Arthur Harrington continued very much at the “Institute” what he had been at the grammar school, a show boy, with now an incipient dash of the dandy. From thence he was transferred to college, which he did not enter as high as he and his mother expected. She took it for granted that he must enter the Junior year, as Frank Ashhurst had done, though most boys of his age commence with the Freshman. And here again, but for the crying injustice that always followed Arthur, when he found himself not rated higher than others, he would have taken the first honors. But, somehow, though Arthur was universally reckoned a “promising youth,” he never achieved any decided distinction when put to the test. At the debating societies he was ready and fluent, though often incorrect as to his facts, (but that made little impression on his auditors, who did not expect exact information from so young an orator,) and there he was quite conspicuous. He was a scribbler, too; wrote for magazines and papers, and now and then had the triumph of having an article inserted in one of the graver reviews. Altogether he had quite a reputation with parents, though the boys did not rate him as much.

“He’s a conceited chap,” they would say, and their elders and betters thought they were jealous. But give me a boy’s reputation with boys, and I’ll give you the future man’s among men. However, let that pass. Arthur graduated, and this time with an honor. It was not the highest, but he did not care much for that. It gave him an opportunity of delivering an oration; and fluent and easy, sparkling with well-turned phrases and showy antithetical sentences, though containing little thought, and no originality, it drew down frequent applause, and, in short, made quite a hit. The graceful manner and handsome person of the youthful orator went a great way—three-fourths certainly—for Francis Ashhurst, who took the valedictory, really delivered an oration that showed the germ (and that is all that can be looked for on such occasions) of real power. But then the manner was so bad that few listened to the matter, and he hurried through as fast as he could, and retired, much to his own relief and that of the audience.

On quitting college, Mr. Harrington would have been glad to have had his son enter the counting-house. But “Harrington & Son” did not shine as proudly in the mother’s eyes as in her husband’s. And Arthur thought it was the “old man’s” business to make money, not his, and negatived the proposition decidedly, not to say haughtily. He was destined to be a great man—the head of the bar—the leader of the Senate, possibly an author, certainly an orator, perhaps an ambassador—the path was not clearly defined—in fact, it was crossed with too many bright lights to be very distinct—but it was to be something distinguished—that point had been settled by his mother when he was in his cradle—and he himself had entertained the same views ever since he had been out of petticoats.

The bar, of course, was the only stepping-stone to these future honors, and it chanced that he and Francis Ashhurst entered the same office.

Francis had gone on quietly but steadily, the same boy and lad that he now entered life as man, and set himself in earnest to his profession.

Arthur talked earnestly, nay enthusiastically of his profession, and delighted in attending court when any great cause was being argued. But for the reading Blackstone, Coke and Littleton he found heavy work, and the dull routine of office business quite disgusting. He was fond of general reading, and skimmed the surface of things with great rapidity. He was quite a brilliant talker, too, for one so young, though more remarkable for his fluency than facts, and always made an impression, particularly on a first acquaintance. He had a decided reputation for talents in general circles, though in the office Mr. Osgood never turned to him when he wanted any thing of consequence done. He had soon found that Ashhurst was the man for real work, and being a man of keen perceptions, and but few words, he said nothing, but placed every thing that required attention in his hands.

Arthur was unpopular with the young men of the office. They called him “shallow and conceited.” The fact was, he assumed a superiority they were unwilling to accord to him. He prided himself not only on his talents, but his position, and thought they entitled him to a consideration that he never dreamt of according to others.

He did not mean to give offence, nor was even aware of his haughty tone of superiority, for it never occurred to him that his fellow-students could put themselves on a footing of equality with himself. They did not mix in the same circles—had neither fashion, nor wealth, nor consequence of any kind. What claims had they to his civility? He looked upon them merely as Mr. Osgood’s “clerks,” who did the underwork of the office; and from a boy Arthur had only associated with lads as delicately brought up as himself, and he now shrunk from the association of others as an annoyance. He would rather they had not come between the “wind and his nobility;” but since it was a “necessary evil,” he endured it. Ashhurst was the only one of them with whom he was on any terms of fellowship, and that was rather from early habit than from real feeling. Besides Ashhurst’s family belonged to the same clique as his own, and therefore was entitled to some respect, though Ashhurst himself seldom frequented the gay circles of which Arthur formed quite a prominent member. Mrs. Harrington delighted to see him conspicuous in society, and looked anxiously around to select from the youthful belles of the day the most distinguished for his wife. But Arthur showed no disposition to lay his heart as yet on the shrine of any fair one. In fact he was too much wrapped up in himself to find interest in others, and thereupon grew fastidious, and gave himself airs. Perhaps this somewhat enhanced his fashion, as he had the reputation of talent, and was decidedly good looking; beside which, as the only son of a rich man, he was called a “good match.” Ah! that bon parti—how much does it help and cover in “good society.”

