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From “Sad Talesand Glad Tales.” |
EXECUTION OF MAJGR ANDRE,
¢““We now return to our uafortunate
captive. The wise and the brave had
sat in judgement upon him. His case
had been the subject of high, and de
liberate, and affectionate ceonsidera
tion. The circumstances of his cap
ture—his unqualified confessions—his
earnest, though dignified requests, had
been maturely, but sternly weighed.
The nobleness of his nature, the lofty
disinterestedness of his demeanor, the
winning amenity of his manners, the
importance of his rank, were all ap
preciated as they should be by soldiers
—tried soldiers—when siiting ‘under
the severe sanctions of a war-council.
When they issued from that council,
the desolate doom of the prisoner was
irrevocably fixed. He was to die.—
Before another sun should go down,
his ties on earth were to be severed.
Meanwhile the subject of this melan
choly decision was awaiting the result
with all the calm and elevated feelings
of a generous and undaunted soldier.
He was ignorant of what might be the.
issue: but his Lknowledge of the rules
of war led him so far to anticipate it.
that he had in some degree become
reconciled to his probable doom, from
the very hopelessness of escaping from
it.. The agitation consequent upon
the suddenness of his arrest, had sub
sided; and though his saddened mind
reverted again to the scenes and asso
ciations we have seen him cling to
from the beginning, yet there was less
poignancy in his recollections, and less
acuteness in the trials of his high and
masculine sensibilities. The thought
of death was a vain thought to him.
He was prepared to meet it, in eve
ry honorable shape, in which a soldier
expects and hopes something to meet -
it. It was the stigma upon his fame
—the memory he shouldleave with
@an, that preyed wpon hig sonl. It
was this that paled his cheek, and
dewed his brow—it was this made his
heart beat till he could bear it, n his
solitude. If sometimes his sad glis
tening eye rested again on that pre
cious gem, which before had absorb
ed, as it seemed, his very life, the
kindest and bravest heart would spare
him there, if a tear was seen to drop
apon it; and the thought, possibly, of
sacred and devoted passion—of long
and ‘holy love, with all its blessed
hopes, and all its desclate bereave
ments, would accompany-it as it fell,
and hailow it forever.
- There was yet one consolation that
bore up the ptisoner, even ‘when he
thought upon the memcry he should
bequeath tothe Wworld and to posterity.
He hoped and _trusted that he should
meet an honorable. death, ard that his
coantry would never blush at his epi
taph. He had asked, he had besought,
with a bursting heart, that if he must
-die, he might die like 2 man of honor.
He had addressed the American Chief
tain, iu proud petition, for this last lit
tle boon of the condemned soldier.—
Ee had address2d him in all the beau
tifuf eloguence of his lofty mind, ure
ed by a heart almost breaking in the
intepsity of its emotions. Need it be
said that he roused all the sympathies
of a besom kindhag with godlike pur
poses, and alive to every heavenly
charity that can sauctify our nature?
Can it be said, that the heart he ap
pealed -to would not have bid him:
God speed, even, wiih a father’s bless
ing, to the arms of his countiy and his
home, did that heart beat alone for
himself, or did the faie of the victim
involve ‘only the single desiiny of that
great and devoted being? But there
were stern duties arrayed against the
kind spirit of forbearance and forgive
ness. The voice of his suffering fand
was imperious with him who guarded
her 1 council, and led her in battle.
That voice now called for justice and
demanded that the crisis should not be
forgotten. It was the cry of Liberty,
and the sacrifice must not be withheld;
it was the summons of Justice, and
his death must accord with the crime
of which the prisoner stood convicted.
During the days of bis confinement,
not a murmur escaped the captive,
in the presence of his guard. A dig
nified composure distinguished his de
portment—and the serenity of his
mind was depicted in the tranquillity of
h#s countenance. The last hours of his
solitude were employed in those holy
offices which friendship claims of us
when the sands of life are running low.
