LINES.

———

BY FORLORN HOPE.

———

Fairest! Nature now is smiling, serene, lovely and beguiling,Let us to the sea shore stray,Where are billows ever filing—wiling there our hours awayListening to the ocean’s thunder,Gazing on the skies with wonder, wonder as each world we numberPoised in space above.Lo! Diana in her glory rising o’er yon promontory,Trace to earth the moon-beam’s flight,Beauty to our planet lending, blending while they are descendingWith the sombre shades of night.Tune thy lute, love, touch it idly, that the tones may echo wildlyAnd sighs of softest passion move.

Fairest! Nature now is smiling, serene, lovely and beguiling,

Let us to the sea shore stray,

Where are billows ever filing—wiling there our hours away

Listening to the ocean’s thunder,

Gazing on the skies with wonder, wonder as each world we number

Poised in space above.

Lo! Diana in her glory rising o’er yon promontory,

Trace to earth the moon-beam’s flight,

Beauty to our planet lending, blending while they are descending

With the sombre shades of night.

Tune thy lute, love, touch it idly, that the tones may echo wildly

And sighs of softest passion move.

MAJOR ANSPACH.

———

FROM THE FRENCH OF MARC FOURNIER.

———

Major Anspach was an old gentleman who was as thin as he was long, nay, even thinner than he was long.

Forty years before the epoch when occurred, oh reader, the events we shall take the liberty to recount to you, the worthy major was the finest looking musqueteer in the regiment of Monsieur d’Artois. He possessed some fortune, belonged to one of the best families in Lorraine, could fence to admiration, and had a heart at the service of the fair sex. The ladies of the court and city, to whom a son of Mars is always irresistible, of course were not insensible to the attractions of a musqueteer of five feet eleven, and the major, on his part, was so gallant in his attentions to them, that his captain gave him the title of the Turenne of boudoirs.

But forty years leave some traces of their flight; Major Anspach in 1827 was the mere shadow of his former self, and retained of his vanished splendors only a scanty income of 800 livres, a pair of black plush pantaloons, a long snuff-colored overcoat, and a garret for which he paid forty crowns a year.

Notwithstanding this serious diminution of the means of happiness, the major, who was a widower, contrived to enjoy himself perfectly for at least six months in the year. How few persons do we see who can boast of being satisfied with their destiny one day out of two?

It is true that the moderate pleasures of Major Anspach did not materially encroach on his pocket, and for this we deem the cidevant musqueteer worthy of eulogium. He limited his enjoyments to a promenade in the Tuileries, each time that the sun deigned to shine on its precincts, happy alike when the Dog Star raged or under the frozen beams of a wintry sky. As this orb however rarely deigns to show us his face in unclouded brilliance, our old friend had made it his profound study to discover that part of the garden in which he could enjoy the rays of Phœbus without exposure to their intensity.

After much research and divers trials, the major at last made his choice. At the extremity of the terrace des Feuillants is a platform, embowered in trees and shrubs, which commands a view of the Place de la Concorde, and the architectural entrance to that partof the garden. A balustrade terminates this platform, and by a graceful sweep conducts you to a pleasant enclosure between the avenues and the western gate of the Tuileries. This turn in the balustrade forms then, as you will perceive, an acute angle with the line of the platform, and it is of the summit of this angle, whose sides are composed of two walls about twelve feet high, which form a fortified corner, that we are going to speak. Exposed to the rising sun, this spot (as the reader may ascertain for himself if he likes) seems expressly constructed in order to concentrate the greatest possible heat in the smallest space, which heat would indeed be insupportable were it not surrounded with flowering shrubs and thickets to render it agreeable to the frequenters of the place.

Major Anspach, for reasons pertaining a little to his plush inexpressibles, avoided all contact with the passing crowd; and although gazing with pleasure on the sports of the children who visited the garden, nothing would have annoyed him more than too close a proximity to the young rogues, or to the fresh and frisky damsels with laughing eyes who had charge of the juveniles. It was essential to his comfort, therefore, to select a position where he could see without being seen, and also that his seat should be of such narrow limits that when he once occupied it, no one could expect to share it with him.

This bench M. Anspach had at last discovered at the intersection of the balustrade and platform, between two hedges of woodbine and honeysuckle, shaded by the foliage of a noble tree, and fragrant with roses and jasmine. He could there bask in the morning sun, enjoy a refreshing breeze at noon, and in the evening luxuriate in the perfume exhaled from the flowers and shrubs. The place, however, was so narrow, and so completely buried in the surrounding foliage that, although, as we have before insinuated, our friend was the longest and thinnest of majors, he could not, without some trouble, ensconce himself within its limits, but, once seated, his angular figure so completely coincided with the geometrical accidences of the bench, that it was impossible for even a fly to find a resting-place beside him.

Established in his daily position, the view of the dazzling façade of the royal palace through the grove of venerable chestnut trees, would plunge the old man in retrospection of the gay scenes in which he had once been an actor, and it was these melancholy though pleasing reminiscences of the past, combined with the murmur of the lively crowd and the mingled perfume and beauty of the flowers and foliage, that rendered this spot aterrestrial paradise to the cidevant musqueteer.

And how does it happen, you ask, that this poor Major Anspach, who was really a gentleman and courtier at Versailles forty years ago, should now be reduced to seek a refuge from the sun, and from the inquisitive gaze that might have too closely peered into the mystery of his plush inexpressibles?

It was by one of those simple,unforeseen accidents, on which sometimes hangs the destiny of a life-time, and which, in the major’s case, occurred in this wise: One evening a celebrated belle, Mademoiselle Guimard, was so awkward as to drop her handkerchief; the consequence of which was that her friend fell from one trouble into another, until Fate landed him in his long snuff-colored overcoat and plush pantaloons on the bench which is the true subject of this remarkable history.

——

Mademoiselle Guimard having dropped her handkerchief, of the finest linen cambric, edged with Malines lace, and apparently embroidered by the hands of fairies, the Chevalier de Palissandre, an arrant fop, clothed in velvet, and an expert swordsman, conceived the impertinent idea of stooping to pick it up; but he did it so clumsily that he trod on the toe of Major Anspach, who was just then offering his arm to the lady—how inexcusable! Briefly they exchanged glances—bowed most politely—and the next morning went out to cut each other’s throats.

