The adventure of young Stanley, recorded in the last chapter, made a strong impression on his mind. The more he reflected on what he had beheld, the more he became convinced that it was no mere conjuration of his fancy. Nothing in his feelings at the moment, absorbed as they were with thoughts of the little truant he had been seeking, could have suggested to his imagination the image which arose before him. That it was an embodiment of some kind he became therefore convinced, though he could not believe either that it was human, when he remembered the sudden and mysterious manner of its disappearance.

Frank Stanley was by nature neither timorous nor credulous, and a course of reading, more extensive than usual for boys at his age, had in some degree fortified his mind against the attacks of superstition; but he would have been an actual prodigy, if, living in New England in the end of the seventeenth century, he had possessed a philosophy which did not exist there until much later. Those, therefore, who will recall to mind the superstitious feelings at that time prevalent among the early settlers, will not be surprised that our youthful hero should have closed his reflections with the conviction that he had beheld a supernatural visitant. That its mission, however, was not an unholy one he might have believed, when he recollected that he had seen it keeping watch over the lost child of his boyish love, and that its voice had been the means of directing him to the spot where she lay. But he had so strongly imbibed the common idea that all supernatural indications were demonstrations of the Evil One, that his cogitations the rather resolved themselves into fears that she who had been so guarded by one of His emissaries, though in the form of the being of light that he had beheld, was marked out as a victim of future destruction.

This idea became agony to the sensitive mind of the boy, whose heart had outstripped, in a great measure, his years, and was fixed with sentiments of strong attachment upon the little girl. He determined, therefore, to keep constant watch upon the child’s movements, and should he behold her again in the hands of the tempter, by timely warning to her sister to enlist her in attempts to destroy the power of the enemy by fasting and prayer.

Thoughts of the kind described had disturbed Stanley’s mind during the whole night succeeding his adventure, and caused him the first sleepless pillow he had ever known. He rose earlier than usual the next day. Feeling languid from want of his customary rest, he walked out to recover his freshness in the morning air. Even to those who, like Stanley, have spent a sleepless and anxious night, the breeze of the dawn brings strength and quickening both of mind and body. He bent his steps involuntarily toward the place of the previous day’s innocent revel.

The day was delightful. There was just enough motion in the air to disturb the little fleecy clouds which were scattered on the horizon, and by floating them occasionally over the sun, to checker the landscape with that variety of light and shade which often gives to a bare and unenclosed scene, a species of charm approaching to the varieties of a cultivated and planted country.

When Stanley had reached the borders of the grove in which the party had dined, he cast his eyes upward on the hills where he had climbed in search of Jessy Ellet. Curiosity suggested to him to ascend again to the spot where he had beheld the strange apparition. Fear for himself knew no place in his brave young soul. He felt that his virtuous and strong heart was even proof against the power of Satan and his agents. He proceeded, therefore, to remount the hills, in hopes that he might again behold the shadowy spirit, and perchance have time to question it of its errand to earth, ere it a second time disappeared. When he arrived beneath the well-remembered rock, he raised his eyes, more however in the expectation of being disappointed in the object of his quest, than with any actual idea of meeting a return of his former vision.

It was consequently with the astonishment of one utterly unprepared, that he beheld, standing upon the rocky elevation, the same figure of the mist which had filled his waking dreams throughout the night. The sudden sight took from him, for the instant, both speech and motion. It seemed as if his imagination had raised up a phantom presenting to his outward senses the object that engrossed his mind. She seemed clad in white, and her hair of threaded gold, while her complexion looked radiant and pure through the rising beams that reflected upon it. In the morning vapor she appeared even more transparent than in the sunset dew; so much so, that the broken corner of the rock which she had chosen for her pedestal, would have seemed unsafe for any more substantial figure than her own. Yet she rested upon it as securely and lightly as a bird upon the stem of a bush. The sun, which was rising exactly opposite, shed his early rays upon her shadowy form and increased its aereal effect. Internal and indefinable feelings restrained the youth from accosting her as he had thought to have done. These are easily explained on the supposition that his mortal frame shrunk at the last moment from an encounter with a being of a different nature.

As the boy gazed, spell-bound, he observed that this being of the vapor was not alone. Ere long, however, he became aware that near her, in the middle of the rock, where the footing was more secure, stood another form. Fixing his bewildered gaze steadily upon this second object, in order to scan it as carefully as he had done the other, he became convinced that it was a familiar figure. For a moment his memory failed him, and he could not place that round and coquetish form, with its garb of rich pink, nor that face, with its sparkling eyes of jet, and its raven braids. His doubt, however, lasted but for an instant. It was Lucy Ellet whom he beheld. She perceived his proximity before her companion, for, turning to the phantom-form, she pointed to him just as he himself was about to speak. Ere his words were uttered, the misty figure had vanished from her side, and she remained upon the rock alone.

Awe-struck, the youth turned to depart. “Both the sisters, then,” thought he, “are in league with this spirit-messenger of darkness. Alas! each so fair in their different styles, so idolized in the village, one of whom, too, I have treasured up her childish image in my heart, and mixed it with all my young dreams of the future!” He perceived, moreover, that such an association as he had witnessed with the emissaries of evil, might not only be a soil upon the virtue of Lucy and Jessy Ellet, but a lasting disgrace to their names, should the knowledge of it come to the ears of the pious community. Congratulating himself that he alone was privy to the unhappy circumstance, he was wending his way down the declivity when his meditations were interrupted by the gay voice of Lucy Ellet behind him.

“Out on your vaunted politeness, Master Frank, to trudge down hill in front of a lady, and never turn to offer her your arm.”

“Excuse me, Miss Lucy,” replied Stanley, stopping and much embarrassed, “methought you would not desire to be troubled with my company.”

“I honour your delicacy, Frank,” resumed Lucy, taking his arm, as they walked on. “You saw me but now in circumstances which you rightly judge I intended to be secret, and would not mortify me by forcing me to meet you just at the moment of my detection.”

After an instant’s pause, she continued. “I will let you into the secret, Frank, for there may one day be need to employ your services; and I am sure I may rely on your judgment and discretion not to divulge what I shall unfold. Your occasional assistance is the only return I demand for my confidence. Yon stranger lady is——”

“Hold, Miss Ellet, I cannot consent to obtain any knowledge of your secret under the condition that I am to become a party in the sinful affair. I not will unite in league with any daughter of the clouds or spirit of darkness.”

“Then you deem her whom you saw beside me on the rock one of those visionary beings you mention?” asked Lucy, looking at him steadily, to learn if he were in earnest, and an arch smile curling on her mouth, and sparkling in her eyes, when she perceived that he had spoken seriously.

“What else can I think of one who hath scarce the weight of a feather, is transparent as a cloud, and dissolveth in a moment into air?”

Lucy Ellet here laughed outright. But instantly checking herself and looking grave, she replied in a mysterious tone, “I have, indeed, a strange associate in yonder lady of the mist. And you positively decline an introduction to her?”

