Chapter IX (2)

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.

* * * * *

INVOCATION TO SLEEP.

BY ENNA DUVAL.

THROUGH the night’s weary vigils
My pulse doth keep time
With the clock’s never ceasing
And passionless chime.
Sweet Hope with my spirit
In daylight doth dwell,
But Sadness at nightfall
Weaves o’er me her spell.

In the twilight of dream-land
Dear forms hover near,
And their sweet, tender love tones
Sooth each rising fear.
Come, come to my pillow,
Thou dreamy-eyed Sleep!
For thou bringest with thee
Charms potent and deep.

Through my casement the moon beams,
I look on the sky,
And my fancy there pictures
Sleep’s form soaring high.
I see in the white clouds
Her head drooping low,
Her thin, trailing garments.
Her poppy-bound brow.

She is queen of the dream-land,
That pure, blest retreat:
And the loved that are parted
In spirit there meet.
Come, come to my pillow,
Thou poppy-crowned queen!
Bear off my sad spirit,
Of Hope let it dream.

Cruel Love by my pillow
Keeps hovering near:
Of the absent he murmurs—
Quick starts the sad tear.
I know that the fluttering
Of his tiny wing
Drives away the dear forms
Sleep only can bring.

For with sleep come the loved ones,
In dream-land we meet,
And our spirits there mingling,
Hold commune most sweet.
Come, come to my pillow,
Thou poppy-crowned queen!
And bring to my spirit
Sweet Hope’s soothing dream.

* * * * *

MINNA.

BY W. S. SOUTHGATE.

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:

“Two roses together
In love shall twine,
O cruel the spirit
That breaks the vine.”

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,

“The vines that grew on earth
Have gone to bloom in heaven.”

* * * * *

GERMAN POETS.

BY MRS. E. J. EAMES.

I.—GOETHE.

Light! more light still! GOETHE.

Thou unto whom was given the golden key
To unlock the portals of the human mind,—
Oh! Spirit grand—adventurous—and free—
In that last awful moment didst thou find
“_More_ light” than shone upon thy earthly vision?
Was the Great Idea to thy sense made clear?
The solemn secrets of the veiled Elysian—
Say—were they whispered in thy closing ear?
“Light! more light still!” it was thy last, _last_ prayer!
And oh! how strove thy straining, dying eyes,
To pierce the far, impenetrable skies,
And read the mighty mystery, written _there_!
Alas! to _us_, poor dwellers in the clay,
Are given but glimpses of the Land of Day!

II.—SCHILLER.

“Keep true to the dream of thy youth.”

Thy dream of youth! ah, no! it ne’er forsook thee,
The worshiped Ideal of thy boyhood’s time;
Still pure and beautiful as when it took thee
To cross the Holy Land of Truth sublime!
So earnest thy Belief—to later age
The visions of thy childhood stayed to bless thee—
Though sorrow dimmed the lustre of life’s page,
And shadows deepened round—and pain opprest thee—
The Beauty of thy Being still caressed thee.
Still didst thou reverence thine early dream,
And woo fair Nature as thy loveliest bride;—
Still from thy Soul did Faith’s pure radiance stream,
So was the Angel of thy Youth, thy guide,
In snow-white raiment clad, forever at thy side.

III—RICHTER.

My Jean Paul, I shall never forget. HERDER.

Never forgotten! still do they enshrine thee
The pride and glory of thy Fatherland:
Before the altar of the true Shekinah,
O priestly poet! it was thine to stand
Clothed in the purity of thy high nature—
And wearing on thy spiritual features
(Illumined with the tenderest charities)
A world of kindness for thy fellow creatures.
Ah, yes! the Universal heart of man
The Holiest of Holies was to thee:—
Thy everlasting covenant and plan
To love and trust—believe: wait patiently!
Never forgotten thou! true Poet of Mankind,
Still in their hearts thy words a general echo find.

IV—KORNER.

“Lord of the Sword and Lyre!”

Oh, Warrior Poet! thou before whose eyes
Rose the enchanted realm of the Ideal—
The star-lit land of Fancy, whose fair skies
Bent in unclouded loveliness around thee—
The angel of the world of visions found thee—
Bore thee from the cold Winter of the Real,
And with unfading wreaths of Poesy crowned thee.
Lord of the Lyre and Sword! O, blest wert thou
To live and die, amid thine early dreams!
Nor bay, nor blossom faded from thy brow—
No star of Promise, shed its dying gleams
Upon thy path—and left thee, _thus_ to bow
A lone survivor! Oh! _no_ lot so blest
As that which calleth _early_ unto rest!