At day-break M. Anspach had his hair dressed, and attiring himself in the most elegant manner, drove in his carriage to the Porte Maillot, which was the place of rendezvous. He put 300,000 francs in gold in his carriage, that he might immediately leave the country for foreign lands, until the family of the chevalier had ceased to mourn his death, for you must know that the major had a certain trick in fencing that he considered sure, so that according to his belief the chevalier was as good as dead.

The thing succeeded as he had foreseen; they made some passes, and as soon as the major perceived that the chevalier was getting excited, he made such a furious thrust en tierce that M. Palissandre saw the flash and fell struck by the thunder.

It was hardly daylight, and M. Anspach was in such a hurry to get in his carriage that he made a mistake, and entering that of the chevalier, was many leagues distant ere he discovered his error, and it was then too late to return.

Arrived at London, he remembered that his banker could tell him what had become of his carriage, his 300,000 francs and the Chevalier de Palissandre. He wrote to him then, and took advantage of the opportunity to ask him to send funds, for after turning his pockets inside out he had only found a few Louis. He had to wait some time for an answer, and in promenading the Park to beguile the weary moments he fell in love with a young Creole from the Spanish West Indies. The lady was on the point of embarking for Havana, and as our heedless hero could not become accustomed to the climate nor the plum-pudding, he raised a thousand crowns on some diamonds he had with him, and borrowed a thousand Louis from a friend attached to the French embassy, whom he had fortunately encountered in the street; the next morning he embarked on the same vessel as the young Creole, and was on his way to the West Indies.

After arriving at the Havana he wrote again to his banker, asking anew for his carriage and the chevalier, and demanding money. But the vessel that carried his dispatches was apparently lost, for six months afterward, the major had spent his last doubloon, and was still expecting an answer from his agent; he wasalso terribly tired of his love affair. In this emergency he thought the best means to obtain information was to seek it in person, even at the risk of being arrested as a deserter from his regiment; he resolved, however, to be prudent, and to enter Paris incognito. He sold hiswardrobe to pay for his passage, and landed without any misfortune, assuming the first name that occurred to him.

His friends who recognized him gave him a warm welcome, and informed him that his banker had left for America, carrying with him 500,000 francs, the price of an estate the major had sold the year previous. This new accident entirely disturbed his equanimity, as the above sum, with that lost in the carriage, comprised nearly all his fortune.

He had no resource but in the chevalier, but the chevalier he was told, after being an invalid for two weeks, had as soon as he was able to leave his bed started for London. The major, who inferred that the chevalier was anxious to return him his sword cut and his money, was touched even to tears by this generosity, and the next morning embarked for London in pursuit of his magnanimous foe.

Arrived at the great English metropolis, he ran to the embassy, visited all the hotels, explored Covent Garden and the Opera, searched the gambling-houses, the fencing-rooms, the coffee-houses—no chevalier! Finally he discovered by application to the firm of Ashburton & Co., bankers in the city, that the chevalier had departed three months before to the Havana. “Oh, the devil!” cried the disappointed major, “how cruel is Fortune. I would not return within reach of the claws of my Creole for all the treasures of the East. I will go to America and horsewhip that rascally banker—that will amuse me.”

This was certainly his most obvious course of proceeding, for as he had nothing left but a small income from a farm in the environs of Phalsbourg, it was better to run after 500,000 francs than 100,000 crowns. He therefore embarked for New Orleans, where his banker had sought refuge, and he succeeded in finding him, already penniless from speculating in public lands. The major felt the less remorse for cudgeling him soundly, and then not knowing what else to do, enrolled himself in the corps of M. Lafayette, to fight the English.

He evinced great bravery, and his career would doubtless have been brilliant had it not been for his unfortunate rencontre with M. de Palissandre, which, by rendering him a deserter, made him amenable at any time to the requisition of the Provost of Paris.

The American war terminated; the major found himself tolerably indebted to some generous friends who had divined his uncomfortable position. This circumstance recalled the missing carriage, money, and chevalier to his memory, and he accordingly wrote to the Havana for precise information. But the reply was that no one could be found answering the description of M. de Palissandre, and it was therefore probable he had died on the voyage out. The major almost resolved to hang himself.

On the other side, the payments from his farm had not reached him for some months, and the new aspect of affairs in 1789 did not inspire him with the desire of going in person to receive his arrears and to learn the cause of their non arrival, he could indeed nearly guess it.

His situation could not be more embarrassing, all things conspired to overwhelm him. “Is there not something incredible,” said he, one evening when seated on the Battery at New York, and in his excitement unconsciously speaking aloud, “is there not something incredible in my being the sport of such a destiny: that I should have been gallanting Mademoiselle Guimard, when the coquette dropped her handkerchief, and cost me a hundred thousand pounds, without mentioning my scrape with the government at Paris, and my debts that I cannot pay? Oh Fate! who can avert thy blows!”

At this moment some one tapped him on the shoulder.

——

“Friend,” said the new comer, “you appear overwhelmed with trouble. What can I do for you?”

“I will tell you, sir, what you can do,” said the major, haughtily drawing himself up; “you can take off your hat when you address me.”

“You are right,” replied the unknown, with a calm smile, removing his hat, “an honest man respects misfortune.”

“It is not my misfortunes, sir, but myself I insist on your respecting, when you do me the honor to speak to me.”

“You are French, sir.”

“A Frenchman and a nobleman.”

“You are mistaken.”

“What do you say, sir.”

“I say you cannot be a French nobleman, since there are no more noblemen in France.”

“I know not if there be any in France, but there is one here who will make you food for fishes.”

“You will not do it.”

“Do you mean that for a challenge?”

“Merely as advice. You are the cidevant Baron Anspach, of Phalsbourg, and you descend by the female line from the last Dukes of Lorraine. I know that, and I know also that your farm near Phalsbourg has been confiscated, because you emigrated; that you have no funds in France, and that you are there condemned to death.”

“I am obliged to you for the information, but I see nothing in it to prevent my pitching you into the water.”

“You may be right, sir; but even should you drown me, I do not perceive how it will improve your affairs. You will only have one friend less, and very certainly one misfortune more.”

“It appears, sir, that you have pretensions to wit.”

“I do not know which of us two has the most, sir; I, who would enlighten you on your situation, or you who would throw me into the river for offering you my assistance.”

“I am your debtor, sir, but a gentleman descended from the last Dukes of Lorraine cannot accept the offers of a stranger.”

“And from whom can you expect them here, if not from a stranger.”

