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THE SOLDIER'S CHILD.

BY H. SYMMES.

"My father died," said Hamilton, " when I was an infant, and I was left to the care of my mother ; who, by carefully managing the small property that remained to her, was enabled to live respectably, and give me a good education. My father had been a clergyman ; and before I could speak, my mother destined me for the church. The progress I afterward made in classical literature, gave my fond parent sanguine hopes that I would one day adorn that sacred and honorable profession. But I entertained an aversion to it I have since been surprised at. Military glory was my darling passion. The histories of these glorious climes of battle and of song, which my studies led me to peruse, served little to allay it ; and my enthusiastic imagination soon erected a pillar of fame, which the doughtiest hero either of ancient or modern times might be proud of. This ardor was fanned into a flame by a gentleman of my mother's acquaintance proposing the army as a better field for my exertions, and more likely to suit my inclination. I need not tell you how my heart beat, when he tendered his influence to procure me a pair of colors ; or how my mother, with a pale cheek and faltering voice, hastily but gratefully refused the offer. Alas ! she loved me too well ; but, wrapped as I was in selfishness and ambition, I wept through despite and bitterness. I saw not that her whole existence was wrapped in mine,-in me,-who became her murderer ? -Nay," continued the narrator, as a dark flush crossed his brow, " you need not start. I did not kill her, I only broke her heart ! In my sixteenth year I entered college, where I spent some time with tolerable assiduity and credit, till I contracted some intimacies that gradually led me into expensive follies. These were soon too much for the scanty allowance my mother could afford me. I applied for fresh supplies, which I received with earnest entreaties to be frugal, and hints, which, though not explicit, might have been sufficient to convince me that my mother was straitening herself to support my extravagance. But, alas ! neither these, nor the religious and moral principles which had been carefully implanted in me, could enable me to resist temptation. I spent an entire night in a gaming-house, in too many of which Dublin abounds. I rose the next morning from the table, without a farthing, and in debt to a considerable amount, for which I was obliged to give up my watch, and some articles of value. In an agony of mind which I cannot describe, I walked down the southern road, without knowing whither I was going. The whole of the previous night's transactions, and the journey of some hours the following morning, are like a blank in my recollection, or rather like the lurid remembrance of some horrible dream. The first thing that awoke me from this state of mental stupefaction. was my overtaking a regiment of Highlanders, then on their march for Cork, where they were to embark for the Netherlands. It was a beautiful morning in the spring of 1815. The sun was shining bright, and their arms and accoutrements were glittering in his rays. The waving plumes, martial dress, and military music, soon dissipated the clouds of despondency from an imagination young and ardent, and opened a long vista of glory. In a few moments, fancy had glided over the whole career, and restored me, high in rank, and covered with honors, to my native village, to my mother, and to my friends. The first step to this ideal promotion was easily obtained. In a few minutes I had the honor of being enrolled a private in the 79th Highlanders ; and before my arrival at Cork, was fully equipped in the garb of the warlike Celts. I need not detain you with an account of my dull and uninteresting life, after our arrival in Belgium, previous to the memorable fight of Waterloo. With the occurrences of that day you are all well acquaint d, and my kind friends here have often enough listened to the narration of my own ' hair-breadth ' scapes.' Though the feeling is natural, I have been too fond of pointing at the only bright spot in the blank of a nameless existence. The night before the battle, I was pacing backward and forward, a solitary sentinel at one of our outposts. There was a weight in the midnight atmosphere, that spread an unwonted gloom over my soul ; and the thoughts of a widowed, deserted, and heart-broken mother assumed the place that highwrought romance was wont to occupy. There was a silence throughout the whole of our army, which formed a striking contrast to the loud shouts of the enemy, as they passed the night in carousing around their watchfires. I should not, perhaps, call it silence, and yet it was something like it,-but not the silence of sleep. The stern and sullen sourd with which the word and countersign were exchanged, the low but deep tone in which the necessary orders for the following day were given,-the sigh of contending feelings in the soul, which almost resembled the groans extorted by bodily pain from the wounded-were all still more audible than the distinct clang of the armourer, and the snorting and prancing of the steed, and shewed that all around was waking watchfulness and anxiety. About the middle of the night, I received a visit from a young man with whom I had formed an intimate acquaintance. He was the only son of a gentleman of large property in the south of Ireland ; but having formed an attachment to a beautiful girl in humble life, and married her against the will of his father, he had been disinherited, and turned out of doors. The youth had soon reason to repent of his rashness. His wife was beautiful, virtuous, and affectionate ; but her want of education, and entire