There were a few words to be said—
a few prayers to be uttered, for those
who were now dreaming of him on his
path to glory. There were a few
sad. sacred words to be breathed to a
foud mother—to sisters that loved him
—to some, perhaps, for whose sakes
alone life was yet desirable. and to
whose bosom he would now, as a last
duty to himself, commit the reputation
that was dearer to him than the air of
Heaven. A
It was in the midst of this latest and
holiest oocupation. that the prisoner
was interrupted by the entrance of
the guard officer. He came to an
nounce the hour of execution. The
young soldier looked up hastily from
his paper. His eyes were fixed a mo-.
ment upon his visiter—then slowly
fell again—and he passed his hand a
cross his brow, without betraying the
least emotion—“ls it indeed so soon?”
said he—‘‘then I must hasten!” He
finished the letter in perfect calmness,
and having made all the little arrange
ments that he had anticipated, previ
ous to the important event, he declar
ed to the officer his readiness to at
tend him at the moment of his sum
mons. He was then left once more
alone. “
Firm in the belief that he was now
to die like a soldier, he felt the weight
of his misfortune passing from his spi
rit. As he was relieved of this iron
load, an unnatural elastitity seemed
to be imparted to his bosom. His
heart beat almost to suflocation, and
NEW ECHOTA, WEDNESDAY OCTOBER 1, 1828,
the tumultuous motion of that fountain
of his system, eertainly manifested an
extraordinary degree of excitement.
tis last wish had been granted—his
last hope was about to be realized—
he was to find an honorable grave!
Even that was enough to be thankful
for! A few years, at best, and the
same destiny would be his. ¢The
pang,” thought he, ‘‘is but the com
mon one that man i§ heir to—
One touch of nature makes the whole
world kin—
And if my young existence must: be
thus hastily seal2d, thus severed for
ever, let fate do her worst, and finish
her work with speed”—ashd he paced
the apartment with an unfaitering step,
~and a lofty and unbending air.
- The sitence thet had been observed
by the commander in ‘chiegf towards
the respectful but ardent sflicitations
of the prisoner, had led hin to augur
favorably of his success.[ His re
quests had not, indeed, passed unheed
ed—they had sunk deepthey had
touched the finest and tendgest chords
that ever vibrate in the beoin of vii
‘ue and bravery—they hgd appealed
to the master feeling of a great heart,
and they wrought upon it with a living
power! The solicitation was listened
to with 4 deepening interest—but that
noble delicacy that actuates and ani
mates none but elevated niinds, for
bade the answer. To grant the prayer
was impossible—such was the iron
law of those who came up to battie—
to deny it was a sorrowful duty; and
it was equally a trial to the soul of a
generous enemy to throw back a soli
tary denial, or to wound the spisit of a
dewoted prisoner, by recdpiiulating tha
story of his dishonor in justification of
his sentence. It was ordained, there
fore, that he slxoul}}‘ remain in ignor
ance of his doom.!/ For that very un
certainty, the unfortunate victim was
now drawing his !ast and only consola
tion. The guard officer had now re
turned to accompany him forth, and
we shall leave them together while
we join the scene of preparation in
which the spy was so soon to become
conspicuous. Aty
It was deep in the afternoon, when
shadows threw themselves long over
the earth, and the sun was about to
sink into a thick, dull mass of clouds,
‘when movements preparatory to the
execution began to manifest them
selves within the post. There was
hurrying to and fro along the Jines—
and sad faces went by continually, and
downcast looks were seen there—and
every countenance wore the livery of
deep and sorrowful feeling. It was
evident that something mournful was
abeut to transpire. The soldiers pac
ed along the esplanade with low words
and rapid steps—and now and then a
tear might be seen to glisten—it was
but for 2 moment—in the eye of the
veteran. A large detachment of troops
was paraded, and many of the general
officers were already on horseback.—
Great multitudes of people flocked
in to witness the melancholy spec
tacle—but a wide silence pervaded
the immense collection. ~ With
slow and struggling ‘steps the
confused and intermingled crowd of
citizens and soldiers bent their way
towards the appointed place, just be
neath the brow of a green hill that
sloped towards the river. ‘There,
clustered around the dim spot devoted
to destruction, or sauntering over the
adjacent ground, they waited the ap
proach of the unhappy victim.
When the prisoner was led out,
each arm locked in that of a subal
tern, his step was uncommonly firm,
and his expression unusually calm, and
even exhilarated. The eloquent blood
glowed to his temples, and a bright
smile of satisfaction beamed from his
countenance on all whom he recogniz
ed. The thought of death was deal
ing powerfully but kindly with him;
for he saw thatan honorable end was to
be his—that his dyinz prayer was a
bout to be granted. He thought—and
the reflection sent yet new vigor into
his throbbing arteries-he thought that
he saw some pledge of a kind and he- |
roic memory in the sympathy that was
breaking all around him, in the gaze
of admiration that was fixed upon him,
in the tearful eye, the agitated coun
tenance, the respectful salutation, the
sad farewell, and the low suppressed
murmur as he passed on, as though
something went by which it was sacri
lege to disturb in its course through
the thronging multitude. He saw the
high tribute that was paid to his for
titude, in the silent look with which
he was regarded; and -he felt that
his premature fate was not unwept
even by his foes. Buoyed up by
these lively demonstrations of feeling,
he fancicd himself a martyr in the
cause he hdd undertaken to advance,
and pressed forsyard with mounting
emotions, as though in baste to seal
his pilgrimage here, and commence
the stainless career of his future fame.