“I did not think thou would’st thus seek to destroy others as well as thyself, Miss Ellet. Is it through thine influence that thy sister has been made acquainted with the evil spirit?”

“Oh, thou fearest for her, dost thou?” said Lacy, mischievously seizing the opportunity of turning the conversation. “Thou wouldst have her kept stainless from sin in order that she may be thine when thou art a man, eh, Frank? Nay, you need not blush, though you see I read your heart.”

Stanley’s thoughts were now completely diverted from the first topic of conversation, and talking on indifferent subjects, Lucy Ellet and himself entered the village.

[To be continued.

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BY HENRY B. HIRST.

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BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

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A NARRATIVE TAKEN FROM THE LIPS OF A MANIAC.

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BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.

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They tell me I am mad—mad! No, I am not mad! In this den of horror I at least am sane. Reason bursting from the heavy shackles which would press her down to death, now asserts her right—yes—I am sane—though they tell me I am mad—mad—ha! ha!

Around me I hear the incoherent ravings of insanity—the wild screech and terrific yells of demoniac rage as the unhappy wretch dashes against the iron bars and tears his very flesh in torture. Bursts of laughter echo around my prison walls, and eye-balls red and wild glare at me through yonder grating—but I am not mad!

Fanny! Fanny! where are you, my life, my love!

Ah-h! now the past comes up before me. Distinct as the clouds mirrored in some placid lake do the events of my life float by.

Stay—stay—fleeting images of pleasure and of wo—let me trace distinctly as your wavelets sweep over my soul the causes which have brought me here!

A boyhood spurning parental control. A youth of wild, ungoverned passions. These—these—first point the path I trod. And whither—ah whither have they led me!

My God—to a mad-house! But I am not mad!

At twenty, giddy with the possession of uncontrolled riches, which, as an only son, fell to me at the death of my parents, I plunged wildly within the Maelstrom of dissipation. On—on in its soul-destroying vortex I was whirled for months—nay, years—madly, blindly, sweeping to my destruction. In a fortunate hour my reason, even as now, was restored to me—for remember I am not mad!

I suddenly became disgusted with that which had before seemed to me the all that life was designed for. I forsook my gay companions. I filled my library with the choicest books—my walls with the rarest paintings—my halls with master-pieces of sculpture.

I traveled—not to see life in the haunts of folly—but the world—poised in the Creator’s hand—to learn from her majestic mountains, heaped up to the skies—from her mighty rivers—her foaming torrents—from the wild cataract and the flaming volcano, the power of God—and the insignificance of man!

It was in Italy, pure land of song, that I first met Fanny—the bright, the beautiful star of my destiny.

Ah, pause memory—pause on this blest vision! Pass not too soon from my tortured brain—but for a moment stay, and soothe me into forgetfulness of all save Fanny and love!

A wasting malady had brought the father of Fanny from the bleak climate of Canada to the pure skies and genial airs of Italy, in the flattering hope that health would once more invigorate his feeble frame—and she, ministering angel, came with him.

The lily is not purer than was the soul of Fanny—nor the rose more beautiful than her cheek. She had been nurtured in the lap of indulgence—heaven’s breath scarce allowed to fan her brow—her delicate foot to touch the earth.

And I—I won this peerless one to be my bride!

Has Heaven aught in store for the blessed can rival that rapturous moment when I called Fanny mine! Fanny! Fanny! where are you now, my beautiful, my injured wife? And I—where am I—the tenant of a mad-house—the companion of maniacs—but I am not mad—no, not mad!

We laid her father, in the sleep of death, among the vine-clad hills, and then to my native shores I brought my lovely bride.

She was my idol, and at her feet I worshiped.

But a day of reverses came. The riches which I had foolishly deemed inexhaustible I found were melting like the morning dew. Too late I saw the ruinous tendency of the life I had led. To retrieve if possible my sinking fortunes, I plunged deeply into speculations—seizing eagerly the wild, visionary schemes of artful or misguided men—and so lost all!

I had studiously concealed the truth from poor Fanny, hoping even yet to seize some golden opportunity to re-create a mine of wealth. But now the fatal fact must be told—poor, poor Fanny!

Like an angel she listened to me. She soothed my grief, and hushed my self-reproach by her embraces. Never had I loved her so well—never had she appeared to me in a light so beautiful.

Thus the sharpest wound was healed—and the loss of wealth for a time scarce heeded.

The necessity of doing something for our support pressed upon me, and my angel wife encouraged my efforts. I sought employment from those against whom wealth had barred my doors, and whom in my exaltation I scarce deigned to acknowledge—but now my pride was gone, and for Fanny’s sake I sought from them to earn my daily bread. I obtained a lucrative business, and for a time was happy, for I was still enabled to place my dearest Fanny above want—even to surround her with some few of the luxuries with which her young life had been crowned.

But soon a new fear begat itself. I found my health rapidly declining. The life of pleasure I had led, and the shock lately sustained by my reverse of fortune, had materially injured a constitution naturally nervous and weak. What was to become of my poor Fanny in the event of my death! Upon this one thought I brooded despondingly. My exertions even for our present support were paralyzed—my health suffered more and more—my form wasted, and my countenance became so changed that even my best friends scarce recognized me.

Shall I go on! Shall I call up the monster-fiend that awoke me from my misery, only to plunge me by degrees into horrors deeper than the pit of hell!

Ay, gibe and grin at me, fiend! I defy you now—you have accomplished your worst—there is not a deed more damnable left for me to do! ha! ha! you would drive me mad—you say I am—but, fiend, I am not mad!

One morning a friend came into my office. With my elbows resting on my desk, and my hands supporting my aching temples, I sat brooding over the one dark thought, which, like an incubus, pressed upon my brain.

Townsend was an old acquaintance—one whom I loved and trusted—but I am now convinced he was no other than the Devil, who had come to tempt me here—here amid the rattling of chains and shrieks of wo!

“Cheer up, Denton—cheer up, my man—what ails you?” he cried, gaily slapping me on the back.

“Townsend, I am miserable,” I replied. “My wife—my poor wife—my angel Fanny, what is to become of her? Were she less kind—less sympathizingly affectionate, I might perhaps be less sensitive for the future. Poor girl! I feel I shall not live long, and then—ah, Townsend, must her delicate frame bear fatigue—her tender hands be forced to labor!”

“Tut—tut, man—all nonsense, I tell you,” answered my friend. “If you have a mind to die, so be it—but I have come in on purpose to suggest to you a means by which you can secure to Mrs. Denton not only a competence but comparative wealth.”

“How! how!” I exclaimed, eagerly interrupting him and starting to my feet—“only tell me, and I will forever bless you!”

“Why, my dear fellow, the simplest thing in the world—you have only to get your life insured!” cried the tempter.

“How—my life insured!” I echoed.

“To be sure—come go with me to some responsible office, and insure your life for three, five, or ten thousand dollars, as you please. You will only have to pay a small premium—a mere trifle in comparison, and then, my dear fellow, you may welcome death as you would a douche in August, sure that her you love will be benefited by your demise.”