* * * * *

LIFE OF GENERAL BARON DE KALB.

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

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.

No man surpassed this gentleman in simplicity and condescension, which gave to his deportment a cast of amiability extremely ingratiating, at the same time exciting confidence and esteem.

General Washington, many years after, on a visit to Camden, inquired for the grave of De Kalb. After looking on it a while with a countenance expressive of deep feeling, he breathed a deep sigh, and exclaimed, “so there lies the brave De Kalb, the generous stranger, who came from a distant land to fight our battles, and to water with his blood the tree of our liberty. Would to God he had lived to share its fruits!”

When General De Kalb came to the United States with Lafayette to enter into the service of America, he left his wife and children in France—two sons and a daughter. Soon after his arrival here the troubles in France arose, which terminated in revolution. In this revolution, the eldest son, who had joined one of the parties, perished under the guillotine; the second son received a commission in the army; and the Baroness De Kalb, with her daughter, fled into Switzerland. The second son remained in the service of France until the downfall of the Emperor Napoleon, when he retired from public service to the family _chateau_ at Milon, in the vicinity of Paris, the residence of the late Baron De Kalb, before he left his native country.

* * * * *

THE HOUSEKEEPING HUSBAND.

BY ANGELE DE V. HULL.

Nor does he govern only, or direct,
But much performs himself.
COWPER.

NOW, dear reader, do not think for a moment that Mr. Bettyman is any relation of yours. He is nobody’s uncle, cousin, or brother, though, indeed, accident may have thrown into your way a kinsman of his peculiar temperament. But if, out of the fifty thousand readers of Graham’s Magazine, forty of whom I, in my insignificance, may know but slightly, six in every town or village were to take offence at my penchant for the ridiculous, and call upon me to deny any particular caricature of any particular individual, what sort of a postage-bill do you think mine would be, allowing a letter for each very sensitive reader? Understand, then, loveliest of your sex, whichever you be, that I don’t mean any body in particular, nor any thing in general—I only mean to inform you, best reader, that Mr. Edwin Bettyman was a newly married man at the time I knew him, and had just carried his pretty little wife to his elegant but simple home near the suburbs of _his_ native place, which, of course, is not yours. As for myself, I am not fond of these half-way sort of places; I like to be in the country, amid the green fields and wild-flowers, or in town, amid its concomitants, smoke, dust, and fuss. But, as my opinion cannot possibly be of any consequence to any body, I will merely mention that Mr. and Mrs. Bettyman both disagreed with me, and were delighted with their location. The house was unexceptionable—a large, airy cottage, with front and back piazzas, a fine yard, and the greenest of grass-plots on either side of the gate, around which was a hedge of juniper in beautiful luxuriance.

Mrs. Bettyman was enchanted. The furniture was light and graceful; Edwin had guessed her own taste, and she ran about surveying her new home as blithe of heart as any bride on earth. As to household affairs, she knew enough to call herself an accomplished _ménagère_, and shaking back her sunny curls, she gayly challenged her cousin Isabel and myself to dine with her that day week. So “all went merry as a marriage bell;” and as we returned home Isabel expressed her satisfaction at the choice Edwin had made, and the sweet relative he had given her, for, as I ought to have mentioned before, she was _his_ cousin.

“They seem well matched,” said I, musingly, and half sadly, too. “I wonder, now, how much there is for each to learn of the other. How many failings to come out, like dark spots upon the deep, clear blue of love’s happy horizon.”

“Why really, you grow fanciful,” laughed my companion. “Surely they must know one another by this time!”

I opened my eyes in wonder. The idea of any man or woman being aught but a faultless monster, after three weeks’ marriage, was preposterous in the extreme. How few weddings there would be, were lovers sent to the Palace of Truth for a month or two.

“Does not Josephine think her husband free from faults, Isabel?” asked I, after a pause.

“I fear that she does,” said she, smiling, “but,” added earnestly, “I hope not. Even I, who have been Edwin’s favorite cousin, cannot presume to say what kind of a husband he will be. A very pleasant acquaintance may become a disagreeable person to live with; a gentle manner may conceal an evil heart. Not that I suspect Edwin of either, but you have conjured me into seriousness somehow, and I begin to doubt the existence of that perfect happiness supposed to follow the union of two loving hearts.”

“A poet’s dream,” exclaimed I. “The Eden of early faith changes too soon to dread and despair. There is no perfect bliss on earth, and of quiet, sober happiness, how few instances!”