“The report,” thought he, “that lays
me low, will send forth an echo that
shali never die.” ,
The detachment, with their prison
er, had now reached the summit of
the'hill, and come suddenly in view of
the ground which had been set apart
for this distressing occasion. It was
occupied by a gallows! - With the
rapidity of light every eye was turn
ed upon the victim. His was fixed in
frenzy on the dismal object that ruse
portentiously out of the multitude.—
He spake not a word—some power
ful, rending emotion had taken posses
“sion of his hursting bosom. His hand
flew to his heart—one look of an
guish passed like a shadow over his
faco, and he fell lifeless into the arms
of iis guards. There was no voice
beard in that immense crowd—but a
confused trampling as of -a vast con
course of people when they are rush
ing together.
The clouds had now cleared off
from the horizon, and the sun was a
bout going down, when the last rites
were performed over the departed
soldier. There was no pomp, or
noise, or show. A small escort of
troops marched quickly over the grav
el, and stood before the door of the
stone building from which the remains
were to be carried. A single drum
beat out a hollow note at distinct in
tervals, and the fife sung sharp and
mournfully. The coffin was at length
borne out; and with slow step, invert
ed bayonets, and downcast eyes, the
procession moved on. Many who car
ed not to join, stood behind in silent
contemplation; and many, out of idle
curiosity, lingered round, scarcely
knowing why they were there. Be
hind some low, desolate buildings,
which would scarcely shelter it from
the storms of winter, the solitary
grave was dug. Round this the sol
diers crowded in silence. On either
side they leaned upon their muskets,
and hardly a breath was heard, as the
book of prayer was. opened, and the
fervent supplication went up to Heav
en. The scene was singularly im
pressive. Immediately round the |
grave, in the rear of the soldiers, some
stood wrapped in gloomy attention;
others, still behind, were seen eager
ly gazing over the shoulders of those
who had closed up before them.—
Eyery cap was off, and every eye fix
ed. Still beyond, the sick were seen
peeping out of the half opened door;
and women and boys stood, with arms
crossed upon their bosoms, before the
miserable huts from which they had
just issued. There, there was no
moving—no noise—no roving of the
looks—all were bent upon the speak
er, who stood upon the brink of the
cold grave, with his eye raised in adju
ration to Heaven, and calling on the
Father of Spirits with an eloquence
so full, so powerful, so commanding,
that his very soul seemed to mcunt up
with his words. He ended. Then
came the hurrying of the ceremony.
At the quick command of the officer,
the coffin was lowered—the guns were
brought down—the steel rung—and in
a moment it glittered again in the last
sun beam. At a word, the death vol-
NO. 3.'.‘
ley was fired off in the air—another
followed, and ‘ther another—and the
last was discharged into the grave.
It was all over—the smoke curled
slowly among the wet gravel, and set
tled down upon the coffin—'twas the
war smoke enbalming the soldier!
The drum beat merrily and the files
wheeled into the lines, just as the sun
went down in his glory. :
From the N. Y. Advertiser.
® . TFRANCE.
The English Foreign Quarterly Review
for November, 1827, contain the following
| curious statements in relation to the late
revolutionary war,
France expended more blood than.
Britain in the late wars, bot much
less treasure; aud she has come out of
the contest burdened with only one
third part of the debt which presses
upon her rival. According to M. Du
pin, the twelve campaigns, from 1803
to 1815, cost France one million of
men, and 240 million sterling of mo
ney, or 20 millions per annum. The
loss:sustained by the invasions of 1514
and 1815, with the penalty imposed
upon her at he peace, he estimates
at 120 millions more. Applying the
same scale to the twelve years from
1792 to 1803, we have 240 miilions
additional; and for the whele revolu~
tionary wars, an expenditure of 600
millions of English money, and a mill
ion and a half, or two millions of men.