“My dear friend,” said I, warmly embracing him, “how can I sufficiently thank you for your suggestion—come—why my heart already feels lightened of half its load—don’t let us lose a moment’s time—let me secure to my dear Fanny an independence, and then I may die in peace!”

“I am ready,” replied Townsend with a gay laugh.

Such a laugh! It yet rings in my ear—it pierces my brain—it echoes from corner to corner of this dismal cell—it rattles like a serpent through the straw on which my worn body rests—but—it cannot drive me mad!

In less than an hour the business was accomplished, and the policy in my hands, by which, in the event of my death before the expiration of the year, I secured to my dear wife the sum of ten thousand dollars—and feeling happier than I had done for months, I sought my home.

My charming Fanny met me with a sweet kiss, and her watchful eyes soon read in mine that joy I was eager to speak.

“Ah, my dearest Henry,” she said, caressing me, “I see you have good news for me—what is it has brought back the long banished smiles to your dear face?”

“Wait until we are alone, my dearest,” I answered, for our one servant was then placing dinner on the table, “and I will tell you why it is that I am so happy.”

No sooner therefore was our meal ended and the servant retired than drawing Fanny on my knee, and tenderly embracing her, I related the events of the morning.

But instead of sharing my happiness, as I imagined she would, she grew paler and paler as I proceeded, and finally throwing her arms around my neck she burst into a passionate flood of tears.

“Harry, how cruel to talk to me of riches which can only be mine through your death! Henry—Henry, do you think so meanly of me—would not every dollar speak to my soul as from the grave of all I hold dear. I will die with you, my husband—but I beseech of you—I pray you by all our love to give up that hateful policy—no good will result from it!”

Was her angel voice prophetic!

Would to God I had obeyed her—then these chains would not confine me—but I am not mad—no—not mad!

I could not but admit her reasoning to be perfectly natural—just such as one might expect from a young, loving heart—for it is a bitter thought that by the death of our souls’ idols worldly comforts are to be granted us! And does not this tend to harden the feelings of the survivor—to crush the sensibilities, and render them insensible to those holy influences which come to the sincere mourner—turning sorrow into joy—mourning into gladness! nay, does it not produce selfishness and unrighteous wishes, even before death!

Life Insurance! Ay, write it, fiend, in letters of flame, and seal it with the blood of sacrifice! ha—ha! you would scorch my brain—but you cannot—it is seared—seared!

[The reader must recollect this is the speech of a madman—for certainly no sane person can deny or doubt the immense benefits daily arising from the noble institution of Life Insurance. In the case of this poor wretch, it would seem that the sudden loss of wealth acting upon a mind unhealthy from youthful excesses, and shattered by illness, had produced a morbidness upon which any chimera long dwelt upon, no matter in what shape it appeared, might at length impel to insanity—indeed, the very fancy brooded over, that Fanny in the event of his death would become a beggar, had already driven him, as we have seen, to the verge of madness when his friend advised the life insurance, and it is easy to conceive how the re-action from despondency to joy might, in the sickly state of his mind, have produced the lamentable result. Whatever, therefore, the unhappy Denton utters in his delirium against that institution for whose blessings the widow and the fatherless daily offer up prayers of thankfulness, must be considered only as the ravings of insanity.]

I labored in every way to do away the prejudices of my darling Fanny. I pictured to her in the strongest language what would be her wretched situation, left friendless and penniless by my death, and little by little she yielded to my arguments, and conversed calmly, though with an air of touching sadness, upon the subject.

My heart thus relieved of the burthen so long oppressing it, I became cheerful. My sighs and melancholy no longer grieved the tender sympathies of Fanny, and as in my happiness her own was found, what wonder her gayety soon outmeasured mine. Indeed one would have thought we were possessed of all the treasures of the earth, we were so happy. And what are the treasures earth can boast to equal love and contentment! I know it—ah, I know it—for these treasures were once mine—but they are gone—gone I say—ha! do you mock me, fiend—do you laugh at my agony!

This state of bliss soon ended.

The demon came—whispering words which turned my heart to ice, and set my brain on fire!

I began to look jealously upon poor Fanny’s uniform cheerfulness—well may she laugh—well may she sing, urged the demon—what care has she for the future—she is provided for—true, you are near death—what of that—wont it shower down gold upon her—ha—ha—ha! She will turn from your grave with a smile, and revel in the proceeds of—A Life Insurance!

From that hour I grew suspicious of every thing my poor wife said or did—her every action was scanned, every word translated to meet my own bitter jealousy. I became moody, rude, fretful—nay, harsh to my angel Fanny, and if, when I saw her tears, and her cheek turn pale at my cruelty, my heart moved with pity, the demon with a hideous laugh would cry “cockatrice—she only weeps and wishes you were dead.”

One day I came home with a violent headache and threw myself upon the sofa. Fanny stole to my side with a step so noiseless and gentle I heard her not, and kneeling down she parted the hair from my fevered brow, and kissed my closed eye-lids.

“Dear Henry, can I do any thing for you?” she softly murmured. “You are sick—your hands are hot, and your cheek feverish—tell me what I can do for you, dearest?”

I made her no answer—but I glared upon her with such a look that she trembled and turned pale—then once more stooping over me until her golden ringlets touched my cheek, she said again—

“Henry, let me send for a physician—indeed you must.”

“Ha, wretch! traitress!” I cried, suddenly starting up and pushing her from me with violence—“you would have the work finished soon—eh! You would soon put me under ground if you could, woman!”

“Henry! Henry!” cried Fanny, with a look which is fastened on my brain—and with a convulsive groan she sank fainting upon the floor.

In a moment all my affection returned. I hung over her insensible form—I kissed her pale lips—I besought her to forgive me. I bathed her temples—I called her by every endearing name. At last she opened her eyes, and catching her to my breast I wept my contrition. I added falsehood to my infamy—attributing the words I had uttered to the effects of opium taken to relieve a raging tooth-ache.

The dear girl believed me, and with a sweet angelic smile forgave, and blamed herself for being so easily disturbed.

We passed the evening happily, and for several days my jealousy slumbered.

But again the demon got possession of me, and again my infernal suspicions goaded me almost to madness. Why did I not go mad! See how the fiends mock me, and with their fleshless fingers point at me, crying—“You are mad now”—but no—no—I am not mad!

It was a lovely day in October. I had walked out far from city haunts. The pure breath of heaven cooled my fevered brain—my pulse beat less wildly, until by degrees a sweet serenity crept over me. I thought of Fanny—of her love—of the patience and forbearance with which she had met my cruel treatment of her. My heart bled for her, and tears of pity bedewed my cheek.

Once more I sought my home. It was long since I had offered my injured Fanny any of those kind attentions it should be a husband’s pride and pleasure, as well as his duty, to bestow—but in this softened, subdued moment I resolved to take her to ride—the day was so lovely, the air so bland, it would do her good.

