THE LIFE GUARDSMAN.

———

BY JESSE E. DOW.

———

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

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

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

“Jocund day stood tiptoe on the mountain top”—

or the reveillé aroused the army from their slumbers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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