the old veteran repeating over and over, the battles and actions he had been engaged in. without being fatigued, with his reiteration. These recitals were particularly gratifying to Edmund. Possessed of an ardent and enthusiastic disposition, he was never so delighted as when listening to the old man. If at any time, Miriam felt any restlessness at hearing a "twice told tale," she did not evince it, for the eagerness and attention, with which her Edmund listened to every word that fell from her father's lips would be a check to such feelings. It was a beautiful sight to behold the old soldier sitting in his little porch, leaning on his oaken stick, (which was often substituted for a musket). with his wooden leg stretched out; while on either side of him was his darling child, and his brave boy, as he designated Edmund, listening to his every word, their youthful countenances reflecting the patriotic ardor that flowed from the eyes of the animated old man. Soldiers, (it is an amiable weakness, I cannot call it otherwise.) never tire of repeating their exploits. The old soldier ever found in Edmund an eager and unwearied hearer, and not unfrequently as he recited some of his deeds, he would become so engaged as to imagine himself in the field of slaughter. 66 Thus passed the life of Edmund, his imagination heated by the relations of the old soldier, and the friendship for Miriam changing to love. With what joy did he hear of the declaration of war between the "United States. and Great Britain!” Now, now said he to the old soldier, may I witness some of those glorious achievements of which you have told me," he would have proceeded, but for an innate check. "Why am I thus disabled," cried the veteran, striking his wooden leg contemptuously with his stick, and animated by the same spirit which had led him to action forty years before, "why am I not able to draw my sword, and again brandish it over the heads of the enemies of our liberty! But I trust there are enough of brave hearts who have the spirits of their ancestors, and will boldly meet the invaders. But Edmund, your are silent?" "Yes, my dear father, (so he was wont to call the old soldier) but tumultuous thoughts fill my brain. This war will require the aid of every American that is able to wield a sword or bear a musket. Duty, honor, and my country's cause bid me lend a helping hand; but my mother will not consent to part with me." "Despair not, my boy," returned the old soldier, until you have asked her. Fly instantly to her, she will not refuse; go, go." Edmund did go. His thoughts, his hopes, his wishes, the love he bore his country, the assistance she required. he unfolded to his mother, backed with such arguments as his youthful imagination could conjure up. His mother heard him silently, and as she beheld his ac tions, and his enthusiasm, a tear trembled in her eye, for she felt that nature would predominate over duty. "My Edmund,” said she, when I lost your father the only consolation I knew in the affliction, was that you were still left me by a gracious providence, and do I in my prayers return thaks to the Almighty for his continued blessing in sparing you to me, and making you as you are. Edmund, (and her voice was almost choked) without you, I should be desolate and comfortless. My own child, you are dear, very dear to me; would you leave me, perhaps never to return?" The appeal was too close to his generous soul, his answer was instantaneous. "Never, mother, never!" and he threw himself upon her bosom!" My own, own boy, my dearest Edmund!" said his mother pressing him close to her and weeping. How happy was Miriam when she heard that Edmund would not leave her, that he would remain to sit with her beside her father and hearken to his recitals, that they should still enjoy their evening walks. She felt ineffable delight; not that her country's cause was indifferent to her, but she loved Edmund so dearly, 'twas such delight to have him near her, beside her; 'twas too so sweet to hear the soft accent of love he whispered half afraid into her ear; and then he was so fond and attentive to her father. In August, 1814, Mrs. Montfort was taken ill, and about four weeks afterwards expired. Edmund's feelings at the loss of the dear protector of his innocence are beyond description. The night anterior to the day intended for the interment of Mrs. Montfort, the old soldier, Miriam, and a few friends of the deceased, together with Edmund, were sitting in the small room where Mrs. Montfort was layed out. As the steady, dim blaze of the candles placed round the corse, shed their sickly, sepulchral light upon the face of the departed, it seemed to have awed them all into a deep silence; not a word was spoken, each was buried in his own thoughts. The little mantel clock had just told the hour of midnight, when the attention of all was aroused by the sound of a horse at full speed. As it fell upon their cars, a presentiment of something dreadful shook their nerves. Simultaneously, they sprang from their seats, and listened in breathless attention to the hoarse voice of the horseman as he rode up and down the village, crying, "Rise! rise, all! let each man seize his sword. The British, hot and bloody from Washingion, are about to attack us! Fly, fly to repel them! Rise all! Rise all!" Immediately the chamber where silence, a little while before, had held her "brooding court," was filled by cries of horror and dismay, and in a moment there remained with Edmund only the old soldier and his daughter. Edmund clasped his hands in agony, looked alternately towards the old soldier, Miriam, and his shrouded parent. At length, in the accents of a bursting heart he broke out: "It rends my heart in twain, but I'll do it! My country, thou hast conquered! Nature cries out, perform the last offices to a loved, to the best of parents. But honour and duty cry out still louder-let selfish feelings be sacrificed to public good-SAVE your country! My friends (addressing the old soldier and his daughter,) to you I leave my mother, perform the sad rites. I cannot stay; my country bids me fly to her succour. Should I never return, Miriam, let this kiss and this, sometimes lead thee to remember me. Old Soldier, farewell: pray God we meet again. And now my mother, let me press thy cold, cold cheek, once more-there-now peace, heart-Oh God! if I act wrong in this, forgive an erring mortal. Farewell! farewell:" He joined the troops, he fought the British at North Point, on the eventful 12th of September, 1814; but, nearly at the onset, he was struck to the ground by a ball, but disdaining to yield to what he termed a paltry wound, he fought on, until the loss of blood, and the acute pain of his wound brought him resistlessly to the ground. 