“Permit me to inform you, sir, that no gentleman is reduced to humiliation who retains his sword.”

“Why, how would you use it?”

“To chastise the scoundrel who would insult me with his importunate pity, and then, rather than expose myself to repeated injury, thrust it through my own body.”

“You speak proudly; but acknowledge that you can do better than thus to insult God by disposing of the life of your fellow being and yourself. Are you sure there is no resource left you but suicide?”

“Yes. I have six Louis left.”

“Better than that, Major Anspach; there is a treasure in your reach.”

“Perhaps you mean wisdom?”

“No, but something that leads to it.”

“What then do you mean?”

“Labor.”

“Ah, you are a moral reformer.”

“I am but an humble creature of God, major, whose consciousness of his fallibility has led him to pursue the useful conjoined to the good. But I have only discovered one resource that is alike beneficial to mind and body, to the one in this world, to the other in eternity.”

“And this thing,” said M. Anspach thoughtfully, “is labor?”

“Yes, sir, labor—man’s destiny since his creation.”

“Man—well,youare right, for being no longer a baron I am but a man. But what is your motive in this conversation? You have catechised me for an hour, as if I recognized your right to annoy me. Remember, sir, I do not even know your name.”

“That is not true.”

“Oh, the devil! take care; you shall not give me the lie twice.”

“Well,” said the unknown, smiling, “I am going to commit the offence for the third time, in repeating that you cannot be ignorant of my name.”

“Faith, sir, if you think your name of any importance, I do not prevent your telling it to me.”

“It was my intention to have done so just now, when I offered you my hand and my services. My name is Franklin.”

“Franklin! Ah, sir, what have I done! Can you ever pardon me? I throw myself at your feet.”

Mr. Franklin raised the major, laughing till the tears came into his eyes, and telling him that it was not the great man he imagined, as that luminary had ceased to enlighten the world two years before, but for want of a better he, George Steward Zachariah Franklin, of the firm of Franklin & Son, of New York, was at his service, and ready to give proofs of his identity to his worthy friend M. Anspach. He further explained, that it was on the recommendation of Lafayette himself, that he had sought him out; the latter on leaving America having related the major’s situation and adventures to him, and commended him to his attention. He added that if the major would do him the honor to dine with him, he would have the pleasure of submitting some propositions to him worthy of consideration.

Major Anspach, Baron of Phalsbourg, extended his hand to Mr. Franklin, and pledged himself to profit for the future by the lesson of wisdom so opportunely received. The banker pursued his advantage so well that three days later the major left for Canada, and three months afterward was superintending the labors of five hundred colonists, who, under his orders, cleared a forest of some eight square leagues.

M. Anspach lived happily in these solitudes for twenty-five years, laboring to introduce civilization into their savage recesses. It was a rude apprenticeship for the cidevant courtier, but it is due to truth to declare that as his fortune increased, the major had the good sense to forget, for the moment at least, that he was descended on the female side from the last Dukes of Lorraine, and having married the daughter of a rich farmer, he thanked Providence, whose inscrutable ways had led him to true happiness at more than 1500 leagues from the Opera. Unfortunately the major’s wife died after a brief illness, leaving no children, and the day after her death he received letters from France, apprising him of the return of the Bourbons. The devil then put it into his head to remember his barony of Phalsbourg and his regiment. He immediately sold his American property, realized his whole fortune, which was more than a million of dollars, and embarked on board the Neptune for Havre. The voyage was prosperous until within sight of the coast of Brittany, when a sudden tempest arose, drove the vessel on shore and completely wrecked her. Some passengers were saved, among whom was the major, who landed on the shores of France as poor as he had left them thirty years before.

The only hope left to him after this disaster was, that he should be favorably received at court; and although his views were, in many respects, much changed, he resolved nevertheless to present himself to the king, in whose guards he had formerly served. But, from his first appearance, he saw there was no room for delusive expectations. In fact the major was not what was then termed “a nobleman broken down by exile,” he had dared to be happy while monarchy suffered, and to enrich himself among republicans, while other men of quality were forced to ask credit from the butchers of Coblentz. They did not even take into account his recent misery, since it was owing to a fortuitous accident, and he was therefore coldly dismissed.

The major was too proud of his maternal descent to abase himself by servility. He sturdily turned his back on the Tuileries, and concentrated all his efforts toward reëstablishing himself in his farm at Phalsbourg. He partly succeeded in his object, but when he had paid the advocates, the solicitors, the bailiffs, and the court fees; when he had discharged the debts he owed to some old friends, he found himself the possessor of 800 francs a year and an extremely philosophical wardrobe. He did not complain, but resigned himself to the dictates of necessity; he reduced his desires to the compass of his means, his ambition vanished, his contentment increased, and the man of the American forests, the colonist, reappeared more worthy of esteem in the midst of poverty than when he was rich and powerful in those vast solitudes.

And this brings us back, dear reader, to the little bench so prettily hidden in the clustering jasmine and roses, last retreat, last enjoyment of the cidevant musqueteer, who ruined himself twice and became a sage because Mademoiselle Guimard dropped her handkerchief.

[Conclusion in our next.

HOMEWOOD.

———

BY P. C. SHANNON.

———

Among the many beautiful country-seats which have, of late years, sprung up around us, there is no one perhaps that in architectural design, in compactness and elegance of finish, surpasses “Homewood,” the residence of the Hon. William Wilkins. Throughout all its parts, and in all its arrangements, it presents a chaste and highly tasteful appearance.

The name adopted is quite appropriate. The building stands in the centre of a nearly circular area, the circumference of which is bounded for acres back by the tall oaks of the primeval forest. In the summer, when the grass waves and the flowers unfold their fragrant treasures, this circular area presents to the eye the aspect of an island of verdure surrounded by the dim old trees. When evening approaches and the sun pours his slanting beams through the luxuriant foliage, bathing the boughs in liquid gold, no place can be more delightful than the “columned porch” at Homewood. The warbling of the birds, the fragrance of manifold flowers, the lowing of distant herds, the gentle rustling of the branches moved by the passing breeze, the shouts of the distant harvestmen preparing to leave, with the sun’s decline, their daily toil—all combine to lull the heart and to enchant the senses.

The approach is through a spacious avenue, curving as it nears the building, and crossing a little dingle, through which murmurs a gentle streamlet. The scenery is lovely, the soil fertile, the location airy and healthful.