I entered the house—and the demon stole in by my side—though I felt him not. I ran up stairs—Fanny was not in her room, so again I went below, and was about to enter the parlor, when the words “life insurance” met my ear. It was the voice of Fanny. “Ha!” cried the demon, grasping my heart in his sharp talons, and wringing it until my life’s blood seemed bursting out—“ha! do you hear!”

Unperceived we stole into the room—the demon and I. Fanny was in earnest conversation with a female friend, whose husband I knew to be wasting away in a consumption. Tears stood in the beautiful eyes of Fanny—while her friend held her handkerchief to her face as if in deep grief. Their conversation was low—the only words I could catch were those I have named. My wife grew more earnest as she proceeded—her companion removed her handkerchief and appeared to listen intently—she even smiled—and so did Fanny—and again the words “life insurance” hissed through my brain!

This was proof enough. My artful wife was no doubt setting forth to her friend the pleasures she would reap from my death, and that when I was placed in the tomb—then, and only then, should she begin to enjoy life! And not only was she thus wickedly anticipating my death, but she was also encouraging this worthy friend of hers to take advantage of this same institution, instigated and supported by the Evil One, to secure to herself a good round sum of money, and a round sum of enjoyment.

Perhaps they were even then devising means to murder us! So said the demon.

I could bear no more. I rushed upon them like a maniac.

“Vile, unfeeling wretches!” I exclaimed, “is it thus you plot and plan for the death of your husbands! Is it thus you form schemes for reveling in the ill-deserved wealth which may then be yours! With suppressed laughter you would close the coffin-lid, and dance over our scarce cold remains, shouting, Ho-ho-ho! for the merry Life Insurance!”

Before I had done speaking, poor Fanny was stretched senseless upon the floor, while frightened and amazed her companion fled the room.

And so did I. Leaving my wife in a state of insensibility, I flew to my chamber. I raved and tore like a madman—but remember, I was not mad! No, it was not madness—for madness utters it knows not what, and memory takes no heed; but I—I knew all—no, I was not mad—I am not mad!

From that day I saw poor Fanny’s heart was broken. She breathed no complaint—she uttered no reproach, not even from those languid eyes which ever beamed on me with so much tenderness—wretch, infamous wretch that I was; but I saw the fatal blow was given. And I also saw, with a fiendish joy, that she was afraid of me—yes, afraid—ha! ha! She thought me mad—me! How I reveled in this idea; what gambols I held with my demon, in my joy that I could affright her timid soul—how I gloried in it! Her monomany was such a farce, to believe me mad! I knew she would die sooner than complain of my treatment—and the demon shouted, “Take your revenge now for the happiness she expects from your death; give ten thousand deathly stabs to her heart by your unkindness, for the ten thousand dollars she will finger! Leave her no peace—waste her to a skeleton, and then—let her enjoy the Life Insurance—ha! ha!”

Sometimes I resolved I would live until the day the policy expired, and then die—cheat her at last.

There were seasons, however, when I threw off the mask of the madman—for, remember, I was not mad—when I would take my Fanny to my arms with love and kindness, when I would entreat her to forgive me, while with her true woman’s heart she would bless me and pardon my guilt toward her.

On the first of February the policy on my life would expire. For some weeks I had been uniformly kind to my poor wife. The demon had departed for a season, but you may be sure he was not far off. As the first of the month drew near she became more cheerful—her step was lighter, and a smile, as of old, played around her sweet mouth.

It was the afternoon of the 31st of January that I drew Fanny to my bosom as I reclined upon the sofa, and carelessly playing with her beautiful ringlets as I spoke, said,

“Do you know, dearest Fanny, the policy on my life expires to-morrow, and yet you see here I am hale and hearty—what a pity!”

“Thank God, my dear Henry, that you are so!” she replied, tenderly embracing me, “thank God!” and tears glistened on her long curling lashes.

“Shall I renew it, Fanny?” I asked smiling in her face.

“Oh no, Henry, not for worlds—if you love me, don’t renew it!” she cried, slipping from my arms upon her knees, and pressing my head to her bosom. “Oh, my dear Henry, you know not the agony I have suffered from that simple act of yours, done in all love and kindness to me—no, Henry, don’t renew it!” she added, while a shudder passed over her.

“Ah,” whispered the demon, tugging at my heart-strings till they snapped, “is not she a good actress—how well she feigns; she weeps, don’t she—but it is because you are not in the church-yard!”

For the first time I paid no heed to the demon, but kissing my darling Fanny, and promising I would comply with her wishes, I withdrew to my office.

That evening—little did I think it was to be my last with my beloved—my angel wife—my last—last—last!

Ay, howl, ye mocking fiends! gibe and chatter, and clap your hands with hellish joy! shriek to my burning brain, “It was the last!” What care I—you cannot drive me mad!

That evening we were so happy—we talked of the future, we reared temples of happiness wherein our days were to be spent—but the demon set his foot upon them, and lo, they were dashed to pieces, and in an instant I was transformed from the tender, loving husband to the maniac—but I was not mad.

I turned upon my wife with the demon’s eyes. She grew suddenly pale. She went to the side-board and poured out a glass of wine; she brought it to me and said timidly, “Will you drink this, Henry?”

I dashed it from her hand—I struck her a blow! Heavens! why was not my arm paralyzed! and cried in a voice of fury,

“Wretch! murderess!—would you poison me!”

Fanny stood for a moment transfixed with wo unutterable—it was too deep for tears; then taking the lamp, she slowly, slowly left the room, casting back upon me a look so full of grief—of pity.

In a few moments I softly followed her up stairs—I gently pushed open the door of our sleeping chamber. She did not hear my approach. She was kneeling by the bedside, her white hands uplifted in prayer. Yes, she was praying—praying God for me—praying Him to restore my reason, to remove the darkness from my mind! My reason!—ha—ha—how I chuckled as I listened.

I threw myself on the bed without speaking, and was soon asleep, or feigning to be so—narrowly watching, meanwhile, every motion of Fanny, for the demon whispered, she meant to kill me to save the Life Insurance!

She did not undress, but sat for a while in a large easy chair. Sometimes she wept, sometimes she seemed engaged in prayer.

“Kill—kill—kill!” I muttered, as if in sleep.

She started—her eye-balls dilated with terror. She rose quickly from her seat, as if to fly; but the next moment she softly approached the bed, her countenance changing from terror to pity.

“My poor, poor Henry—God help thee!” she murmured.

She then cautiously stepped across the room and carefully examined the windows, to see if they were fastened. She then took down my pistols. I knew they were not loaded; she, too, appeared to recollect it, and gently replaced them. With a timid step she next approached the bureau and opened my dressing-case, glancing uneasily at the bed as she did so. Good heavens! what was she about to do!

Ah, I knew—though I cunningly closed my eyes and lay still—still—she could not make me believe she was only anxious to put all dangerous weapons from the power of a madman—no—no, I knew better!

She drew forth a razor—and then softly, softly, softly, she turned from the bureau and—

But I waited for no more. With a horrible cry I sprung from the bed, and with one bound stood before her. I snatched the razor from her hand—I waved its shining blade in triumph.

