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you and all knew afterwards that 1 was
unjustly sentenced to. God bless you !”
Here the tears came from his eyes, and
neither the captain, nor any one around,
could conceal their kindred sensation.
The poor sufferer resumed—“l have
only to beg, sir, you will take care that
my dear wife and little ones shall have
my back pay as soon as possible ; —1 am
not many hours for this world.” The
captain pressed his hand, but could not
-peak, lie h and his face in his handker
chief.
“1 have done my duty, captain —have
l not, sir V
“You have, Tom, you have, and nobly
done it,” replied the captain, with great
emotion.
“God bless you!—l have only one
thing more to say.” Then addressing
one of his comrades he asked for his ha
versack, which was immediately handed
to him. “1 have only one thing to say,
captain,” said he; “1 have not been very
well this week, sir, and did not eat all
my rations. 1 have one biscuit—it is
all I possess. You, as well as others,
sir, are without bread ; take it for the
sake of a poor grateful soldier—take it —
take it, sir, and God be with you !”
The poor good-natured creature was
totally exhausted as he concluded; he
leaned back —his eyes grew a dull glassy
colour —his face still paler, and he ex
pired in about ten minutes after on the
spot. The captain wept like a child.
Few woids were spoken. The body
was borne along with us to the wood
where the division was bivouacked, and
the whole of the company to which the
man belonged attended his interment,
which took place in about two hours af
ter. He was wrapped in his blanket, just
as he was, and laid in the earth. The
: captain himself read a prayer over his
grave, and pronounced a short, but im
pressive eulogy on the merits of the de
parted. lie showed the men the biscuit,
as he related to them the manner in
which it had been given to him, and he
declared he would never taste it, but
keep the token in remembrance of the
good soldier, even though he starved.
The commissary, however, arrived that
night, and prevented the necessity of trial
to the captain’s amiable resolution. At
the same time, I do believe that nothing
would have made him eat the biscuit.
This is no tale of fiction : the fact oc
curred before the author’s eyes. Let no
man, then, in his ignorance, throw taunts
upon the soldier, and tell him that his
gay apparel and his daily bread are paid
tor out of the citizen's pocket. Rather
let him think on this biscuit, and reflect,
that the soldier earns his crust as well as
he, and when the day of trial comes, will
bear the worst and most appalling pri
vations, to keep the enemy from snatch
ing the last biscuit out of the citizen’s
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE.
mouth. It is for his country men at home
that he starves—it is for them lie dies.
[ Chambers's Edinburgh Journal.
WILLIAM C. BRYANT’S CHAR
ACTER.
Mr. Bryant’s habits of life have a
smack of asceticism although he is the
disciple of none of the popular schools
which, under various forms, claim to
rule the present world in that direction.
Milk is more familiar to his lips than
wine, yet he does not disdain the “cheer
ful hour, over which moderation presides,
lie eats sparingly of animal food, but lie
is by no means afraid to enjoy roast
goose Jest he should outrage the manes
of his ancestors, like some modern en
thusiasts. He “hears no music,” if it be
fantastical, yet his ear is finely attuned
to the varied harmonies of wood and
wave. His health is delicate, yet he is
almost never ill; hislife laborious, yet care
fully guardedagainstexcessiveand exhaus
ting fatigue. He is a man of rule, but
none the less tolerant of want of method
in others; strictly self governed, but
not prone to censure the unwary or the
weak willed. In religion he is at once
catholic and devout, and to moral excel
lence no soul bows lower. Placable
we can perhaps hardly call him, for, im
pressions on his mind are almost indeli
ble ; but it may, with the strictest truth,
be said, that it requires a great offence, or
a great unworthiness, to make an enemy
of him, so strong, is his sense of justice.
Not amid the bustle and dust of the po
litical arena, eased in armour offensive
and defensive, is a champion’s more in
timate self to be estimated, but in the
pavilion or the bower, where, in robes
of ease, and with all professional feroci
ty laid aside, we see his natural form and
complexion, and hear, in placid domestic
tones, the voice so lately thundering
above the fight. 80 we willingly follow
Mr. Bryant to Roslyn ; see him musing
on the pretty rural bridge that spans the
fish-pond; or taking the oar in his
daughter’s fairy boat; or pruning his
trees; or talking over farming matters
with his neighbours; or—to return to
the spot whence we set out some time
ago —sitting calm and happy in that
pleasant 1i bi ary, surrounded by the
friends he loves to draw about him, or
listening to the prattle of infant voices,
quite as much at home there as under
their own more especial roof—his daugh
ter’s, within the same inclosure.
In person, Mr. Bryant is quite slender,
symmetrical and well poised ; in carriage,
eminently firm and self possessed. He
is fond of long rural walks and of gym
nastic exercises—on ail which health de
pends. Poetical composition tries him
severely—so severely, that his efforts of
that kind are necessarily rare. His are
no holiday verses ; and these who urge
his producing a long poem are, per
haps, proposing that he should, in grati
fying their admiration, build for himself
a monument iu which he would he self
enveloped. Let us rather content our
selves with asking “a few more of the
same,” especially of the latest poems,
in which, ceitainly, the poet trusts his
fellows with a nearer and more intimate
view of his inner and peculiar self than
was his wont in earlier times. Let him
more and more give a human voice to
woods and waters ; and, in acting as the
accepted interpreter of nature, speak
fearlessly to the heart as well as to the
eye. 11 is countrymen were never more
disposed to hear him with delight; for,
since the public demand for his poems
has placed a copy in every house in the
land, the taste for thorn has steadily in
creased, and the national pride in the
writer’s genius become a generous enthu
siasm, which is ready to grant him an
apotheosis while he lives.
[Homes of American Authors.
STORY OF A HUMOURIST.
EXTRACT OF A LETTER, WRITTEN IN 1792.
Well, I have seen your friend, and find
him to be exactly what you described
him as being as a humourist. lie seems
to have imparted much of that character
to every thing around him. His servants
are all admirably disciplined to second
his whims, and his very furniture is, for
the most part, adapted to the same pur
pose. This put me upon my guard ; and
there was hardly any thing in the room
that I did not touch with apprehension.
No trick, however, was practised upon
me; and, as 1 found subsequently, I was
indebted for such indulgence to one which
was reserved for me at night, and which
was such as perhaps all my English
phlegm would not have enabled me to bear
with patience. I escaped, however, be
ing put to the proof, by the merest acci
dent —the arrival of a poor Scotch sur
veyor, who was thought a fitter subject
for the often repeated experiment. The
Scotchman was treated with extreme hos
pitality ; he was helped to every thing to
excess; his glass was never allowed to
stand full or empty for one minute. The
potations were suspended not until, and
only while the cloth was laying for sup
per, during and after which, they were
resumed with renovated energy. Our
entertainer was like the landlord describ
ed by Addison ; the liquor seemed to
have no other efiect upon him than upon
any other vessel in the house. It was
not so with this Scotch guest, who was
by this time much farther advanced upon
the cruise of intoxication than half seas
over. In this state he was conducted to
his chamber—a fine lofty Gothic apart
ment, with a bedstead that seemed coe
val with the building. I say seemed; for
that was by no means the case, it being
[.December 25,