Isabel turned toward me with an air of astonishment that amused while it abashed me. I might be accused of experimental knowledge and I looked away.

“Have you foresworn marriage, my dear, or have you had an escape after a sentence of banishment to the Palace of Truth?”

Just as I said—an accusation in set terms. So I laughed very affectedly at my homilies, and confessed that I was in a reflective mood. We changed the subject, and went home through a pleasant wood, stopping a while to choose some bright wild-flower, or watch the “lazy pacing clouds” pile themselves into enormous masses of blue and silver, to melt away into mysterious shapes as we gazed.

Some time after this I was called away and remained absent for several months. On my return, I found Isabel Stewart an inmate of her Cousin Edwin’s house, having lost her only near relative, an old uncle, during my absence. As we had been dear friends from early childhood, I gladly accepted an invitation to spend a portion of my time with her, and drove out “armes et baggage” to the pretty residence of my hero and his lovely wife, too willing to escape from the thraldom of a hotel life.

Isabel was paler and thinner, and threw herself without speaking into my arms. Josephine was as pretty as ever, as cordial and hospitable as hostess could be. But she had lost that catching gayety that so enchanted me at the time of her marriage, and seemed to grow timid as her husband’s step was heard upon the gravel-walk.

“How do you do, my dear Miss Ellen?” said he, taking my hand and shaking it heartily. “I am glad to see you once more. Have you had lunch yet? No. Josephine, my love, how could you neglect your guest?”

“I this moment arrived,” said I, smiling and seating myself. “Do let us take breath before you send Josy off to the pantry. Knowing her boast of housekeeping accomplishments, I am sure of a grand lunch by and bye.”

She smiled and answered cheerfully, “Oh, you must not remember what a braggart I was, Ellen. Edwin is not at all pleased with my housekeeping, and pretends that I know nothing about it. But it _is_ time to get something to refresh you after your drive, so excuse me, I leave you with Isabel—and you want no better companion.”

“No better, indeed,” said I, drawing her closer to me as Josephine left the apartment. “Now do tell me, dear Isabel, all about yourself, for you have not written me very explicitly since your change of residence. Are you happy here?”

And receiving an answer in the affirmative, we talked, like two egotists, of nothing but ourselves until summoned to the dining-room.

Mr. Bettyman seemed to me a _fussy_ man—(dear reader, you _must_ understand the term.) He got up and unlocked the sideboard, looked very mysterious as he examined the decanters, took one out, relocked the door, and returned to his seat. The wine-glasses were as usual at each place. Taking mine, he was about to fill it when something attracted his attention, and he tittered an exclamation of tragical amazement.

“Is it possible! Cracked already! Not eight months since we came here and another glass ruined. Two wine-glasses cracked—I cannot say how may tumblers broken—”

“Only one, Edwin,” said his wife, blushing slightly as she glanced at me. “And that, you know, cracked from the ice with which it was filled.”

“Ay, always some excuse. It is perfectly useless, my dear Miss Ellen,” interrupted he, and I expected from the expression of wo he assumed, to see him burst into tears, “it is perfectly useless for me to purchase any articles of value for my house. Every thing goes to ruin;” and he shrugged his shoulders, mournfully looking around for sympathy.

“And in the meantime, Ellen is waiting for a glass of wine,” said Isabel, “and I for a piece of that tongue before you.”

“Oh! I beg pardon—I am neglecting my duty as host; but you must really excuse me, I am so shocked—so often surprised at the destruction of property—”

“Josy, do give Ellen some of that pine-apple jam,” interrupted Isabel, looking as though she had not heard Mr. Bettyman speak, “I want her to see what excellent preservers we are. Indeed, I never tasted better sweetmeats than those we made this season.”

“Nearly an entire barrel of the finest crush sugar consumed! I hope that Josephine will acquire more knowledge of economy as she grows older,” said Mr. Bettyman, encouragingly. “A half pound to three-quarters of fruit, I remember, was my mother’s rule—and I mentioned this to Josephine.”

“My dear cousin, what a pity you were not born an old lady!” said Isabel, gravely, “you are too good for a man.”