“Wretch—murderess!” I cried.

I attempted to seize her—she eluded my grasp, and ran shrieking from the room. I rushed wildly after her, shouting madly down the stairs—through the hall. I saw her white garments as she sprang through the street-door. “On—on—after her—after her!” cried the demon.

But strong men seized me; they bound me with cords—they called me mad—they brought me here—they shut me up with maniacs; but I am not mad—no, no, no—not mad!

The demon, with a fiendish joy, whispers, “Fanny was an angel—Fanny was innocent—that I have killed her!”

Fanny! Fanny! Fanny—where are you? Come to me, my love! No, she will not come! the fiends are keeping her from me! Ah, I see them as they wind themselves around her delicate form—break from them, my angel—my wife, come to me! See! she too laughs and mocks my groans! Now—now I am, indeed, growing mad—mad!

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BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY.

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BY A. K. GARDNER, M. D., AUTHOR OF “OLD WINE IN NEW BOTTLES.”

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Monday 19th of March, 1849, was one of those beautiful days which make Spring so delightful. The smiles of nature never appear more charming than when they expel the frowns of winter. At the time above-mentioned, the world had just thrown off its fleecy mantle, preparatory to making a new toilet for the coming season. One would have imagined that the wardrobe of mother earth was very scantily provided, for the day previous her soiled coat of snow was sent to the washerwoman, who had employed the whole twenty-four hours in soaking the poor garment, scouring it with sand, and drenching it with continual showers of rain-water, so that when finally in a state to hang up to dry, scarcely a patch could be found, and those not apparently much benefited by its severe laundress. Mother Earth was surely in a most unfortunate state! Her old clothes not come home from the wash, and the new ones not ready to put on. She determined at first to lie a-bed till one or the other were ready for use. But Dame Luna was then mistress, and absolutely refused to harbor such an impoverished individual. “Credit, indeed!” she echoed. “To trust you I shall truly be a Luna-tic.” You should have seen this individual, as she stood with arms akimbo, in the fullness of her pride. Her face pale with anger, and her eyes losing their usual mildness, glared forth upon our unfortunate mother. None could account for this unwonted spirit. Some of the fixed stars, however, very different from our M. P.’s, who sometimes sleep on their posts, had noticed Mistress Luna walking in the Milky Way; and it was charitably supposed that she had been taking a little too much of the celebrated punch of that locality. These celestial M. P.’s had winked at the matter, and hence all the trouble.

The irate Luna was inflexible. In spite of all that could be said, she persisted in turning our mother out of the house.

Think of the mortification of our common parent, standing on the threshold of night, without a rag to cover her nakedness. Just then came Aurora on her morning’s work to put out the gas. Her beautiful face and neck were covered with crimson blushes, as she discovered the situation of our poor mother Earth.

“Hide yourself quickly,” she cried, “for Phoebus is coming, riding in the chariot of day.”

Now our mother had for some time carried on a little flirtation with him. She called him Apollo in those happy days; but for some time there had been a coldness between them. He was of a warm and impetuous disposition, and fond of having every thing bright about him. He objected to her white dress, which he considered to reflect upon his taste. It is true that this colorless robe, with only a few green pine sprigs upon it, did give mother rather a frigid and puritanical air. If he should be so offended at this dress, she thought, though a gay youth, I fear me much he will be greatly scandalized at seeing me with none.

Aurora’s lantern, by good fortune, showed to my mother a little strip of Crocuses, with which she hastily covered her bosom. It was truly a scanty scarf—merely a pattern of the spring fashions, which the manufacturer had sent on in advance of the season for a specimen—nevertheless it was some protection. Her benumbed form she wrapped in a rosy mist, which was found overhanging the horizon, and by the time that Mr. Apollo, Hyperion Phoebus, came up, she was in a most delightful demi-jour ready to receive him. Mr. Phoebus was entranced; and, to tell the truth, our mother was warmed up at his presence.

From that time an ardent attachment commenced. Throwing aside the mists of formality, and the fogs of prejudice, they appeared imbued with a mutual spirit, created for one another, and shortly after parson Summer united them together in the happiest of states.

I have described to you the proceedings of celestials; but we mortals have a commonplace way of doing up these little matters, far more interesting to us to my fancy. A ferry crossed—a short trip in the cars, and we are landed in the centre of a charming neighboring city. A bright sky and balmy air give vivacity, and life, and joy to all. Still a step further, where the tall spire casts its lengthened shadow across the way.

We enter the church, and many colored lights from diamond panes shed a mellowed hue around. Its oaken benches are filled with the smiling faces of friends and neighbors. There are few greetings for us, and the solemnity of the place, and the occasion, have an opportunity to exert that influence which the most thoughtless cannot entirely escape in a similar situation.

A moment longer and the organ’s roll announces the entrance of the surpliced priest. The pure lawn bespeaks respect for the unspotted character of the man of God. And now a general rustle of dresses and smothered whispers say that the bridal party approach. The gentle bride whose color rivals the hue of the camellias that adorn her jetty hair, leans on the arm of one who henceforth is to be her all in all—for whom she leaves parents, family, friends, home and country. Is it strange that the cheek is blanched and the eye moist? His is a firm step and a manly form, and a gentle eye. Affection looks out at every glance, while pride and good-fortune rejoice together. “Happy is the bride that the sun shines upon,” runs the adage. But the sun is not more ominous for good, than the mutual affection which gilds all around with its beams. Next comes the sister, whose sympathies, from nearness of age and common interests are strongest, her warm heart evincing itself by a hurried breath and a nervous step. Behind follow the dear friends of her youth, whose path so long the same, now separates, and the only brother, on whom falls the hope of the family, its perpetuated name, future reputation, and influence.

Now as they kneel about the altar, while parents, sisters, friends, stand silent around, one wish animates all that “God may have them in his holy keeping.” The service goes on. Those pledges of mutual love and fidelity—oaths, not lightly to be taken, never to be broken—vows, registered in heaven by the Great Jehovah, the almighty witness—are said. The warm-hearted father gives away the bride. The ring—the benediction—and again the fresh air salutes us. The most important of all earthly rites is finished. It is a solemn occasion. Those who have passed through this scene, are forced to recall it to themselves, to examine if they have kept the faith—to make good resolutions for the future. To the young a lesson is given. Thoughtfulness is compelled to the importance of proper care in the selection of a partner, so that inclination and duty may go hand in hand together. The rolling peals of the organ grow fainter and fainter behind us.

Still another scene. A lordly mansion, whose wide-oped doors invite our entrance. From the sanctity of the church, the sanctuary of home receives us. The voices of friends and the merry laugh greet our ears. All is gay and joyous. Out of the pale of the church the lovely bride, with blushing cheeks, receives the envious congratulations of her friends.

The table that groaned with the feast now yields its rich supplies. The wassail bowl spreads gayety around. But hush! the clang of glasses, and the busy tongues are stilled. A manly voice, with mellowed cadence, reads a heartfelt epithalamium—an ode becoming a laureat—to the health and prosperity of the young couple.