The whole country around abounds in historic associations of the “olden time,” when the red man struggled against the advancing column of civilization. And what history has been unable rightfully to appropriate, legend and fiction have gathered up, and woven into dark and solemn drapery, wherewith they have clothed every prominent locality and invested every heroic character of those shadowy ages. Over these fields once roamed the Shawanese, who, driven from Florida, made their way to the head of the Ohio—a powerful, warlike, and restless tribe, who alone of all the Indians retained a tradition that their fathers had crossed the ocean. Not far off dwelt, for a time, a branch of the Lenni Lenape, who, in former days, had welcomed the Shawanese to their hunting-grounds. Tradition has it, that afterward the last mentioned tribe, forgetful of former kindness and hospitality, left their homes on the Ohio, crossed the Allegheny Mountains and fell by night upon the camps of the unsuspecting Lenape on the river Juniata, where they massacred many of them, and marched off with prisoners and plunder. Over these grounds, and up as far as the mouth of the Youghiogany, Queen Aliquippa, spoken of by Washington in his Journal, and visited by him in 1753, governed with rude and simple sway. Shingiss, King of the Delawares, the lover of Aliquippa, had the seat of his regal power near McKee’s Rocks, a little below Pittsburgh. He was young, generous and brave, and alliances with him were eagerly sought by both the French and the English. At the rustic court of Aliquippa, and one of her chief advisers, was Tonnaleuka, “prophet and medicine-man”—a solemn, mysterious personage, who sought, in caverns, to hold communion with the invisible world, and who laid claim to great knowledge in occult arts and mysterious rites.

At a distance of two or three miles from Homewood lies Braddock’s Field, on the bank of the Monongahela River—the theatre of one of the most prominent occurrences in our colonial history. The total defeat of General Braddock, on the 9th of July, 1755, caused an electric shock throughout the colonies, and occasioned profound grief and astonishment in the mother country. But on this field of death and defeat it was that Washington first gained a renown for wisdom and bravery which will be forever associated with his name. He was often heard to say that the most beautiful spectacle he had ever beheld, “was the display of the British troops on this eventful morning. Every man was dressed in full uniform; the soldiers were arrayed in columns and marched in exact order; the sun gleamed from their burnished arms, the river flowed tranquilly on one side, and the deep forest overshadowed them with solemn grandeur on the other. Officers and men were equally inspirited with cheering hopes and confident expectations.”

And yet ere the gloom of twilight had encircled the forest, more than half that brilliant army had fallen!

Among the many beautiful traditions relative to Washington, which have been handed down to our times, is one which rests on the authority of Dr. Craik, who, it appears, was the intimate friend of Washington from his boyhood to his death, and who was with him at Braddock’s defeat.

“Fifteen years after that event, they traveled together on an expedition to the western country, with a party of woodsmen, for the purpose of exploring wild lands. While near the junction of the Great Kenhawa and Ohio rivers, a company of Indians came to them with an interpreter, at the head of whom was an aged and venerable chief. This personage made known to them by the interpreter, that hearing Col. Washington was in that region, he had come a longway to visit him, adding that during the battle of the Monongahela he had singled him out as a conspicuous object; fired his rifle at him many times, and directed his young warriors to do the same, but to his utter astonishment none of their balls took effect. He was then persuaded that the youthful hero was under the special guardianship of the Great Spirit, (Manitou,) and ceased to fire at him any longer. He was now come to pay homage to the man who was the particular favorite of heaven, andwho could never die in battle.”

HOMEWOOD.The sinking sun streams through the trees,That form a circle there;And fragrant is the gentle breezeWith sweets from flow’rets rare.It nestles in the ancient woodWhere loved to couch the fawn,Where oft the dark-browed hunter stoodAt break of early dawn.These time-worn oaks might tell a taleOf struggles fierce and bold,When on the hill and in the daleThe tide of battle rolled.The Shawanese on foeman’s trailNo more bound free and light,Nor cower to hear the moaning wailOf tempest-howling night.From southern vales where SuwaneeRolls turbid to the tide,They tracked the wand’ring LenapeWhere northern waters glide.And when night’s misty mantle fellOn hill and dusky plain,Dark Juniata’s shades could tellThe number of the slain.That race of bronze hath passed away,And all the forests broad,That yielded to its warlike sway,Are now by strangers trod.The blue-eyed Saxon plants his maizeIn peaceful furrows now,And through the long, lone summer daysHe speeds the glist’ning plough.O’er pastures white with sleeping flocksThe night-winds gently sigh,And fields arrayed in golden shocksIn length’ning shadows lie.The moon is up—and silv’ry beamsRest on the grassy mound,Where Aliquippa’s spirit gleamsAlong the haunted ground.They say that in her mystic walks,When night-dews wet the flowers,The bright-robed Shingiss ever stalksWith her through vernal bowers.And Tonnaleuka, child of storm,Comes forth from cavern dark,With magic zone bound round his form,And pouch with healing bark.And where is she, the laughing maid,With tress of ebon hue,Who tripped so blithely through the glade,Or sped the light canoe?No sound is heard—no human voiceBreaks through the stillness deep;The twinkling stars, like saints, rejoiceThe ways of God to keep.O’er Braddock’s Field the mist hath spread,The same as when of yoreIt stretched its shroud above the deadAlong the winding shore.On nodding plume and polished lanceThe morn its glories threw,But proudly waved the flag of FranceWhen stars looked on the dew.Then loudly burst the conquering yellUpon the rippling stream,While faintly rose, from distant dell,The wild bird’s lonely scream.And when the drum had ceased to roll,And all the living fled,The watching wolf from covert stoleTo feast upon the dead.To far off climes that wail was borne,O’er waves by tempests tost,And long did Albion’s daughters mournThe lovers they had lost.Yet erring was the red man’s aim,Who oft, with leveled gun,Had sought to rob the page of fameOf Freedom’s noblest son.When years had fled, that chieftain frailWent far to see the man,Who through the battle’s fiery hail,Had fought when Britons ran.Full long he gazed upon the brow,And marked the placid eye,Of him who, loved by Manitou,Could ne’er in battle die!The chieftain old has gone to restBy Great Kenawa’s side,Where th’ waving pine bends low its crest,And the shadows dimly glide.Close by Potomac’s gentle wave,On Vernon’s slope of green,The nation’s father found a grave.And there his tomb is seen.——’Twas fit that here, in forest shade,This tastefulhomeshould rise,Where honored age in peace might fade,Like sun in western skies.