Much, therefore, was excused him that might not have been so kindly received had circumstances been different. And so, what with reading a little law, and a good deal of light literature, mixing much in society, and doing none of the drudgery of the office, the three years of Arthur’s preparatory studies glided by pleasantly enough, at the end of which time he passed his examination, and supposed himself fairly started for his future career. But there’s nothing brilliant in the life of a young lawyer, let his talents and application be what they may. It’s hard work for the present with compensation in the future. Now Arthur had never done work—real work—in his life. His quick abilities had enabled him to skim the surface of subjects, and make a show with whatever knowledge he had. But the law is not to be skated over so rapidly; and Arthur had neither the taste, and, indeed, scarcely the power now of the close application the dry study required; and not being urged by necessity, he scorned the small business that might have fallen in his way, and taught him something. He longed for a great cause—which he could not have tried if he had got it; and being tired now of society, panted for distinction, and became impatient and dissatisfied with a profession which required labor, and brought in no immediate returns of reputation. There was such a crowd, too, of young lawyers that it was quite disgusting; and so he neglected his office rather more, perhaps, than he had ever done Mr. Osgood’s, and began to turn his weary, impatient spirit to politics, as the “only arena, after all, worthy of a man of talent;” and “the lawyer rarely makes a great statesman—the study contracts the mind; the most distinguished of them seldom rises above a special pleader, when called upon in the more elevated sphere of public business.”

Mr. Harrington died suddenly about this time—fell in the traces, exhausted with the labors and anxieties of his arduous life; and it was found to the surprise of most people, that his fortune was not the half of what it had been estimated. No doubt it had been greater at different times, but the variations of commercial affairs are known to all, and Mr. Harrington had had his ups and downs as well as others. It happened to be at one of these times of depression that he died, and the estate he left was scarcely more than a comfortable provision for his wife and son. Arthur was no longer looked upon as a young man of fortune; but then he had what he had at command, and that satisfied him for the present quite as well, and perhaps better, than fortune in perspective. It enabled him to do as he chose just then, and gave him the immediate consideration he wanted with a certain class of politicians. He attended public meetings, and spoke frequently, and took sides hotly and denounced men and measures that did not meet his views fiercely; and as he threw himself with ardor in the opposition party, and spent liberally, he was received with open arms and cheered heartily.

This was the excitement he had longed for. He now felt that he had gained the open space he wanted, and his mother, flattered and delighted, spoke of him as one of the leaders of the party. There’s no telling the visions with which his brain now teemed; but as most dreamers, whether waking or sleeping, are the principal figures in their visions, so he himself always occupied the foreground in all his mental pictures. Meantime his nights were passed chiefly in clubs, and halls, and committee-rooms, where he condescended, in the hot conflict of political feeling, to companionship he would once have stood aloof from as from something quite contaminating. He made himself conspicuous at the next election, expecting to be taken up after that as one of the prominent men himself. But when the second term came round, Arthur saw his means well nigh exhausted, and he no nearer the goal than when he first started. His mortification and disappointment were extreme, when he found he had no chance for any nomination whatever, either for general, state, or even City Councils; for he would have been glad to run for any thing rather than not run at all. But they would not even take him up. In fact they found he was neither a useful nor a popular man. Talents and information of a commanding order may dispense with the minor morals of good manners; but Harrington’s conceit was not atoned for by any such qualifications; and arrogance that is not backed by decided talent and sound information meets with small favor from the community at large.

And so he had had a few years of excitement, and spent his little patrimony, and was now just where he had started—if that can be said of any man, when years have passed over his head bringing neither added reputation nor knowledge. He had lost time and gained nothing; and, moreover, as we have said, had spent the little independence left him by his father.

It was now necessary for him to do something, for though his mother could give him a home, her fortune was not sufficient for them both. There was his profession, which he hated. He could not go back and drudge for dollars and cents. Beside it was too late—others that had started with him had got before him. Those who had kept to the beaten well-worn path, while he had been hunting for a short-cut, had reached the goal before him. As for Ashhurst, he was not only doing a good business, but beginning to be known. His name was mentioned with respect, and he was often associated as junior counsel with the leaders of the bar.

