was sober; for then he appeared so ashamed and cut down, that she could not find it in her heart to utter a single word.

One day she was alarmed by a message from Ralph that he had been arrested, while at his work, for debt, by his landlord, who was going to throw him in jail. They now owed him over twenty dollars. The idea of her husband being thrown into a jail was terrible to poor Mrs. Lyon. She asked a kind neighbor to take care of her children for her, and then putting on her bonnet, she almost flew to the magistrate’s office. There was Ralph, with an officer by his side ready to remove him to prison.

“You shan’t take my husband to jail,” she said, wildly, when she saw the real aspect of things, clinging fast hold of Ralph. “Nobody shall take him to jail.”

“I am sorry, my good woman,” said the magistrate, “to do so, but it can’t be helped. The debt must be paid, or your husband will have to go to jail. I have no discretion in the matter. Can you find means to pay the debt? If not, perhaps you had better go and see your landlord; you may prevail on him to wait a little longer for his money, and not send your husband to jail.”

“Yes, Sally, do go and see him,” said Ralph; “I am sure he will relent when he sees you.”

Mrs. Lyon let go the arm of her husband, and, darting from the office, ran at full speed to the house of their landlord.

“Oh, sir!” she exclaimed, “you cannot, you will not send my husband to jail.”

“I both can and will,” was the gruff reply. “A man who drinks up his earnings as he does, and then, when quarter-day comes, can’t pay his rent, deserves to go to jail.”

“But, sir, consider—”

“Don’t talk to me, woman! If you have the money for the rent, I will take it, and let your husband go free; if not, the quicker you leave here the better.”

It was vain, she saw, to strive with the hard-hearted man, whose face was like iron. Hurriedly leaving his house, she hastened back to the office, but her husband was not there. In her absence he had been removed to prison. When Mrs. Lyon fully understood this, she made no remark, but turned from the magistrate and walked home with a firm step. The weakness of the woman was giving way to the quickening energies of the wife, whose husband was in prison, and could not be released except by her efforts. On entering her house, she went to her drawers, and took therefrom a silk dress, but little worn, a mother’s present when she was married; a good shawl, that she had bought from her own earnings when a happy maiden; a few articles of jewelry, that had not been worn for years, most of them presents from Ralph before they had stood at the bridal altar, and sundry other things, that could best be dispensed with. These she took to a pawn-broker’s, and obtained an advance of fifteen dollars. She had two dollars in the house, which made seventeen; the balance of the required sum she borrowed from two or three of her neighbors, and then hurried off to obtain her husband’s release.

For a time, the rigid proceedings of the landlord proved a useful lesson to Ralph Lyon. He worked more steadily, and was rather more careful of his earnings. But this did not last a great while. Appetite, long indulged, was strong; and he soon returned to his old habits.

The shock the imprisonment of her husband produced, awoke Mrs. Lyon to the necessity of doing something to increase their income. All that he brought home each week was scarcely sufficient to buy food; and it was clear that there would be nothing with which to pay rent when next quarter-day came round, unless it should be the product of her own exertions. Plain sewing was obtained by Mrs. Lyon, and an additional labor of three or four hours in the twenty-four added to her already over-tasked body. Instead of feeling rebuked at this, the besotted husband only perceived in it a license for him to use his own earnings more freely, thus making his poor wife’s condition really worse than it was before.

Things, instead of getting better, grew worse, year after year. The rent Mrs. Lyon managed always to pay; for the fear of seeing her husband carried off to jail was ever before her eyes, stimulating her to constant exertion; but down, down, down they went steadily and surely, and the light of hope faded daily, and grew dimmer and dimmer before the eyes of the much-enduring wife and mother. Amid all, herpatience was wonderful. She never spoke angrily to Ralph, but strove, rather, always to appear cheerful before him. If he was disposed to talk, she would talk with him, and humor his mood of mind; if he was gloomy and silent, she would intrude nothing upon him calculated to fret his temper; if he complained, she tried to soothe him. But it availed nothing. The man was in a charmed circle, and every impulse tended to throw him into the centre where ruin awaited him.

At last even the few dollars she had received every week from her husband’s earnings, ceased to come into her hands. The wretched man worked little over half his time, and drank up all that he made. Even the amount of food that the entire product of Mrs. Lyon’s labor would procure, was barely sufficient to satisfy the hunger of her family. The clothes of her children soon began to hang in tatters about them; her own garments were faded, worn, and patched; and every thing about the house that had not been sold to pay rent, was in a dilapidated condition. Still, there had been no unkind word, not even a remonstrance from the much-enduring wife.

Matters at last reached a climax. Poor Mrs. Lyon had not been able to get any thing to do for a week, and all supplies of food, except a little meal, were exhausted. An anxious day had closed, and at night-fall the mother made some hasty-pudding for the children, which was eaten with a little milk. This consumed her entire store. She had four children, the two oldest she put to bed, but kept the two youngest, one five years old, and the other three, up with her. She moved about with a firmer step than usual, and her lips were tightly closed, as if she had made up her mind to do something from which, under ordinary circumstances, she would have shrunk.