HOMEWOOD.

The sinking sun streams through the trees,That form a circle there;And fragrant is the gentle breezeWith sweets from flow’rets rare.

The sinking sun streams through the trees,

That form a circle there;

And fragrant is the gentle breeze

With sweets from flow’rets rare.

It nestles in the ancient woodWhere loved to couch the fawn,Where oft the dark-browed hunter stoodAt break of early dawn.

It nestles in the ancient wood

Where loved to couch the fawn,

Where oft the dark-browed hunter stood

At break of early dawn.

These time-worn oaks might tell a taleOf struggles fierce and bold,When on the hill and in the daleThe tide of battle rolled.

These time-worn oaks might tell a tale

Of struggles fierce and bold,

When on the hill and in the dale

The tide of battle rolled.

The Shawanese on foeman’s trailNo more bound free and light,Nor cower to hear the moaning wailOf tempest-howling night.

The Shawanese on foeman’s trail

No more bound free and light,

Nor cower to hear the moaning wail

Of tempest-howling night.

From southern vales where SuwaneeRolls turbid to the tide,They tracked the wand’ring LenapeWhere northern waters glide.

From southern vales where Suwanee

Rolls turbid to the tide,

They tracked the wand’ring Lenape

Where northern waters glide.

And when night’s misty mantle fellOn hill and dusky plain,Dark Juniata’s shades could tellThe number of the slain.

And when night’s misty mantle fell

On hill and dusky plain,

Dark Juniata’s shades could tell

The number of the slain.

That race of bronze hath passed away,And all the forests broad,That yielded to its warlike sway,Are now by strangers trod.

That race of bronze hath passed away,

And all the forests broad,

That yielded to its warlike sway,

Are now by strangers trod.

The blue-eyed Saxon plants his maizeIn peaceful furrows now,And through the long, lone summer daysHe speeds the glist’ning plough.

The blue-eyed Saxon plants his maize

In peaceful furrows now,

And through the long, lone summer days

He speeds the glist’ning plough.

O’er pastures white with sleeping flocksThe night-winds gently sigh,And fields arrayed in golden shocksIn length’ning shadows lie.

O’er pastures white with sleeping flocks

The night-winds gently sigh,

And fields arrayed in golden shocks

In length’ning shadows lie.

The moon is up—and silv’ry beamsRest on the grassy mound,Where Aliquippa’s spirit gleamsAlong the haunted ground.

The moon is up—and silv’ry beams

Rest on the grassy mound,

Where Aliquippa’s spirit gleams

Along the haunted ground.

They say that in her mystic walks,When night-dews wet the flowers,The bright-robed Shingiss ever stalksWith her through vernal bowers.

They say that in her mystic walks,

When night-dews wet the flowers,

The bright-robed Shingiss ever stalks

With her through vernal bowers.

And Tonnaleuka, child of storm,Comes forth from cavern dark,With magic zone bound round his form,And pouch with healing bark.

And Tonnaleuka, child of storm,

Comes forth from cavern dark,

With magic zone bound round his form,

And pouch with healing bark.

And where is she, the laughing maid,With tress of ebon hue,Who tripped so blithely through the glade,Or sped the light canoe?

And where is she, the laughing maid,

With tress of ebon hue,

Who tripped so blithely through the glade,

Or sped the light canoe?

No sound is heard—no human voiceBreaks through the stillness deep;The twinkling stars, like saints, rejoiceThe ways of God to keep.

No sound is heard—no human voice

Breaks through the stillness deep;

The twinkling stars, like saints, rejoice

The ways of God to keep.

O’er Braddock’s Field the mist hath spread,The same as when of yoreIt stretched its shroud above the deadAlong the winding shore.

O’er Braddock’s Field the mist hath spread,

The same as when of yore

It stretched its shroud above the dead

Along the winding shore.

On nodding plume and polished lanceThe morn its glories threw,But proudly waved the flag of FranceWhen stars looked on the dew.

On nodding plume and polished lance

The morn its glories threw,

But proudly waved the flag of France

When stars looked on the dew.

Then loudly burst the conquering yellUpon the rippling stream,While faintly rose, from distant dell,The wild bird’s lonely scream.And when the drum had ceased to roll,And all the living fled,The watching wolf from covert stoleTo feast upon the dead.To far off climes that wail was borne,O’er waves by tempests tost,And long did Albion’s daughters mournThe lovers they had lost.Yet erring was the red man’s aim,Who oft, with leveled gun,Had sought to rob the page of fameOf Freedom’s noblest son.When years had fled, that chieftain frailWent far to see the man,Who through the battle’s fiery hail,Had fought when Britons ran.Full long he gazed upon the brow,And marked the placid eye,Of him who, loved by Manitou,Could ne’er in battle die!The chieftain old has gone to restBy Great Kenawa’s side,Where th’ waving pine bends low its crest,And the shadows dimly glide.Close by Potomac’s gentle wave,On Vernon’s slope of green,The nation’s father found a grave.And there his tomb is seen.——’Twas fit that here, in forest shade,This tastefulhomeshould rise,Where honored age in peace might fade,Like sun in western skies.

Then loudly burst the conquering yellUpon the rippling stream,While faintly rose, from distant dell,The wild bird’s lonely scream.

Then loudly burst the conquering yell

Upon the rippling stream,

While faintly rose, from distant dell,

The wild bird’s lonely scream.

And when the drum had ceased to roll,And all the living fled,The watching wolf from covert stoleTo feast upon the dead.

And when the drum had ceased to roll,

And all the living fled,

The watching wolf from covert stole

To feast upon the dead.

To far off climes that wail was borne,O’er waves by tempests tost,And long did Albion’s daughters mournThe lovers they had lost.

To far off climes that wail was borne,

O’er waves by tempests tost,

And long did Albion’s daughters mourn

The lovers they had lost.

Yet erring was the red man’s aim,Who oft, with leveled gun,Had sought to rob the page of fameOf Freedom’s noblest son.

Yet erring was the red man’s aim,

Who oft, with leveled gun,

Had sought to rob the page of fame

Of Freedom’s noblest son.

When years had fled, that chieftain frailWent far to see the man,Who through the battle’s fiery hail,Had fought when Britons ran.

