“Oh! well do I know thee,” said the matron, weeping—“it was thee who gave me directions where to find him, and delivered to me his dying sigh. This is an unhappy day to me, Hugh Maxwell, but thy presence lends an interest to it that I had no idea of enjoying. William and Anne, thy grandfather died upon Hugh Maxwell’s breast in battle—let us bless God that we are permitted to entertain the gallant soldier upon the anniversary of that day of glory.” And the son brought forth the old family bible, and the widow Greely prayed after the manner of the Quakers, amid her little congregation. When the service was over, and the breakfast equipage had been removed, the son and the daughter each drew a seat beside the old veteran, while their grandmother carefully wiped her spectacles and took a moderate pinch of Maccouba. Then seating herself as straight as a drill sergeant in her cushioned seat in the corner, she turned her _well ear_ toward the old corporal and looked out of the window. “Tell us about the battle of Trenton and of Princeton, Mr. Maxwell,” said the grand-children, in one voice. The old man looked inquiringly at the widow Greely. “Thee may tell it, though it may be a sad tale to me,” said the matron, and Hugh Maxwell, after resting his head upon his hand for a moment, began his account of THE BATTLES OF TRENTON AND PRINCETON. The twenty-fifth of December, 1776, was a gloomy day in the American camp. An army of thirty thousand British soldiers lay scattered along the opposite side of the freezing Delaware, from Brunswick to the environs of Philadelphia. Gen. Howe commanded the British cantonment, and Lord Cornwallis was on the march from New York to reinforce him. The British soldiers were flushed with success. They had driven us through the Jerseys. New York Island and the North River were in their power. They had tracked us by our bloody foot-prints along the gloomy, though snow-clad hills: and they looked eagerly forward to the day when the head of our illustrious Washington should be placed upon Temple Bar, and the mob of London should cry out while they pointed at it, “there rests the head of a Traitor.” The banner of England floated heavily in the wintry air, and the fur-clad Hessian paced his rounds on the gloomy hills, with his bayonet gleaming in the stormy light; videttes were seen galloping along the hill sides, and the valleys echoed with the martial airs of England. But in our camp all was sadness. Five thousand men, ill-armed, and worse clad, without tents or even camp utensils, sat crouching over their lonely watch-fires.