My politeness was very nearly upset by this sally, and I looked at Edwin. He seemed rather _flattered_, yet doubtfully examined his cousin’s eyes, deceived by the gravity of her tone into an assurance of her sincerity. Still the appellation of old woman was not very respectful, and while he pondered in silence, we talked without further interruption. His wife was evidently mortified, as must be the case on the introduction of any stranger into her domestic circle; but her sweet and amiable manner throughout all, was truly commendable. I must own my perfect astonishment at Mr. Bettyman’s meddling disposition. I had never seen such an exhibition before, but concealed my feelings, and ate lunch enough to frighten him, had he been actuated by avarice. But he was not a “stingy man;” he had no meanness about him. Providing handsomely for his house, lavishing every comfort upon his wife, loving her with true devotion, he embittered her life by this love of control, this singular passion for leaving his sphere of husband to interfere with her household cares in a way as unmanly as it was annoying. His place was as intrusive there as Josephine’s would have been in his counting-room. As well might she seat herself at his desk and examine his books—and what would he have thought and said, had she ever attempted it? Surely Mr. Bettyman, like Lady Macbeth, unsexed himself.

Isabel and I were too busy chatting to notice his display of old ladyism, by any remark to one another; and as I then concluded it to be merely an accidental humor of Mr. Bettyman’s, I descended to the breakfast-room the next morning, more and more delighted with my change of apartments, from the refreshing sleep I had enjoyed.

“Come, Ellen,” said Josephine, as she bade me good morning, “do justice to my cook’s rolls. You never eat better bread in your life; and as for fresh butter, look at it and then taste it.”

“Josy grows vain,” said Isabel, putting an egg into my cup. “She will tell you how much smarter her hens are than city hens.”

“Indeed they are,” cried Josephine, laughing. “You shall visit my poultry-yard this morning, Ellen, and see what a collection I have. Dorking, Bucks County, Polish, Chinese, Java, etc., to say nothing of native hens to the manor born. And such broods of chickens—pretty little creatures!”

And breakfast passed very pleasantly, Mr. Bettyman making himself agreeable without being useful, until Josephine was ready to give her orders for the morning and show me her pretty place. To the poultry-yard we were going, sun-bonnets in hand, when Edwin mounted the steps, wearing a most unhappy look, and holding in the tips of his fingers, a something that seemed a conglomeration of mud, mire, and cloth.

“My dear Josy, do look at this! One of those excellent cup-towels in the ground—buried actually in the ground! This is really too bad! You should see to your servants—you seem to take no interest in any thing about your domestic affairs. Just see this towel!” and Mr. Bettyman contemplated it with a look of sorrow, as though it had been a deceased friend instead of the skeleton of a bit of crash. Isabel descended the steps and taking it from him, examined it in the four corners. At length she looked up, and the wonder is to me how she could preserve her gravity.

“Was your mother’s maiden name Brown?” asked she with _such_ an innocent look!

“Why surely not, Isabel,” replied he, surprised. “Why you must know—what did you ask for?”

“Because this towel is marked Brown, printed in large letters, and as your name is Bettyman and Josy’s was Singleton, I cannot imagine to whom it belongs.”

“Oh! it must have fallen over the wall, Miss Isabel, and belongs next door. Mrs. Brown lives in there, and I expect it blew over with the wind and rain lately. I’ll wash it out and carry it home,” said the servant, as she took it from Isabel, who turned smilingly to Josephine, while Mr. Bettyman walked away a little disconcerted.

As for myself, I opened my eyes to twice their usual size, and pulled my long bonnet over them, to hide my wonder. While we were admiring Josy’s beautiful poultry, her husband came running toward us, and I dreaded some other muddy discovery; but it was to bid us good morning, and kiss his wife before he drove off to the city. As I remarked his sincere look of affection when he pressed his lips to her blooming cheek, I could not help sighing as I remembered how grieved she was at his reproach, “you take no interest in your domestic affairs.” He might speak kindly now, but he had spoiled her pleasure for the hour, and seemed to feel no extra gratitude for her perfect freedom from every thing like resentment. Her smile was so sweet and winning, that I felt like reminding him how little he deserved it, after his _bêtises_. She left us to get a basket for the eggs that were scattered in great profusion about the nice nests ranged along the side of the coop; and where the cackling and clucking of a hundred hens was a safe preventive against overhearing, I exclaimed to my companion,

“Isabel! what sort of a _lusus naturæ_ is your Cousin Edwin? If it would not be considered offensive, I should offer him a petticoat, and make one long enough to cover his pantaloons and boots.”