When years had fled, that chieftain frail

Went far to see the man,

Who through the battle’s fiery hail,

Had fought when Britons ran.

Full long he gazed upon the brow,And marked the placid eye,Of him who, loved by Manitou,Could ne’er in battle die!

Full long he gazed upon the brow,

And marked the placid eye,

Of him who, loved by Manitou,

Could ne’er in battle die!

The chieftain old has gone to restBy Great Kenawa’s side,Where th’ waving pine bends low its crest,And the shadows dimly glide.

The chieftain old has gone to rest

By Great Kenawa’s side,

Where th’ waving pine bends low its crest,

And the shadows dimly glide.

Close by Potomac’s gentle wave,On Vernon’s slope of green,The nation’s father found a grave.And there his tomb is seen.

Close by Potomac’s gentle wave,

On Vernon’s slope of green,

The nation’s father found a grave.

And there his tomb is seen.

——

’Twas fit that here, in forest shade,This tastefulhomeshould rise,Where honored age in peace might fade,Like sun in western skies.

’Twas fit that here, in forest shade,

This tastefulhomeshould rise,

Where honored age in peace might fade,

Like sun in western skies.

THE BATTLE OF TRENTON.

———

BY CHARLES J. PETERSON, AUTHOR OF THE “MILITARY HEROES OF THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE.”

———

[Illustrated with a View of the Head-Quarters of Gen. Knox, where the Council of War was held previous to the Battle.]

The battle of Trenton was the turning point of the War of Independence. For months before, the prospects of the Colonies had been darkening, and but for this bold stroke, would soon have set in gloom forever. A brief review of the condition of affairs is necessary to a just comprehension of the battle.

When, in March, 1776, the British found themselves compelled to evacuate Boston, they resolved to carry their arms into the Middle States, and there strike at the very heart of the nation. Accordingly, Sir William Howe, after recruiting his forces at Halifax, sailed for New York. On the 28th of August, at the head of an army twenty-four thousand strong, he defeated the Americans on Long Island; and, a few days subsequently, compelled them to abandon the city of New York. Washington now retreated to White Plains, where an ineffectual engagement followed. Soon Fort Washington, at the upper end of the island of Manhattan, was stormed and carried by the royalist troops. Finding it impossible to maintain his hold upon the Hudson, the American general determined to retreat across New Jersey; and accordingly, abandoning all his positions, hurried over the North River, the British following in quick pursuit.

Thus, within two months after the battle of Long Island, the cause of the Colonies sunk into almost hopeless ruin. The enthusiasm which accompanied the first outbreak at Lexington, had given way before the privations of a protracted contest; and the soldiers, who in 1775 had flocked unsolicited to the flag of their country, in 1776 turned a deaf ear to the bounty offered by Congress. In the army, the spirits of both officers and men were broken by a long series of disasters. Before the end of November the force of Washington, by loss in battle, by the expiration of enlistment, by desertion, and by other casualties, had dwindled down to a little over three thousand men. With this remnant of an army he retreated across New Jersey, hotly pursued by Cornwallis, at the head of twenty thousand well appointed troops; nor could he save himself from utter ruin except by throwing the Delaware between himself and his foe. On the 8th of December, he crossed that river, and, having destroyed the bridges behind him, gained a momentary respite.

To the eyes of nearly every man but the commander-in-chief, this momentary relief seemed only an interval of additional agony between the sentence and execution, for ultimate escape appeared impossible. The most sanguine believed that Philadelphia would fall before the month was out. Congress, which had been in session there, hurried off to Baltimore. Meantime, the British, in secure possession of New Jersey, issued a proclamation, requiring every inhabitant to lay down his arms and take the oath of allegiance; and hundreds, who had been among the most enthusiastic for resistance, but who now despaired of success, hastened to purchase mercy by a timely submission. Even gentlemen high in rank on the side of the Colonies wavered in their patriotism. The panic was universal. The hurricane seemed about to prostrate every thing before it.

In the gloom of this awful tempest, Washington, almost alone, stood unappalled. Not for one moment did his constancy forsake him. He saw the full peril of his situation; but he brought to it the resources of his mighty genius, and the unshaken resolution of his giant soul. Never, in any period of his life, was he greater than in this. No hint of submission crossed his mind. “If Philadelphia falls,” he said in public, “we must retreat to the Susquehanna, and thence, if necessary, beyond the Alleghenies.” From the moment he had crossed the Delaware, he had been revolving in his mind a plan to change, by one bold act, the whole aspect of the war. The British, instead of being concentrated in some central point, were scattered in detachments over New Jersey, a proceeding they had adopted for the convenience of forage, believing their enemy utterly powerless for aggressive measures. Washington resolved to take advantage of this error, and to strike at several of these detachments at once. He learned that fifteen hundred men, principally Hessians, were cantoned at Trenton, and that smaller bodies lay at Bordentown, Burlington, Mount Holly, and neighboring villages. To cut off one or all of these from the main army was his design.

It has been said, by more than one interested writer, that this masterly idea did not originate with Washington, but was suggested by others; and various officers have been named as the real authors of the plan. But the very number of the aspirants destroys the exclusive claims of each, and strengthens the notion that the manœuvre sprung from the commander-in-chief alone. The letters of Washington, for a fortnight before the battle, point to the great thought he was maturing in his mind. He was encouraged in his plan by the alacrity with which the Pennsylvania militia, under the command of General Cadwalader, began to turn out; and by the reflection that, unless some bold stroke was promptly hazarded, the spirits of the people would sink into hopeless despondency. Accordingly, he called a council of war, before which he laid his daring scheme. As absolute secrecy was necessary to the success of the enterprise, only the very highest officers were admitted to this assembly, which met at the head-quarters of Gen. Knox, in Upper Makefield, Bucks County, Pa. The house is, we believe, still standing, an antiquated dwelling of two stories, faithfully depicted in our engraving.

HEAD QUARTERS OF GEN. KNOX.The House in which the Council of War was held previous to the Battle of Trenton.