There, too, was his pen. But sketchy articles and slight productions, which are kindly received as the efforts of a boy, elicit no applause when coming from a man of mature years. And Harrington had not risen with the public; he had been called a “youth of promise” when a lad, but his manhood had not kept pace with the promise. He had made no friends and some enemies in his state of political effervescence, when he had dealt round accusations and epithets that scarcely even electioneering excitement will excuse. So now what to do he knew not. He paused and looked around, discomfited and mortified. He complained loudly, of course, of the treatment that he had met with—for injustice, as we have seen, had pursued Arthur from a boy, and now he was growing bitter—a keen sense of ill-usage is sometimes a great comfort—and his mother listened to his out-pourings with the deepest sympathy; for Arthur’s ambition and conceit had been of her cultivation. She had planted the seed, and now the tree over-shadowed her. She was deeply chagrined by his failure in all he had undertaken, or rather, we should say, commenced; for, like him, she did not comprehend that there is no rail-road to fame. But still she did not give up. Matrimony, woman’s great resource, was left him. She had always wanted him to marry; and now an heiress seemed the readiest means of mending his broken fortunes. Harrington himself saw no other; and so he entered society again with other views beside amusement.

A new set of beaux and belles were occupying the places of those who had been prominent when he first came forward; those who had been the gayest of the dancers then, were now wives and mothers, and most of them withdrawn from such assemblies. The men looked to him like boys, and the “boys” returned the compliment, and called him an “old fellow.” The beauties were most of them penniless; and it so happened that the few girls of fortune in society just at that time, were any thing but beauties; and Harrington wanted to suit his taste as well as his necessities, and he hated to do any thing he did not like; and he detested an ugly woman. He had always been very dainty of his feelings, and he could now neither work nor marry, if it was not in exact accordance with his taste. And, altogether, society did not seem to him the same as it once had been. Somehow it had lost its zest and freshness. He did not know where the change was, but he felt there was a change that robbed it of all its charm.

The secret was, that he was no longer a person of consequence, and excited no sensation among the young belles he saw around him. His first glow of youth and beauty was gone; and he had acquired no reputation to stand him in its stead in youthful eyes. He had no fortune either, and mammas and daughters don’t court and flatter a ci-devant jeune homme, who is no match. Nor was he called agreeable. He was bitter, and cynical, and egotistical; and girls don’t want to talk to men who talk always of themselves, particularly when there is nothing in their attentions to flatter their vanity. Women expect either to be amused, or to have their feelings interested, or their pride gratified. Now Arthur Harrington did none of these things, and consequently he thought society a “bore,” and society was beginning to return the compliment.

There was but one person who at all interested him, not that he thought of her—for she had no fortune, and would not do—but still he admired her. Sybil Effingham he could not look at nor listen to, without partly forgetting himself. She was in truth a bright, spirited, beautiful creature, high-toned, with a look of sensibility and disinterestedness—a something to touch the imagination—altogether a being that made him sigh as he thought of his altered fortunes; and though he meant nothing, he could not help visiting at her father’s more frequently than he thought quite prudent. To his surprise he occasionally met Ashhurst there; and what surprised him more was the consideration with which he was received when he did come. But Ashhurst was now a marked man, distinguished for his age, and women always yield a ready homage to talent, and delight in honoring those whom the world honors. And, moreover, Ashhurst was a man to please, though Harrington could not comprehend it; and, indeed, few men understand the female taste in that respect. What is called a “lady’s man,” is not, as men suppose, the most agreeable to women. Those are not the men who excite enthusiastic and romantic attachments. A woman’s imagination must be roused before her heart is deeply touched; and it is only a man of superior mind and character that does that.

And Ashhurst’s was an earnest, vigorous spirit, and the beautiful Sybil felt her soul awaken in his presence, and she listened to his words of power and truth as she listened to no other man. But if Harrington was surprised and vexed to see the reputation and ascendancy Ashhurst was gaining, his feelings were as nothing to his mother’s on the subject. It was really amusing to see the tenacity with which she clung to early impressions, (and Mrs. Harrington was a woman who had great faith in her own “impressions.”) She had pronounced him then a “heavy boy,” and altogether thought him a very coarse piece of clay, compared to her son of delicate porcelain; and how he had stood the fire and heat, and come out so much truer tempered through the rough usage of the world, was a matter she did not comprehend or patiently acquiesce in.

But to return to Arthur. He found it would not do to spend his time dangling after Sybil Effingham; and, perhaps, the coolness with which she received his attentions helped to awaken him to their folly; and about this time, too, a really pretty, high-bred heiress made her appearance on the horizon of fashion, and set all the gay world in a commotion, and among the first and most assiduous of her admirers was Arthur Harrington. But the young lady, like most heiresses and beauties, knew her own claims quite as well as anybody, and expected as much for her money as Arthur could for his name and talents; and so, to his great wrath and amazement, he was coolly rejected.

