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