Little did those who met at that council of war, though aware that mighty results hung upon their decision, imagine a tithe of the truth. They knew that the success or defeat of the Colonies might possibly be involved, but they could not penetrate the future, and foresee that the existence of the greatest and most enlightened republic that ever lived, depended on their conclusion. To their eyes it was chiefly a question of preserving their little army, or at most of protracting the contest into another campaign, that they might have the benefit of whatever chances should turn up. But in reality they were determining whether the great problem of man’s capacity for self-government should be tested or not—whether twenty millions of people, as we now are, or one hundred millions, as we will be by the close of the century, should rise into freemen, or sink into slaves. Under God, all the progress that liberty has made since that hour, here or abroad, may be traced to the resolution adopted in that council of war! That we are a free people; that our wide-spread territories are filled with prosperity and happiness; that the United States is looked to by the whole world as the Mecca of the oppressed; and that every breeze that blows from Europe brings sounds of falling thrones, and nations breaking the chains which have galled them for centuries—we owe to the determination of that little assembly to sustain their commander-in-chief. We can imagine when the council rose, that the angel who watched over the youth of our republic, and who had trembled for the result, clapped his hands for joy, and that the exultant sound, taken up by messenger after messenger, passed from hierarch to hierarch, until all heavenrang with the acclaim.

The plan, as finally determined on, was that Washington, with the continental troops, should cross the Delaware above Trenton, and move down to the attack of that town; while Ewing, crossing the river below, should make an assault simultaneously from the lower side. Meantime, Cadwalader, with a strong detachment of militia, crossing at Bristol, was, if possible, to carry the posts at Burlington and Mount Holly. The night of the 25th of December was chosen for the surprise, as it was supposed that the enemy, on that festive occasion, would be more or less off his guard. The weather had been unusually warm for the season, and there was no ice as yet in the river to impede the crossing. Every thing looked promising until within forty-eighty hours of the appointed time. Suddenly, at this crisis, the weather set in cold, so that the Delaware became full of floating ice, which rendered navigation almost impossible. Nevertheless, Washington determined to persist in his enterprise. Boats had been collected for the transportation of his own detachment, at McConkey’s Ferry, on the west side of the river, about eight miles above Trenton. An express was sent to Cadwalader to inform him the attempt would be made, and to command him to cross, if possible, at Bristol.

As soon as evening came, the continentals, twenty-four hundred in number, with a battery of twenty light field pieces, were put in motion, and marched to the ferry. It was a wild and threatening night. The wind howled ominously over the landscape; a few stars only were seen in the dark and troubled sky; and the ice in the river, grinding and splitting as the tide moved its huge masses one against another, filled the air with foreboding sounds. In vain, for awhile, the boats struggled in the current. Now locked in the arms of apparently immovable fields of ice, and now in peril from floating blocks that threatened to crush them, they were borne hither and thither, and with difficulty reached the shore, where new dangers awaited them in cakes of the frozen material, which pushed end-wise toward the bank, frequently overlapped and almost engulfed them. At one time it was feared that the artillery would have to be left behind. At last, however, after almost incredible exertions, the little army was ferried over, but the task, instead of being achieved at midnight, as had been intended, was not completed until three hours afterward. During the suspense of this awful night, Washington, who had crossed early, sat, it is said, on a bee-hive by the shore, wrapped in his cloak, and watching the struggling boats by the light of the few stars which broke here and there through the stormy rack of heaven.

Two principal roads led from the landing-place to Trenton. One, following the course of the river, entered the town at its lower extremity; the other, called the Pennington road, made a circuit into the interior, and struck Trenton at its upper end. Dividing his force, Washington took the latter route with one detachment, while Sullivan, with the other, pursued the river road. The instructions of the commander-in-chief to the latter general were to push on until he had reached Trenton, which he would probably be the first to do, as his route was the shortest, and there wait until he heard firing at the upper end of the town, when he was to attack at once. By thus assaulting the British simultaneously on both sides, Washington hoped, in conjunction with the surprise, to render them an easy prey.

The march had scarcely been renewed when the storm, which had been threatening all night, burst upon the army. The snow, at first coming in squalls, finally fell unintermittingly, accompanied occasionally with gusts of sleet and hail. The two divisions moved in company for nearly three miles before separating, and Sullivan, remarking that the wet might spoil the powder, asked his chief what was to be done in that emergency. “We must fight with the bayonet,” was Washington’s stern reply. The tempest now rapidly deepened. The thick-falling flakes nearly obscured the way; the cold became intense, and the wind, moaning across the landscape, seemed to wail over the approaching ruin of America. Many of the soldiers being scantily clothed, were soon wet through and almost frozen. Others had no shoes, and their feet, cut by the icy road, left at every step a mark of blood. History presents no parallel to that eventful march. When still some distance from Trenton, two of the Americans, exhausted and chilled, dropped from their ranks and died. Yet still the remainder toiled on. No martial fife was there, no banner flaunting on high, no squadrons of cavalry to guard their flanks with triple rows of steel; but in silence, like the Spartans bound to Thermopylæ, the little band pursued its way. The inhabitants ofthe farm-houses on the route, half waking from sleep, fancied for a moment there were strange sounds upon the breeze; but imagining that what they heard was but the intonation of the tempest, they turned and slept again, little thinking that the destinies of America quivered that hour in the balance.

The anxiety of Washington, during this protracted march, rose to the highest pitch. He was aware that if the attack failed, escape would be impossible, with the wintry Delaware behind him. In deciding on this bold move, he had staked not only his own life, but the existence of his army, and with it the question of submission and independence for his country, then and forever after. He had put every thing “at the hazard of a die.” Yet the flight of a single deserter, the accidental discharge of a musket, or the occurrence of any one of a dozen possible contingencies might destroy success entirely. As the gray dawn approached, and the vicinity of Trenton became apparent, his heart, usually so calm, beat with terrible suspense. He rode forward to the head of his troops. Just at this instant the outpost of the enemy loomed up in front; a challenge was heard—a hostile answer was given, and a musket flashed across the breaking day. Fired by the scene, and by the mighty responsibilities of the hour, Washington rose in his stirrups, and pointing ahead with his sword, exclaimed, in a voice husky with emotion, but in words that will ever be immortal, “Soldiers, now or never—this is our last chance.”

On the instant the men broke into a cheer, carried away by the enthusiasm of the moment, and returning the volley of the retreating guard, dashed forward in pursuit. The British kept up a desultory fire as they fled, dodging from house to house. At their head was a young officer, who courageously exhorted them to stand their ground, until a ball mortally wounding him, he fell in the road, when they precipitately retired. The Americans now saw, a little in advance, the houses of the town; heard the alarm which was calling the British soldiery together, and immediately after beheld the enemy endeavoring to form a battery across King street, directly in front. Not a moment was to be lost. Six of Knox’s pieces immediately galloped into position, and unlimbering, opened a destructive fire down the street. When this discharge was over, the advanced guard rushed forward, charged up to the muzzles of the enemy’s guns, sabered some of the artillerists who were about firing, and drove the rest away, and capturing the pieces, turned two of them on the flying foe. This occurred near where the feeder crosses the street. Having thus destroyed the outworks of the enemy, the successful assailants advanced down Queen street, extending toward the left, across the fields, so as to cut off the Hessians from retreating toward Princeton.