The estimate of course, applies to
the extra expenditure caused by the
war beyond what would have been re
quired in time of peace; but eventhus
restricted, it is very low so far as re
gards money. Though Britain was
ravely a principal in fi)é‘co‘r{(est, the
extra charges which she incurred in it
‘are estimated at 1100 millions ster
ling, or nearly twice the sum ex
penaded by France.” Of blood, on the
~other hand, we were less prodigal;
- for our loss in certainly did not ex
' ceed one fmh of that of our
enemy. Flte true account of the
) pecuniary losses of the two countries,
however, is.this. France laid out,
’ comparatively speaking; little money;
but she sustained a grievous injury in
the destruction of her foreign trade,
~and the check given to industry and
the spirit of improvement, by the want
~of raw materials, and the exhausting
~drafts of conscription on her active
~population. The rapid advances she
has made since the peace, show how
heavy was the load that previously
shackled her powers, and arrested
her progress. In Britain, on the con
trary, the march of imiprovement,
seemed rather to be quickened than
retarded by the war; and hence, the
peace, which has produced such a
harvest of benefits to ¥rance made
an immense sacrifice of human
flesh, and had the developement of
her powers prevented. Britain suff
ered little immediate injury, but has
accumulated a load of debt, which
will press on her sources for some gen
erations. g |
It must not be understood that the
state of French industry was absolutely
stationary during the war. The me
liorations produced by the revolution’
carried forward in spite of prodigious
impediments; but its progress was
trifling compared with the amazing
strides it has made since the peace.
In 1812 the quantity of wool work
ed up in the manufactories was 77,
000,000 pounds, [ English weight,] and
in 1826 it was 110,000,000 pounds, of
which 17,600,000 were foreign. In
1812 there were 22,800,000 pounds
of cotton spun; in 1825 there were
61.600,000 pounds; and the latter pe
riod the yarn was made of much finer
qualities, and was converted into va~
rious elegant fabrics, the manufacture
of which was scarcly known in 1812.
In 1814 there were I_O0,0(')O tons
of cast iron made in France, and in
1825 there were 160,000 tons, at the
former period 1,000,000 tons of coal
were extracted from the French.
mines, and at the latter period 1,500,-
000. 'The gunpowder consumed “§i ᏣᏕᎶᎳᎩ ᏧᎴᎯᏌᏅᎯ ᎯᎠ ᏂᎦᎥᏧᏚᏩᎶᏗ.
ᏬᎾᎪᏓᏆᏍᏗ. ᎢᎪᎯᏛ Ꮜ. ᏧᏂᎴᏴᎪ.Ꮓ ᏑᏎᏍᏗ.
ᏴᏫᏁᎬ ᏘᏂᏬᏂᏗᏘᏯᏊᏪ ᏥᏦᏈᏤᏁ ᏴᏰᏢ ᎤᎾᎫᎦᎢ
ᏥᏎᏍᏗ, ᎢᏳᏃ ᎤᏈᎬᏔᏅᎶᎵ ᎤᎠᎾᎫᏱᏍᎨᏍᏘ.
ᎢᏳᏃ ᎤᏰᏓᏢ ᏤᏩᏅᏁ ᎢᎠᏔ ᎠᎾᎫᏱᎲᎬᏊᏗ, ᏦᎢ
ᎠᎮᎸ ᎤᎾᎫᏴᏗ ᏑᏩᏡᏗ. ᎠᏕᏘᏱᏊᎬᏘ ᎢᏴ ᎩᎳ
ᎠᎾᎫᏱᏍᎨᏍᏗ; ᏅᎩᏁᎢ ᎠᏭᏢ ᎤᎾᎫᏴᏘ ᏂᏎᏍᏗ,
ᏣᎳᎩᏃ ᎧᏩᏒ .:ᏂᏧ:Ꮰ;)Ꭹ. ᏔᎵᏢᏛ ᎠᎦᎸ
ᏬᎧᎾᎫᏴᏗ ᏥᏑᏎᏯ.Ꮓ ᎤᏕ.ᏆᏪ; ᏤᎶᎩᏃ ᎢᎬᏪᏅᎴ ᎠᏰ”
ᎫᏱᏍᎨᏍᏗ. ᏦᏓᎢᏁᏃ ᎠᏰᎵ ᎩᎳ ᎣᏂ ᎤᏕᏘᏴᎯ”
ᏌᏗᏒ ᎠᎾᎫᏱᏍᏕ“ᏍᎾᏁ.