The occasion was indeed worthy of the brilliant pen of the gifted authoress. Its reading produced various effects upon its auditors. Some wondered at its beauty, some were impressed with the honor done. Those of sensibility wiped their overflowing eyes, wondering whether it was the intrinsic beauty of the poem or its peculiar appropriateness that so moved them. All felt its influence, for the children of the heart, like the carrier-pigeons, fly always to their native home.

A toast! a toast! To the bride and the poetess—and on went the feast.

The hour for separation approaches. The rolling ocean is to divide the daughter from her tender mother, beloved father, and friends. Their pangs of parting cast the only gloom upon the occasion. But now all is over. The business of every day life, with its noise, and bustle, and heartlessness, is again resumed. The scenes just described have left their subjects of contemplation too lightly treated in this day of frivolity and Fourierism, viz., the sacredness and responsibilities of marriage, and the affectionate devotedness of loving, trusting woman.

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BY ENNA DUVAL.

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BY W. S. SOUTHGATE.

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In the midst of a beautiful valley on the Rhine, known as the “Vale of Peace,” stood the cottage of an honest peasant. The lofty mountains, with their woody sides, seemed to shut out every thing but peace and contentment. A bubbling brook ran close by the cottage-door, and sweet-scented flowers grew along its sides. Merry birds sung sweetly the live-long day, and unaffrighted, built their nests around the peasant’s door. It was as if Paradise had been restored. Well might Peace love such a dwelling-place. Here the peasant had lived for years in the enjoyment of that quiet contentment which only peasants know. Every year he had reaped his unblighted grain, and gathered his purple grapes. No cruel wolf entered his sheep-fold, no disease carried off his cattle. For the fairies of the valley delighted to protect him, and would only do him good. Often would they come by moonlight, and play their merry pranks near the cottage, and he would wake and lie listening to their joyous shouts, blessing them in his heart.

Often would they work while he was sleeping, and in the morning peep from their hiding-places, and laugh at his surprise at what they had done for him. And it seemed as if one half their merry lives was spent in making the peasant and his good wife happy. Thus the years had passed, and they had lived in quiet, wanting nothing but the merry shouts of childhood to make their happiness complete. Soon this joy came also, and a prattling daughter was added to their household. Loud were the fairies’ rejoicings, and long their dances on Minna’s birth-night. The rising moon had just begun to cast the long shadows of the mountains over the quiet valley, and its white light was just struggling through the silent tree-tops, when the fairy-queen summoned her elfin band to their bower. And well might fairies choose such a retreat. Myriad wild-rose vines, that had crept up the trunks of the trees, met overhead, and formed the fairy hall. The vine-leaves and the branches were so thickly entwined, that even the sunbeams could find no place to enter. Each side sloped gently down to the murmuring fountain which gushed forth from the midst, gladdening every thing with its coolness. The air was filled with the fragrance of the roses as the wind stirred lightly amongst their leaves. The humming-birds built their nests in the bower, and fed upon its sweets, for the fairies love them of all birds. Here would the fairy band repose all day. And many a time, when working away from his cottage, had the peasant heard their merry songs rising above the murmur of the forest. And when the sun went down, he would hasten home, loving them more than ever.

Here they assembled, while their queen addressed them. “Listen, fairies. This night brings on its wings the sweet hope of the peasant, and a welcome care to us. Ye have long guarded this our valley against the coming of hurtful spirits; ye have many a fairy-circle in it, where ye sport in the moonlight dance; but to-night brings your greatest joy. Ye truly love the forest, the valley, and the peasant; but now Minna is your chief delight. Ye three spirits, Love, Virtue, and Peace be ever with her, nor once forsake her. And ye, Grace and Beauty, preside at her birth. Now hence to the valley, for the moonlight waits.” And to the valley they did go—scampering, flying, tumbling, and rolling, like so many dried leaves before a whirlwind. And all that night were they rejoicing, nor ceased till the dawning light heralded the approaching sun. And now the once lonely cottage echoes all day with the childish laughter of Minna. And the peasant toils daily in the valley with a lighter heart than ever. The good wife’s soul overflows with a mother’s joy. For the three spirits, Love, Virtue, and Peace abide with them.

Years passed, and with them fled the childhood of Minna. The little sporting fawn had become a stately deer. Her joyous girlhood had slipped away, and womanhood found her still playing by the silvery brook, as pure in heart as its own clear water. The twin fairies, Grace and Beauty, were ever with her. And all the fairies so loved her, that they had once even taken her to their sacred bower.

And now many noble knights had heard of the beauty of the peasant’s daughter, and many desired to see her. But one, the good knight Edchen, determined to seek her hand, for a spirit seemed to whisper to him, that she was destined to be his. One day as she sat singing by the brook, twining wild-roses and lilies in her hair, she looked up, and lo! a manly knight gazing upon her. She started to her feet, and like a surprised deer, stood wondering at the sight. And the renowned knight Edchen, for he it was that stood before her, was astonished at her beauty. For she seemed to him more like an angel or the being of a dream, than the daughter of an humble peasant. And ere either had spoken, their hearts met in love. And now he knew that some good spirit had directed him, that he might find his heart’s mate. For truly every heart has somewhere in the world a loving companion. And thus he spoke, “Fair lady, if I am bold, forgive; but when first I saw thee, a spirit whispered to my heart—‘she is thy mate.’ I am Edchen, and can boast only good. I have sought thee long, and have loved as no other since first I heard of thy loveliness. And now behold me ready to follow thy command as a faithful knight, if I may but carry with me thy love.”

Then the happy Minna answered the knight, “Noble Edchen, I heard of thy goodness even here in this lonely valley, and wished thee near me, that I might love thee as I love this little brook, and all these hills. Dear as is my home, my heart longs for a companion, and truly thy face betrays thee good. Welcome my heart’s mate, I’m glad a kind spirit sent thee.”

And thus quickly did their hearts become one! for loveliness and goodness are ever congenial. Soon Edchen returned to his home, carrying with him the plighted love of Minna, promising quickly to return and take her with him as his own dear bride.

Now the brook and the flowers were forgotten, for the heart of Minna was filled with love for Edchen. And like a merry bird she would sing all day long, and all her song be love. The peasant and his good wife were rejoiced to see her so happy, yet they looked forward with sorrow to the time when the knight should come to claim his bride, and take her away from the valley. And when the peasant looked sad at the thought of this, his wife would say, “Henri, we are old, and have naught to live for but the happiness of Minna—and will she not be happy with the noble Edchen?” Then the peasant would cheer up and be as light-hearted as ever, for the words of the good wife drove away sorrow.

