Legends of the Revolution.

BY GEORGE LIPPARD.

The Right Arm.

Fifty years ago, a terrible storm shook the city of London. At the dead of night, when the storm was at its highest, an aged minister, living near one of the darkest suburbs of the city, was aroused by an earnest cry for help. Looking from his window, he beheld a rude man, clad in the coarse attire of a sweeper of the public streets. In a few moments, while the rain came down in torrents, and the storm growled above, that preacher, leaning on the arm of the scavenger, threaded his way to the dark suburb, listening meanwhile to the story of the dying man.

That very day, a strange old man had fallen speechless, in front of the scavenger's rude home. The good-hearted street-sweeper had taken him in-laid him on his bed--he had not once spoken-and now he was dying. This was the story of that rough man.

And now through dark alleys, among miserable tenements, that seemed about to topple down upon their heads, into the loneliest and dreariest suburb of the city, they passed, that white-haired minister and his guide. At last into a narrow court, and up dark stairs, that cracked beneath their tread, and then into the death-room.

It was in truth a miserable place.

A glimmering light stood on a broken chair. There were the rough walls, there the solitary garret window, with the rain beating in, through rags and straw, which stuffed the broken pains,--and there, amid a heap of cold ashes, the small valise, which it seems the stranger had with him.

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In one corner, on the coarse straw of the ragged bed lay the dying man. He was but half-dressed; his legs were concealed in long military boots. The aged preacher drew near, and looked upon him. And as he looked, throb-throb-throb-you might hear the death-watch ticking in the shattered wall.

It was the form of a strong man, grown old with care more than age. There was a face, that you might look upon but once, and yet wear in your memory forever.

Let us bend over the bed, and look upon that face: A bold forehead, seamed by one deep wrinkle between the brows-long locks of dark hair, sprinkled with grey-lips firmly set, yet quivering as though they had a life, separate from the life of the man-and then two large eyes, vivid, burning, unnatural in their steady glare.

Ah, there was something so terrible in that face-something so full of unutterable loneliness, unspeakable despair-that the aged minister started back in horror.

But look! Those strong arms are clutching at the vacant air-the death sweat starts in drops upon that bold brow-the man is dying.

Throb-throb-throb-beats the death-watch in the shattered wall. "Would you die in the faith of the Christian?" faltered the preacher, as he knelt there, on the damp floor.

VOL. 1. NO.6.

(16)

DECEMBER. 1848.

rocks! Now on, my boys, now on! Men of the Wilderness, we will gain the town! Now up with the banner of the stars-up with the flag of freedom, though the night is dark and the snow falls! Now-now”. shrieked that death-stricken man, towering there, in the blue uniform, with his clenched hands, waving in the air--"now, now! One blow more, and Quebee is ours!"

And look! His eye grows glassy. With that word on his lips, he stands there-ah, what a hideous picture of despair, erect, livid, ghastly! There for a moment, and then he falls! He is dead!

Ah, look at that proud form, thrown cold and stiff upon the damp floor. In that glassy eye, there lingers, even yet, a horrible energy-a sublimity of despair.

Who is this strange man, dying here alone, in this rude garret-this man, who, in all his crimes, still treasured up that blue uniform, that faded flag?

Who is this being of horrible remorse?—this man, whose memories seem to link something of heaven, and more of hell?

Let us look at that parchment, that flag.

The aged minister unrolls that faded flag-it is a blue banner, gleaming with thirteen stars.

He unrolls that parchment. It is a Colonel's commission in the Continental Army, addressed to BENEDICT ARNOLD!

And there, in that rude hut, while the death-watch throbbed like a heart in the shattered wall-there, unknown, unwept, in all the bitterness of desolation, lay the corse of the Pariot and the Traitor.

O! that our own true Washington had been there, to sever that good right arm from the corse, and while the dishonored body rotted into dust, to bring home that good right arm, and embalm it among the holiest memories of the Past

For that right arm struck many a gallant blow for freedom, yonder at Ticonderoga, at Quebec, Champlain, and Saratoga-that arm,.yonder,beneach the snow-white mountain, in the deep silence of the River of the Dead, first raised into light the Banner of the Stars.*

*It was during the renowned Expedition through the Wilderness to Quebec; that Arnold encamped for two or three days beside the River of the Dead, near a snowwhite mountain, which arose, in lovely grandeur, over all other mountains, into the autumnal sky. A single soldier ascended this mountain, with the hope of beholding from its summit the rocks and spires of Quebec. When he came down, Arnold took from his breast, where for days, in privation and in danger he had carried it, a blue banner gleaming with thirteen stars. He raised it into light, and for the first time the Continental banner floated over the solitudes of the Dead River. This is a fact, attested by history and corroborated by tradition.

Alleged Cure for Cholera.---The Belgian papers speak of a new and infallible remedy for cholera, having been discovered by a young physician employed in the hospital at Berlin, where its effects, it is said, have been astonishing. The agent employed is the TRICHLORURE OF CARBON. M. Dumas, the celebrated French chemist, is mentioned as being engaged in investigating its effects.

Martha and Mary.