After the older children had been put to bed, she made the two younger ones draw near to the hearth, upon which a few brands were burning, and warm themselves as well as the feeble heat emitted by the almost exhausted fire would permit. Then she wrapped each around with a piece of an old shawl, and after putting on her bonnet, took them by the hands and left the house. It was a chilly night in winter. The wind swept coldly along the streets, piercing through the thin garments of the desperate mother, who was leading forth her tender little ones on some strange, unnatural errand. But she shrunk not in the blast, but walked rapidly along, almost dragging the children after her. At length she stopped before the window of an ale-house, and standing on tip-toe, looked over the red curtain that shaded half the window, and concealed the inmates from the view of passers by. Within she saw her husband sitting comfortably by a table, a glass by his side, and a pipe in his mouth. Half a dozen pot-companions were sitting around, and all seemed enjoying themselves well.

Mrs. Lyon remained without only a few moments; then taking hold of the door she walked firmly in, and without appearing to notice her husband, went up to the bar and called for three glasses of brandy. After doing this, she seated herself at a table near by her husband. Great, of course, was the surprise of Lyon at this apparition. He jumped from his chair and stood before his wife, just as she had taken her seat at the table, saying, in an undertone, as he did so —

“For Heaven’s sake, Sally! what brings you here?”

“It is very lonesome at home, Ralph,” she replied, in a calm but sad voice. “Our wood is all gone, and it is cold there. I am your wife, and there is no company for me like yours. I will go anywhere to be with you. I am willing to come even here.”

“But, Sally, to think of your coming to such a place as this.”

“If it is pleasant to you, it shall be so to me. Any where that my husband goes, surely I can go. God hath joined us together as one, and nothing should divide us.”

By this time the three glasses of brandy that Mrs. Lyon had called for were placed before her on the table.

“Bring another glass,” said Mrs. Lyon calmly, “my husband will drink with us.”

“Sally, are you mad?” ejaculated Ralph.

“Mad, to go with my husband? Why should you say that, Ralph? Drink, children,” she added, turning to her two little ones, and placing a glass of unadulterated brandy before them. “It will do you good.” As Sally said this, she lifted her own glass to her lips.

“Surely, you are not going to drink that?” said Ralph.

“Why not? You drink to forget sorrow; and if brandy have that effect, I am sure no living creature needs it more than I do. Besides, I have eaten nothing to-day, and need something to strengthen me.”

Saying this, she sipped the burning liquid, and smacking her lips, looked up into her husband’s face and smiled.

“It warms to the very heart, Ralph!” she said. “I feel better already.” Then turning to the children, whose glasses remained untouched before them, she said to the astonished little ones,

“Drink, my children! It is very good.”

“Woman! are you mad? My children shall not touch it;” and he lifted the glasses from the table and handed them to one of the company that had crowded around to witness this strange scene.

“Why not?” said his wife, in the calm tone with which she had at first spoken. “If it is good for you, it is good for your wife and children. It will put these dear ones to sleep, and they will forget that they are cold and hungry. To you it is fire and food and bed and clothing—all these we need, and you will surely not withhold them from us.”

By this time Ralph was less under the influence of liquor than he had been for weeks, although he had drank as freely as ever through the day. Taking hold of his wife’s arm, he said, in a kind voice, for he began to think that her mind was really wandering —

“Come, Sally, let us go home.”

“Why should we go, Ralph?” she replied, keeping her seat. “There is no fire at home, but it is warm and comfortable here. There is no food there, but here is plenty to eat and to drink. I don’t wonder that you liked this place better than home, and I am sure I would rather stay here.”

The drunken husband was confounded. He knew not what to do or to say. The words of his wife smote him to the heart; for she uttered a stunning rebuke that could not be gainsaid. He felt a choking sensation, and his trembling knees bore heavily against each other.

“Sally,” he said, after a pause, in an altered and very earnest tone—“I know it is more comfortable here than it is at home, but I am going home, and I intend staying there. Wont you go with me, and try to make it as comfortable as it used to be? The change is all my fault, I know; but it shall be my fault no longer. Here, once and forever, I solemnly pledge myself before God never again to drink the poison that has made me more than half a brute, and beggared my poor family. Come, Sally! Let us hurry away from here; the very air oppresses me. Come, in Heaven’s name! come!”

Quickly, as if an electric shock had startled her, did Mrs. Lyon spring from her seat, as her husband uttered the last word, and lay hold of his arm with an eager grasp.

“The Lord in heaven be praised!” she said, solemnly, “for it is his work. Yes, come! Let us go quickly. There will again be light, and fire and food in our dwelling. Our last days may yet be our best days.”

Lifting each a child from the floor, the husband and wife left that den of misery with as hasty steps as Christian’s when he fled from the City of Destruction.

The hopeful declaration of Mrs. Lyon proved indeed true. There was soon light, and fire, and food again in that cheerless dwelling; and the last days of Ralph and his family have proved to be their best days. He has never since tasted the tempting cup, and finds that it is a very easy matter to save one or two dollars a week, and yet live very comfortably.

The scene in the ale-house is never alluded to by either the husband or wife. They take no pleasure in looking back—preferring, rather, to look forward with hope. When it is thought of by either, it is something as a man who has endured a painful operation to save his life, thinks of the intense sufferings he then endured.

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