DECEMBER. 315 



day life presents, what is more melancholy than 

 the marching of a troop of recruits out of the 

 town where they have been raised. Yovx hear a 

 single drum beat, a single fife play ; you see a 

 crowd collected, and another minute discovers 

 to you some twenty or thirty boys and men of 

 the lowest class in their common clothes, with 

 ribands in their hats, and bundles in their hands, 

 awkwardly commencing that march which leads 

 to destruction. They have screwed up their 

 resolutions to the point of the necessary calm- 

 ness of aspect ; they have bid good bye to their 

 friends, with whom they are ambitious of leaving 

 the reputation of having gone off stoutly ; some 

 of their sweethearts, with red eyes, are hovering 

 about ; many of their comrades are going on a 

 little with them ; and, perhaps, some fond and 

 heart-broken mother still clings tenaciously, but 

 dejectedly, to the side of her son, who has cost 

 her nothing but sorrow since he could run from 

 her door. They proceed a mile or two ; the fife 

 and drum fall back ; the last shaking of hands 

 and shedding of tears arrives, and they are led 

 away to their distant station. The scene is sad 

 enough; but if we look forward, what is the 

 prospect? Loose lives at home, hard marches 

 and fare abroad, death in some pestilent Indian 

 swamp, or in the regular wholesale carnage of 

 battle. 