Meantime, all was terror and confusion among the enemy. The night had been one of festivity in Trenton, the soldiers being in the beer-shops carousing, and the officers indulging in mirth. Col. Rahl had been occupied all night in playing cards at head-quarters, a house belonging to Mr. Stacy Potts, and still standing near the head of Greene street. When the firing at the picket occurred, he stopped and listened. The sleet driving against the window-pane, for a moment deceived him. But when the rattle of the first volley came to his ears, flinging down his cards, he rushed to the door. Here, through the misty dawn, he beheld some Hessians running down the street toward him, with the cry that Washington, with his entire army, was upon them. At this Rahl shouted to arms. The drums beat. In an instant all Trenton was in a tumult. The privates rushed from their quarters, some with, some without arms; the officers were heard calling to the men, or seen endeavoring to form the ranks; and the inhabitants, roused from sleep, hurried to their windows, and looking out for an instant on the uproar, hastened to conceal themselves in the recesses of their dwellings.

The main division of the array had scarcely unlimbered its battery in King street, when the sound of firing from the lower extremity of the town, announced that Sullivan had reached his position. Not three minutes had elapsed between the time when the two divisions came into action. The knowledge that the enemy had been surprised in front and rear at once inspired the Americans with fresh ardor, and they charged down the two principal streets, King and Queen, with an impetuosity that broke through every attempt at resistance. In vain Rahl galloped to and fro rallying his men; in vain the subordinate officers exerted themselves; in vain the privates, ashamed to be conquered without a blow, endeavored to make a stand;—the enthusiasm of the assailants was irresistible, the Hessians everywhere gave way, and when Rahl soon after fell mortally wounded, his troops broke into ignominious flight. A few threw themselves into a stone mansion, where they were speedily forced to surrender. The remainder fled precipitately toward the Assinpink river, which flows along the lower end of the town. Here, some endeavoring to swim across were drowned or frozen to death; but the greater portion, hemmed in on one side by Washington, and on the other by Sullivan, and finding escape hopeless, laid down their arms.

The victory was complete. The whole force of the British at Trenton fell into the hands of Washington, except a body of 500 horse, which fled in the direction of Bordentown early in the action. Even these, however, would not have made good their escape, if Gen. Ewing, who was to have crossed below, had been able to effect his purpose. The number of prisoners actually captured was 909, of whom 23 were officers. About a thousand stand of arms fell into the hands of the victors. This glorious success was purchased without the loss of a man, except the two who died on the march; and but two officers, and a few privates were wounded. The Hessians lost 7 officers and nearly 30 men killed. As Washington rode over the field after the conflict, he found Rahl, lying in the snow, weltering in blood. The dying commander, supported by a file of sergeants, tendered his sword to the victor, and in broken accents seemed to implore clemency. The American chief, touched by the spectacle, ordered his own physician to attend the sufferer. But medical assistance was in vain. Rahl, on being carried back to his head-quarters, died soon after.

The entire British army, west of Princeton, would have fallen a prey to Washington, if Cadwalader andEwing had been able to cross at their respective places; but neither effecting this, the posts at Bordentown, Burlington, and Mount Holly, escaped. Meantime, aware that the royal generals might concentrate their forces and cut off his retreat, Washington decided to re-cross the Delaware that very day with his prisoners. Accordingly, before night, the captured Hessians were transferred to Pennsylvania. The news of this great victory spread with inconceivable swiftness; but such was the opinion of British invincibility, that, at first, few persons could be found to believe the tale. Aware of the general incredulity, Washington hastened to dispatch his prisoners to Philadelphia, where, on the day succeeding the battle, they were paraded through the streets, to the amazement, not less than to the delight of the inhabitants. The effect of the victory on the country was electric. The charm of British invincibility was broken forever. Men no longer regarded the cause of the Colonies as hopeless, but, encouraged by this decisive success, looked forward confidently to a glorious issue. In a word, the battle of Trenton changed the wavering into friends; made those who had been hostile, neutral; and convinced the patriot that God was on his side, and that his country would yet be free.

The victory struck terror to the heart of the British army. Cornwallis, who was about to embark for Europe, abandoned his voyage in alarm, and hurried back from New York to assume command of the troops on the Delaware. His first step was to withdraw his forces from the exposed points, and concentrate them at Princeton and toward New Brunswick. Nor was this precaution idle. Washington, having recruited his troops, and being reinforced, crossed the Delaware again on the 30th of December, and took post at Trenton. To drive him from thence Cornwallis advanced from Princeton, and, on the 2nd of January, 1777, assaulted the American lines, established on the south side of the Assinpink. Three times he endeavored to carry the bridge which separated him from his foe, and three times he was repulsed. At last night put an end to the contest. In the darkness, Washington abandoning his position, marched on Princeton, intending to cut off the royal general from his communications. A battle ensued at this place, which was scarcely decided in favor of the Americans, when Cornwallis, hurrying up from Trenton, compelled the victors to draw off to the high grounds in the direction of Morristown. The British general, completely baffled, fell back to the Raritan, abandoning all his posts on the Delaware. The result of this splendid series of operations on the part of Washington was to deliver New Jersey from the enemy, in the short space of ten days. Thus, when supposed to be annihilated, the American general, like some fabled genius, had suddenly risen up, saved Philadelphia, recovered all he had lost in the preceding two months, and given an impetus to victory which never ceased until the red cross of Great Britain sunk into dust on the plains of Yorktown.

When hereafter the military genius of Washington is called in question, let the story of Trenton be remembered. Napoleon always spoke of this ten days’ campaign as one of the most able on record. Botta, the Italian historian, said of it, “Achievements so astonishing gained for the American commander a very great reputation, and were regarded with wonder by all nations, as well as by the Americans; every one applauded the prudence, the firmness, and the daring of Washington; all declared him the saviour of his country; all proclaimed himequal to the most renowned commanders of antiquity.”

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