“And he would do honor to it, Ellen,” was the reply. “This Miss Molly-mania of Edwin’s is the one spot that has risen on Josephine’s otherwise happy union. She is the loveliest woman I ever knew, so sweet and patient; and I feel so provoked at her husband that I often am afraid to do mischief by interfering. But I cannot help it! As ridiculous as it is—as it helps to make him—we cannot laugh at it, because it is an evil—a source of serious unhappiness in any household. And Josy bears it so nobly! And never smiles when at times I cannot contain my amusement even before him. I am afraid he is incurable, for if he is not content with her neatness and order, an angel’s efforts could not please him. I wish you would think of some cure for his disease.”

“I’d put a cap on him, and make him mend his own stockings,” said I, with more indignation than dignity; but Josephine was at the gate, and after filling the basket with what New Orleans calls creole eggs, a fortune to the one who could have taken them to St. Mary’s Market, we returned to the house and spent a pleasant morning together.

Fortunately no further opportunities presented themselves to Mr. Bettyman, and I found him a very pleasant, well-informed person, capable of being as entertaining as he had been in the beginning disagreeable. Two more delightful days I never passed, when on the third morning I heard Mr. Bettyman give orders to take back his rockaway to the stable, as he intended remaining at home for the day. Isabel lifted her hands in dismay, as he leant out of the window, and I guessed that we were to be favored with some more of his attempts at housekeeping. Ah! and so we were! I saw him enter Josy’s pantry, putting on a light blouse, and soon after he came in to us, his head pretty well powdered. He had been at the flour-barrel!

“My dear! the flour goes very fast. Two weeks since that barrel was opened, and there is, I can assure you, a very large portion gone. How much do you give out for the day? I’m sure that five pints ought to be sufficient for our use.”

“I do not think it can be wasted, Edwin,” said his wife, rising hastily, as though prepared for some announcements. “I’ll go and see myself.”

“No, _I_ will speak to Maria about it,” replied he, obligingly. Poor Josy! how much she dreaded his being laughed at by his servants—but Isabel was there ever ready to protect her.

“Stop, Edwin!” said she, meeting my eye, and looking so arch that I had to smile and turn away. “_Ellen_ eats a great deal of bread, and perhaps Maria found it necessary to use more flour in consequence. I think she is excusable if she takes _more_ than five pints.”

Poor Mr. Bettyman! He piqued himself upon his exceeding politeness, and had Isabel given him a galvanic shock he could not have felt it worse. After expressing his surprise at her injustice, he turned to me with so many explanations and apologies that but for the good lesson taught him, I could have been half angry at my friend’s zeal for his improvement. At all events, he was stopped in his visit to Maria, and returning to the pantry, armed with a dusting brush, very industriously applied himself to cleaning every shelf, and peeping carefully behind each row of china, glassware, and jars, assured that no one ever peeped so effectually before. At dinner he appeared much fatigued as well he might; and after entertaining us and improving himself with a discourse upon the manner in which a house should be governed, he turned to his wife.

“I did not see the cheese in the jar, my dear, when I was examining the pantry. Certainly, you cannot have used all that I sent home but a short time since.”

Josephine colored deeply, and paused a while before answering. At length she took courage,

“It grew mouldy, Edwin, and I sent it into the kitchen. I did not think—”

He clasped his hands in apparent agony of mind. “In the kitchen! That delightful old cheese that would have kept for months! Do you know, my dear, what such cheese as that costs?”

This was the signal for a series of “pokings,” as Isabel called them, and from the table Mr. Bettyman went into the kitchen at last. Through the window I watched him giving directions to the cook, who stood, broom in hand, patiently awaiting them. Pots, kettles, stew-pans, ovens, and what not, were lifted out in obedience to his warning finger. Not Hercules, with the distaff, so labored for his Dejanira, and I could not help wishing that some spiteful elf would suddenly transform him into an old woman at once.

We had retired to our separate chambers as soon as the coffee had disappeared, for each wished to conceal from the other the feeling of indignation, amusement, and anger, that my host had called forth. Josephine’s eyes were red when she joined us in the evening, for she had been deeply mortified at the ridicule to which he inevitably exposed himself, and a burning spot on her cheek told that for once she began to feel some resentment at this tacit condemnation of her own part in her household affairs. She seemed nervously expecting her husband’s appearance, and seated herself at length by Isabel.

“Josy,” said she, smiling, and putting her arm around her, “why do you not give up the keys at once? I’m sure, since Cousin Edwin is so fond of playing housekeeper, that he might as well accept your abdication in his favor. Besides, and curiously, my dearest Josy, you will soon be obliged to resign the office, and as it then falls to my lot, depend upon it I shall not be the patient, enduring creature that you are.”