Two months had worn away slowly—how slow is time to waiting love! When one day as Minna tripped along the valley, she heard the fairies singing in their bower; she listened, and this was their song:

Minna trembled; before she had heard the fairies sing only joyous songs, but now they seemed to be mourning as if some evil were coming. She hastened home; nor did she sleep that night for thinking of the fairies’ song. All night a fairy voice seemed to whisper, “Thy love is blighted.” ’Twas now a year since they parted, and yet no word had come from Edchen. And now the gentle Minna began to droop and fade; as you have seen a fair lily droop its head, and its pure white leaves become dry and yellow, when some rude blast has broken its stem. And ever and anon the fairy voice whispered, “Edchen is dead.” One night she dreamed, and a band of freed spirits seemed flying from earth to heaven. Amongst them she saw the pure white spirit of Edchen; and it seemed to beckon and say, “Come, Minna.” The shock was too strong; the stem too tender. The feeble flower drooped and died. And now it seemed as if peace had fled from the valley, and left only grief. But it soon returned and dwelt again in the peasant’s heart, for as he worked in the valley, he heard the fairies sing,

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BY MRS. E. J. EAMES.

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BY THOMAS WYATT, A. M., AUTHOR OF “HISTORY OF THE KINGS OF FRANCE,” ETC. ETC. ETC.

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Very little is known of this illustrious officer till about the year 1755, when we find him filling an inferior station in the quartermaster-general’s department, in the imperial army of France; his intimate acquaintance with the details of that department led his friends in America to believe that he had held it for some considerable time.

Toward the close of the French war with England, Baron De Kalb was dispatched by his sovereign to North America, to visit the British Colonies there, expressly to ascertain the points in which they were most vulnerable, and to discover how far it was practicable, by well-timed insinuation and winning intrigue, to generate dissatisfaction, and excite a suspicious jealousy against the mother country, so as to shake their confidence in the purity of her views, and beget and cherish a desire of asserting their independence.

He traversed the British provinces in a concealed character; and when speaking of the existing war, often expressed his astonishment how any government could have so blundered as to efface the ardent and deep affection which, to his own knowledge, existed on the part of the colonies of Great Britain previous to the late rupture. Just before the peace our incognitus becoming suspected, was arrested, and for a few days imprisoned. On examination of his baggage and papers, nothing was found to warrant his detention, and he was discharged. Such discovery was not practicable, as, during this tour, the baron himself declared that he relied entirely upon his memory, which was singularly strong, never venturing to commit to paper the information of others, or his own observations.

On the restoration of peace, the baron returned to France, and there remained in the service of his country till 1777. When the news of the war of the American Revolution reached France, the youthful and chivalrous Lafayette, accompanied by the Baron De Kalb, left their native shores to offer their assistance in the struggle for independence. They came in the same ship, and arrived in America early in July, 1777, and presented their credentials to Congress, who gave them commissions as major-generals—their commissions bearing date on the same day, July 31st, 1777.

General De Kalb served in the main army, under the immediate command of General Washington, until March, 1780, when the entire Maryland and Delaware lines, with the 1st regiment of artillery, were detached from the main army and placed under his command, and ordered to South Carolina, to reinforce and take command of the southern army, which had almost been destroyed by the unfortunate surrender of General Lincoln.

In this command he remained until the 25th July, 1780, when General Gates, having been appointed by Congress commander-in-chief in the South, arrived in camp, and assumed the command; General De Kalb remaining second in command. General Gates, having broken up the camp and made suitable preparations, subsequently marched his army to within a few miles of Camden, South Carolina, unfortunately, was persuaded that he had nothing further to do but to advance upon his enemy, never supposing that so far from retiring, the British general would seize the proffered opportunity of battle.

Unhappily for America, unhappily for himself, he acted under this influence, nor did he awake from his reverie until the proximity of the enemy was announced by his fire in the night preceding the fatal morning. Lord Cornwallis having been regularly informed of the passing occurrences, hastened to Camden, which he reached on the 13th of August. Spending the subsequent day in review and examination, he found his army very much enfeebled, eight hundred being sick, his effective strength was reduced to somewhat less than two thousand three hundred men, including militia, and Bryan’s corps, which, together, amounted to seven hundred and fifty men. Judging from the Congressional publications, he rated his enemy at six thousand, in which estimation his lordship was much mistaken, as from official returns on the evening preceding the battle, it appears that our force did not exceed four thousand, including the corps detached under Lieutenant-Colonel Wolford; yet there was a great disparity of numbers in our favor; but we fell short in quality, our continental horse, foot, and artillery being under one thousand, whereas the British regulars amounted to nearly one thousand six hundred.

In case of a disaster, the American commander had an eye to the three powerful and faithful counties, Cabarrus, Rowan, and Mecklenburgh. The inhabitants of these three counties, amongst the most populous in the state, were true and zealous in their maintenance of the Revolution; and they were always ready to encounter any and every peril to support the cause of their hearts. Contiguous to the western border, over the mountains, lived that hardy race of mountaineers, equally attached to the cause of our common country, and who rolled occasionally like a torrent on the hostile territory. The ground was strong, and the soil rich and cultivated. In every respect, therefore, it was adapted to the American general until he had rendered himself completely ready for offence. Notwithstanding his diminished force, notwithstanding the vast expected superiority of his enemy, the discriminating mind of the British general paused not an instant in deciding upon his course. No idea of a retrograde movement was entertained by him. Victory only could extricate him from the surrounding dangers, and the quicker the decision, the better his chance of success. He therefore gave orders to prepare for battle, and in the evening of the 15th put his army in motion to attack his enemy next morning in his position at Rudgely’s Mill. Having placed Camden in the care of Major McArthur, with the convalescents, some of the militia, and a detachment of regulars expected in the course of the day, he moved at the hour of ten at night, in two divisions. The front division, composed of four companies of light infantry, with the twenty-second and twenty-third regiments, was commanded by Lieutenant-colonel Webster.

The rear division, consisting of the legion infantry, Hamilton’s regiment of North Carolinians, the volunteers of Ireland, and Bryan’s corps of loyalists, was under the orders of Lord Rawdon.

Two battalions of the seventy-first, with the legion cavalry, formed the reserve.

After Gates had prepared his army to move, it was resolved in a council of war to march on the night of the 15th, and to sit down behind Saunder’s Creek, within seven miles of Camden.

Thus it happened that both the generals were in motion at the same hour, and for the same purpose, with this material distinction, that the American general grounded his conduct in his mistaken confidence of his adversary’s disposition to retreat; whereas, the British commander sought for battle with anxiety, regarding the evasion of it by his antagonist as the highest misfortune.

After sending the baggage, stores and sick, off to the friendly settlement of the Waxhaws, the army marched at ten o’clock at night. Armand’s legion, in horse and foot, not exceeding one hundred, moved as a vanguard, flanked by Lieutenant-colonel Porterfield’s corps on the right, and by Major Armstrong’s light infantry of the North Carolina militia, on the left. The Maryland and Delaware lines, composed the front division, under Baron De Kalb; the militia of North Carolina, under General Caswell, the centre; and the Virginia militia, under Brigadier Stevens, the rear. Colonel Lee, in his Notes, says, “Armand was one of the many French gentlemen who joined our army, and was one of the few who were honored with important commands. His officers were generally foreign, and his soldiers chiefly deserters. It was the last corps in the army which ought to have been entrusted with the van post, because, however unexceptionable the officers may have been, the materials of which the corps was composed, did not warrant such distinction.” About one o’clock in the morning the two armies met, and from the darkness of the night they came almost in close contact before either was aware of their position.