It was when the persecution of the people called Quakers, had, for a short season, somewhat abated its rigor, and they ventured to attend their religious assemblies without fear of injury to their families in the mean time,' that Walter Pixley and his wife, a staid and respectable couple belonging to that despised community, rode eleven miles to their county town of Staf ford, to be present at a meeting, at which that apostle-like young man, Edward Burrough, was to preach, leaving their little daughter Martha under the care of an aged woman, who was at that time, their sole female domestic.

Martha was a grave child, though but seven years of age: her young mind had taken its tone from both of her parents. She had been born in a season of persecution, had been cradled, as it were, in anxiety and sorrow; and as she grew old enough to comprehend the circumstances that surrounded her, she saw her parents constantly filled with apprehension for the safety of their lives and property. She had heard them talk over their grievences, spoiling of goods, the maimings, the whippings, and the horrible sufferings of their persecuted brethren persecuted even to the death; had heard of little children enduring, with the steadfastness of early martyrs, imprisonments and pains, which would overcome even the strong man; till, unlike the ordinary child of her years, her countenance habitually wore a look of gravity, and her heart bled at the least thought of suffering or

sorrow.

Martha's home was in a country place, surrounded by fields a pleasant quiet valley, the patrimonial heritage of her father. It was harvest time, and in the course of the morning the old servant went out with the reapers' dinners, leaving little Martha to amuse herself in her usual quiet way. She had not been long alone, before a beggar-woman presented herself with a young child in her arms. Martha knew that it was her mother's custom to relieve distress in whatever shape it presented itself, and the story the woman told, whether false or true, touched her to the soul; she gave her, therefore, the dinner which had been set aside for herself, and compassionated her in words of the truest sympathy; and when the child in the woman's arms wept, her heart yearned towards it. Strange it may be to all, but so it was, for our story is true, when the beggar-woman saw the affections with which little Martha regarded the child, she proposed to sell it to her, and Martha, innocent of all guile, readily accepted the proposal. All her little hoard of money was produced, the bargain was struck, and the two parted perfectly satisfied with the transaction. The child was beautiful in its form and features; and Martha sat down with it upon her knee, and lavished upon it all the endearing tenderness which her most affectionate nature suggested.

In a short time, the child fell asleep; and as she sat gazing upon it, a half-defined fear stole into her mind, that perhaps she had done wrong in taking upon her this charge unknown to her parents, that perhaps they would be displeased. She rose up in haste and looked from door and window for the beggar-woman, but neither across the fields, nor down the valley, nor upon the distant highways, was she to be seen; and then she was afraid, and thought to hide the child. She made it a comfortable warm bed with a blanket, in a large press, and kissing its sleeping eyes, and wishing that she had no fear, she left it to its repose, and began with great

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anxiety to look out for the return of her parents. To the old domestic she said not one word of what she had done.

After two hours, all of which time, the child had slept soundly, Walter Pixley and his wife returned. The good mother, who was accustomed to help in all the domestic business, employed herself in preparing the early afternoon meal, and Martha sat down with her parents to partake of it. While Walter Pixley and his wife were in the midst of their review of the events of the morning-of Edward Burrough's extraordinary sermon, and of the concourse to whom it was addressed, they were startled by what seemed to them the cry of a child. Martha's heart beat quick, and her sweet face grew suddenly pale, but her parents were not observing her.The good man stopped in the middle of the sentence, and both he and his wife turned their heads towards the part of the house whence the sound proceeded, listened for a second or two, and then, all being again still, without remarking upon what they supposed was fancy, they went on again with their conversation. Again a cry, louder and more determined was heard, and again they paused. Surely,' said the wife, that is the voice of a young child.'

The critical moment was now come-concealment was no longer possible; and Martha's affection mastering her fear, as the infant continued to cry, she darted from the table, and exclaimed, 'Yes, yes, it is my child!' and the next moment was heard audibly soothing her little charge, in the chamber above, with all the tenderness of the fondest mother.

Mrs. Pixley was soon at her daughter's side, full of the most inconceivable astonishment, and demanded from her whence the child had come, or how it had been consigned to her charge. Martha related the story with perfect honesty. The old domestic was then summoned, but she knew nothing of the affair. They were not long deliberations that followed. The family could not conscientiously burden themselves with another dependent, and one especially who had no natural claim upon them. In these perilous and anxious times, when they could not even insure security for themselves; and besides this, how did they know but this very circumstance might be made, in some way or other, a cause of offence or of persecution for the world looked with jealous and suspicious eyes upon the poor Quakers. Father Pixley, therefore soon determined what he had to do in the affair-to make the circumstances known at the next village; to inquire after the woman, who, no doubt, had been seen either before or after parting with the child; and also to state the whole affair to the nearest justice of the peace.

Within an hour, therefore, after the discovery of the child, the good man might be seen making known this strange news at the different places of resort in the village, and inquiring from all if such a person as the little girl had described the woman to be, had been seen by any; but, to his chagrin and amazement, no one could give him information-such a person had evidently not been there. He next hastened to the justice's. It was now evening, and Walter Pixley was informed that his worship very rarely transacted any business after dinner, and that especially he would not with a Quaker.' Walter, however, was not easily to be put by; he felt his business was important; and, by help of a gratuity to his servant, he gained admittance.

The justice was engaged over his wine, and he received Walter Pixley