66 With the rest of the wounded, he was taken to the hospital, where it was found necessary to amputate his leg. The young soldier bore the operation with firmness, but sighed as he felt that he would no longer be an object fit for his Miriam's love. It was some time before he was able to return to his home: Miriam wept as she beheld her Edmund a maimed man, but the old soldier, exultingly exclaimed. Believe me, Edmund, I more delight in seeing thee thus, than if thou hadst come back without a scar-for I know thou hast not belied my hopes of thee, but hast done thy duty, and well assisted to save Baltimore from the marauding enemy.-A few day after his return home, Edmund asked Miriam to conduct him to his mother's grave. Supporting him on her arm, she led him to the spot. When Edmund saw the grave stones she had caused to be put up, he could not speak; he seized the hand of Miriam, but ere, he could imprint the kiss upon it, a tear of gratitude dropt from his eye and watered it. "Miriam," said he, "a little while ago I left you whole in body, and possessed of your affections. You often told me you loved me. I return (a tear stood in his eye as he spoke) maimed, troublesome and useless." "Ah, Edmund," said the maid, interrupting him, “I know what you would say. I did not think you were so cruel as to doubt my fidelity. Indeed, my Edmund, I love you as dearly, nay, more dearly than ever." This was more than Edmund expected, or dared to hope. He fell upon the shoulder of his supporter and-wept. He could not speak he was blest, he was happy. They were united, and are now the parents of three children. R. r. FOR THE AMERICAN MONTHLY MAGAZINE. A SKETCH. O green clad hills, familiar to my sight! O well known paths where oft I wont to rove, Long use and sad remembrance now invite, Again to view the scenes which once could give delight. PETRARCH. Adolphus had just reached the summit of one of those romantic hills which seem to form the preparatory steps to the lofty mountains of the Harzwald. Involuntarily he reined in his horse, and cast an anxious look over the expanse of verdant scenery which lay stretched out at his feet. A dark and murmuring stream stole around the foot of the hill through a succession of rich meadows, and was decorated at intervals by rustic bridges thrown across it for the convenience of the adjacent farms. Further on were to be seen neatly white-washed houses peeping through the dark umbrage of the trees which surrounded them, and which by contrast added to the purity of their walls. Still further in the distance, the spire of the village church rose in glittering majesty, throwing off from its tapering sides the beams of the evening sun. Adolphus gazed upon this sweet landscape with an air of pensive satisfaction: he seemed for a moment to be lost to the external objects upon which his eye rested, and his hand was repeatedly raised to his face, as if to wipe away the tears that gushed suddenly into his eyes. He was evidently deeply moved. It could not be the novelty or mere beauty of this little valley that produced emotions so strong in his mind; for surely the gallant officer who had travelled through Austria, and Italy, and among all the wildness and sublimity of the Alps, had seen many prospects more lovely in themselves than this, which yielded in beauty to many in its vicinity. Still he continued to look upon the woods, and meadows, and the village, as though so charming an assemblage of rural sights had never met his eye before. The melancholy shade continued to rest upon his countenance, and to lower more darkly when he drew from his bosom a letter, upon which he pored for some minutes, until seeming to recollect himself, he returned it with a deep sigh, and proceeded slowly to descend the hill. It was his native village which he was about to enter, and every tree, and every hillock, spoke a volume of youthful recol lections to his soul. At every step. some spot hallowed by the joyous sports of childhood, saluted his moistened eye; some area of turf-the theatre of boyish gambols; some clump of beeches upon which he had cut again and again the initials of his name; some shady lane through which he had been often led by the hand of a tender father, who had a few days before been committed to the grave. The very cliffs of the neighbouring mountains seemed to gleam upon him with a look of recognition; the wagons returning through the defiles of the hills echoed a well known language to his ear; and when through an opening glade, he caught a glimpse of the little vil lagers enjoying the rude luxury of the swing, and heard their boisterous laughter, mingled with well remembered Saxon melodies, he was nearly overcome by a gush of warm and tumult uous feelings. But as he approached the house where he first drew breath, and where, he knew, a mourning mother was even now waiting his arrival the intensity of his feelings was redoubled, and he was constrained to stop, that he might collect himself suffi ciently to meet his bereaved family with proper cheerfulness and composure. He opened the gate which led into the court in front of the old family mansion, and alighting from his horse, led him slowly along the avenue leading to the house. He stopped for a moment to gaze upon a sun-dial which he had himself erected in the midst of a little grassy mound. The inscription was one which had been selected by his lamented father from Ovid: Tempora labuntur tacitisque senescimus annis; It was impossible for him not to apply the words to his own situation, and he relapsed into a reverie, while looking at the long dim shadow produced by the setting sun. Just at that moment two little boys rushed hastily towards him. They were clothed in mourning suits, but it was evident that the depression of grief had ceased in their buoyant and elastic hearts. Their lively little faces, shaded by curling an burn locks, and enligtened by eyes of pure azure, produced a strange emotion in his breast. He clasped them in his arms, and kissed again and again their ruddy cheeks; for he felt an indescribable affection for these little ones, excited probably by something in their countenances, which seemed to speak to him of former days. "Let me go," said the elder, "I am going to meet my brother Adolphus." Adolphus hiding his head in the 6 |