Her fashion and beauty were now his misfortunes, as in making her prominent in society, they also made her suitors conspicuous, and consequently, Arthur’s rejection was immediately as well known to the public as if it had been published in the papers; and he who one heiress wont have, another is very apt to refuse, because he has already been rejected—and one or two offers settles him as a fortune-hunter, and then his business is done.

And so it was with our hero. And this mortification he and his mother felt more keenly, perhaps, than all the rest—for there could be no injustice or foul play in these cases; and angry though he might be, he could not complain. He anathematized the whole sex in his heart, and said to his mother,

“I’ve supported politics—let politics now support me.” The meaning of which grand sentiment was, that he would turn office-seeker—a party politician for private purposes—the meanest of all professions.

Meanwhile Ashhurst had won the beautiful Sybil; and not only that, but was deemed a great match for her, for he had made an independence and a name, and might justly look forward to the highest honors that are open to genius and industry.

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“That Harrington is a disagreeable man,” was one day remarked by some one, “he abuses every body—only no one cares for his abuse.”

“He’s a disappointed man,” was the reply.

“Disappointed!” rejoined the first speaker, “I like that! And what right has he to be disappointed? What are his claims to any thing more than he has?”

“Well, I hardly know,” replied the other, smiling, “now that you bring me to the point. But, somehow, we all expected Harrington to make a figure in the world; and why he has not done so I don’t know.”

“Then I’ll tell you,” said the first speaker; “because he’s a poor creature—there’s no stamina in him. He has neither vigor of mind or character. He’s been cursed with ambition without industry. He has not the energy to act out his own dreams. He was just one of those promising youths who never come to any thing.”

“Pity ’tis true; but there’s no reputation without labor; and he who expects it, will turn out like Arthur Harrington, bitter and cynical. He may give himself the airs of a disappointed man, but that does not alter the fact of his being only a ‘poor creature.’”

And so Arthur Harrington sunk to a place-hunter; and, poor devil! “To dig he was unable, and beg he was ashamed.”

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Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1847 by Geo. R. Graham in the Clerks’ office of the District Court for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.

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A Memoir of Gen. Taylor’s life is, to one who writes it with no purpose but to do justice to a bright particular star in the constellation of our country’s patriots, a pleasant and easy task; for his career and character present no inconsistencies to be reconciled, no acts that crave vindication. His actions form his eulogy; and the severest narrative of what he is, and what he has done, is the most appropriate tribute to his modesty and merit, and to the gratitude and admiration of his country.

Zachary Taylor is descended from one of the oldest and most distinguished families of those who, two centuries since, settled in Virginia; and is kindred to James Madison, John Taylor of Caroline, Judge Pendleton, and others, the most ardent and spotless patriots of their time. His father was one of the pioneers of Kentucky, one of those who worshiped with their rifles beside them, and listened, in the pauses of their labor, for the yell of the Indian. Of the heroes of the dark and bloody ground he is said to have been the most daring. To that wilderness of wo, for such it then was, he bore his family, including Zachary, who was born in Orange county, Virginia, in the year 1790. It was under these auspices that the young hero was educated. His way to school was beset by savage foes, and in one instance, one of his mates snatched from him by the Indians. There could be no better school to form the mind and fix the character of the warrior, to teach caution and thoughtfulness, and to inspire enterprise and a contempt of danger. This education—the education of early Kentucky—has been admirably described by Byron, in his verses on Boone—

Derived from such a stock, and invigorated by such an education, he grew, as might be expected, a man ardent but thoughtful, bold but guarded—one likely to be successful in any sphere, and if after life afforded the means of maturing his powers, certain to be eminent. His early life abounds in anecdotes characteristic of generous and noble qualities, which, though derived from the best authority, our limits compel us to omit. From the first to the last, he has been regarded by those who knew him as above the common stature of his fellow men. In his retirement he was characterized as one whose genius and power were adequate to any exigency, civil or military, and who lacked only an opportunity to leave his name

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 almost miraculous. 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 flag flying 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 omnipotence of 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 encounter the 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 a ruse to 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.

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BY CAROLINE A. BRIGGS.

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TRANSLATED BY ALICE GREY.

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

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BY T. S. ARTHUR.

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When Sally 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, her patience 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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TO A YOUNG INVALID ABROAD.

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BY E. M. SIDNEY.

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OR, ROSE BUDD.

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BY THE AUTHOR OF “PILOT,” “RED ROVER,” “TWO ADMIRALS,” “WING-AND-WING,” “MILES WALLINGFORD,” ETC.

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(Continued from page 360.)