As soon as the corps of Armand discovered the near approach of the enemy, they shamefully took to flight, carrying dismay and confusion through the whole ranks. The leading regiment of Maryland was disordered by this ignominious flight; but the gallant Porterfield, taking his part with decision on the right, seconded by Armstrong on the left, soon brought the enemy’s van to pause. The two armies halted, each throbbing with the emotions which the van encounter had excited. The British army displayed in one line, which completely occupied the ground, each flank resting on impervious swamps. The infantry of the reserve took post in a second line, one half opposite the centre of each wing, and the cavalry held the road where the left of the right wing united with the volunteers of Ireland, which corps formed the right of the left wing. With the front line were two six and two three-pounders, under Lieutenant McLeod of the artillery; with the reserve were two six-pounders. Thus arrayed, confiding in discipline and experience, the British general waited anxiously for light.

The Maryland regiment soon recovered from the confusion produced by the panic of Armand’s cavalry. General Gates saw the moment fast approaching, and arrayed his army with promptitude. The second brigade of Maryland, with the regiment of Delaware, under General Gist, took the right; the brigade of North Carolina militia, led by Brigadier Caswell, the centre; and that of Virginia, under Brigadier Stevens, the left. The first brigade of Maryland was formed in reserve, under the command of General Smallwood, who had on York Island, in the beginning of the war, when colonel of the first regiment of Maryland, deeply planted in the hearts of his countrymen, the remembrance of his zeal and valor, conspicuously displayed in that the first of his fields. To each brigade a due proportion of artillery was allotted; but we had no cavalry, as those who led in the night were still flying. Major-general Baron De Kalb, charged with the line of battle, took post on the right, while the general-in-chief, superintending the whole, placed himself on the road between the line and the reserve. Light now began to dawn, and every moment was an hour of anxious suspense; the signal for battle was given, and instantly our centre opened its artillery, and the left line, under Stevens, was ordered to advance.

The British general, closely watching our motions, discovered this movement, immediately gave orders to Webster to lead into battle with the right. The command was executed with the characteristic courage and influence of that officer. Our left was instantly overpowered by the assault, and the brave Stevens had to endure the mortifying spectacle exhibited by the flying brigade. Without exchanging more than one fire with the enemy, they threw away their arms, and sought that safety in flight which generally can be obtained only by courageous resistance. The North Carolina brigade, imitating that on the right, followed the disgraceful example. Stevens, Caswell, and even Gates himself, struggled to stop the fugitives, and rally them for battle; but every noble feeling of the heart was sunk in anxious solicitude to preserve life; and having no cavalry to assist their exertions, the attempted reclamation failed entirely. The continental troops, with Dixon’s regiment of North Carolinians, were left to oppose the enemy, every corps of whose army was acting with the most determined resolution. De Kalb and Gist yet held the battle on our right in suspense. Lieutenant-colonel Howard, at the head of Williams’ regiment, drove the corps in front out of line. Rawdon could not bring the brigade of Gist to recede—bold was the pressure of the foe; firm as a rock was the resistance of Gist. The Marylanders appeared to gain ground; but the deplorable desertion of the militia having left Webster unemployed, that discerning soldier detached some light troops with Tarlton’s cavalry in pursuit, and opposed himself to the reserve brought up by Smallwood to replace the fugitives. Here the battle was renewed with fierceness and obstinacy. The Marylanders, although greatly outnumbered, firmly maintained the desperate conflict; and De Kalb, now finding his once exposed flank completely shielded, resorted to the bayonet. Dreadful was the charge! This appeared to be his last hope, and making a desperate charge, drove the enemy before him with considerable advantage.

But at this time, Cornwallis perceiving the American cavalry had left the field, ordered Tarlton to make a decisive charge; this was done, and our brave troops were broken; and his lordship following up the blow, compelled the intrepid Marylanders to abandon the unequal contest.

To the woods and swamps, after performing their duty valiantly, these gallant soldiers were compelled to fly. The pursuit was continued with keenness, and none were saved but those who penetrated swamps which before had been deemed impassable.

De Kalb, sustaining by his splendid example the courageous efforts of our inferior force, in his last resolute attempt to seize victory, received eleven bayonet wounds. His lingering life was rescued from immediate death by the brave interposition of one of his aids-de-camp.

Lieutenant-colonel De Buysson saw his prostrate general in the act of falling, rushed through the clashing bayonets, and stretching his arms over the fallen hero, exclaimed, “Save the Baron De Kalb! Save the Baron De Kalb!” The British officers interposed and prevented his immediate destruction; but he survived his wounds but three days.

To a British officer, who kindly administered every consolation in his power, he replied, “I thank you for your generous sympathy, but I die the death I always prayed for—the death of a soldier fighting for the rights of man.” The heroic veteran employed his last moments in dictating a letter to General Smallwood, who succeeded to the command of his division, breathing in every word his sincere and ardent affection for his officers and soldiers, expressing his admiration of their late noble, though unsuccessful stand; reciting the eulogy which their bravery had extorted from the enemy; together with the lively delight such testimony of their valor had excited in his own mind. Trembling on the shadowy confines of life, he stretched out his quivering hand to his friend and aid-de-camp, Chevalier De Buysson, proud of his generous wounds, he breathed his last benediction on his faithful, brave division.

In this disastrous conflict, besides the gallant De Kalb, this country lost many excellent officers, and among them Lieutenant-colonel Porterfield, whose promise of future greatness had endeared him to the whole army. On the 14th of October, 1780, Congress resolved that a monument should be erected to his memory, in the town of Annapolis, in the State of Maryland; but this resolution, it is believed, has never been carried into effect, and the gratitude and plighted faith of the nation both remain unredeemed.

He was in the forty-eighth year of his age, most of his life, with the exception of the last three years spent in the American Revolution, he had passed in the armies of France, having entered at the early age of sixteen years. In the resolution of Congress we find the following inscription, which was intended to have graced the monument of this gallant officer:

Sacred to the memory of the

BARON DE KALB,

Knight of the royal order of Military Merit,

Brigadier of the armies of France,

and

Major General

In the service of the United States of America;

Having served with honor and reputation

For three years,

He gave a last and glorious proof of his

Attachment to the liberties of mankind

And the cause of America,

In the action near Camden, in the state of S. Carolina,

On the 16th of August, 1780;

Where, leading on the troops of the

Maryland and Delaware lines,

Against superior numbers,

And animating them by his example

To deeds of valor,

He was pierced with many wounds,

And on the nineteenth following, expired,

In the 48th year of his age.

THE CONGRESS

Of the United States of America,

In gratitude to his zeal, services and merit,

Have erected this monument.