Literary Cadet, And Saturday Evening Bulletin

We insert the appended communication because it develops matters and facts which cannot but be interesting to those who are disposed to enquire into the private histories of the surviving members of the revolutionary war. But in doing so, the writer will, we hope, excuse us if we say to him, that he places too much stress on unimportant facts, and tells a tale with too much emphasis, which might be uttered in perfect simplicity, and have twice the effect. We assure the writer, however, that we are not disposed to disparage his attainments or talents, and in saying thus much, we only intend to suggest to him, the expediency of telling his tales, in the simple unaffected language of native feeling and conception.

FOR THE LITERARY CADET.

Among the veterans who graced the procession on the fourth instant, I observed one who had, in my younger days, often related the incidents of his life to a collection of boys, who were always delighted to hear "the tale well told" of the battles of the Revolution. I became intimately acquainted with his history; and although told for my gratification then, I little thought that I should ever become his humble biographer—indeed there is so much of the romantic in his short history, that I never intended relating it, until seeing him in the midst of our revolutionary worthies, I could no longer refuse myself the gratification of giving to the world one of the many incidents the late events have called forth.

P**** F****** was born in the south of France. His parents were in humble life, and consequently could not afford him that education his early display of talents would have warranted. At the commencement of our revolution, he was scarce eighteen, but his youth had not been passed in idleness. His connexions being neither rich nor influential, he knew it depended solely on himself whether he should, like his ancestors, continue to be a slave, and spend his time and labor to pamper his lordly tyrant, or by a spirit of independence, leave the home of his childhood, and perhaps become a wanderer on the face of the earth.

At this period of his existence, he heard of our struggle for independence, and when the Court of France determined on sending us aid, he was one of the first to enlist under Rochambeau. On the arrival of the French army, it is well known, they encamped for several days in the town of Cranston. Curiosity prompted hundreds of people, old and young, to visit the encampment, and among the number who visited the camp was Miss S****, a young lady of the neighboring town, not the least conspicuous for beauty and sweetness of disposition. It is not to be wondered that a handsome young fellow like F******, should by her, be noticed, or that her charms should kindle a flame in his bosom not easily quenched; and ere the army took up their line of march, they mutually pledged to be united, whenever he could with honor return. It is useless to tell the many "hair breadth 'scapes'" of our hero:—he followed his commander with a determination to do his duty—or die:—he was foremost in every gallant action, and of course could not escape some wounds—honorable testimonials of his bravery—which he carries with him to this day.

But there was in his breast another strong incitement to exertion and gallant conduct. He was shedding his blood for the country, that claimed the beloved of his soul, as a native of her land, and he felt conscious of possessing an interest in the heart of a lovely daughter of America. And who, I ask, would not cheerfully shed his heart's best blood in defence of the country that contained the dearest object of his affections?

After the surrender of Cornwallis the French army prepared to leave the country, whose independence they had assisted to achieve. The term for which young F****** enlisted had not yet expired, and he was unable to get a discharge. His commander could not give him that liberty he so ardently coveted, and the refusal of this "boon" nearly distracted him. No language can express the anguish of his mind—imagination can hardly conceive the dreadful alternatives presented to his view. On the one hand, appeared his lovely Mary, and the joys that awaited his return. On the other, desertion of his country and perhaps disgrace. No language can pourtray the struggle between duty and affection—but you who have felt the pure flame of honorable love—you, and you only can conceive. At last, love triumphed, and he deserted.

He fled to a spot where he knew there would be safety—was concealed where none could discover him, for 'twas in a woman's heart. She protected—she cherished, and she successfully concealed him, till pursuit was over, and then recompensed his ardent attachment by bestowing her all—herself. It would be idle in me to attempt portraying his after life;—it has been one of humble happiness. Blessed with a numerous family, it was always his aim to keep want from his door—though many have been his privations, never did his heart quail in the hour of difficulty—never did he shrink from braving the storm, when the necessities of his family called for exertion. But now, in common with our few remaining revolutionary soldiers, does he feel that pinching want is fast approaching his old age. But he is a Frenchman, and the same smiling countenance that was familiar to my young days, appeared in the procession, surrounded by his brethren in arms—the last remnant of our country's brave defenders.