THE RETREAT.

The brave Continentals are swept before the superior forces of the enemy-again is Sullivan's division thrown into confusion—and now springing past over the bodies of Britisher and Continental, the hordes of the invader sweep on in pursuit of the flying host!

And as they sweep on, amid the heaps of dying and of dead that strew the grave-yard, there is one slender, yet manly form, stretched prostrate over a green mound, his back to the grave, his face to the heavens, while from his gaudy attire, near his heart, swells the current of his life's blood!

It is the grave-yard and the rustic temple of his dream; and the heir of proud Northumberland lays stark and stiff, side by side with the meanest of the British host!

They buried him where he fell. To this day, his grave-tombless and grass-grown-is pointed out to the wandering traveller, while the legend of his strange dream is told with a sincerity that marks its undoubted credence among the valley people.

And now Cornwallis shouts to his brigade in reserve, and now Howe whistles on the war-dogs in the rear, and the Continentals are in full retreat for yonder wood half a mile south of the meeting-house.

But that shout behind the woods-that peal of musketry—that tramp of hurrying legions! What means it?

WASHINGTON TO THE RESCUE.

Washington is hurrying to the rescue, and with him is Greene, and by his side fights La Fayette! Pulaski is sweeping on with his troopers, and then around the woods and over the plain, again dusks and darkens the mighty volume of battle-smoke!

The Americans face the foe-they drive him backthey leap upon the bayonets of the pursuers, and turn the tide of fight by one bold, gallant effort!

And around, and above, and beneath, is flame, and smoke, and bloodshed, and the legions of Greene sweep

on the fight, with the young Frenchman in the van, bravely flashing his maiden sword, and giving confidence and hope to the Continental forces by acts of almost superhuman bravery.

And that form that form mounted on a stout steed of grey-that form towering above the cloud of battle -rushing in the thickest of the fight-that form with the calm face and the clear eye-that form seen between the flash of the rifle and the blaze of cannon. Is it the form of a spirit, or the form of an earthly king?

The soldier looks upon that form ere he levels his rifle -the trooper gazes upon that form, and he grasps his sword with a vice-like grasp-the legions shout the name of the form, and the troops of Pulaski send the name thundering to the skies, the dark and battle-clouded skies, as they sweep in that hurricane charge-the dying soldier raises his head as that form sweeps past, and murmurs, with blessing and prayer, the shout-“Hurrah-HURRAH FOR GEORGE WASHINGTON!"

THE TERROR OF THE FIGHT.

The contest was keen and desperate. The American right wing, supported by the division of Greene, was again driven back, and soon the Continental army was in full retreat in the direction of Old Chester. Washington threw himself in the path of the retreat-Pulaski flung his men across the road side, and endeavored to stay the torrent-the young Frenchman, the gallant boy of nineteen, rushed into the very jaws of the pursuing enemy, and implored the disheartened fugitives to make one effort more, to strike yet another blow.

All was in vain! While his arm was yet raised on high-while his voice yet arose on the air, and the shout for "Washington and freedom," La Fayette was wounded above the ancle by a musket ball, and Washington rushing forward into the melee, was entangled amid the enemy's troops on the top of a hill, south-west of the meeting-house, while Pulaski was sweeping on, with

his grim smile, to have one more bout with the eager redcoats.

Washington was in imminent danger-his troops were fleeing to the south, the enemy's troopers were sweeping up the hill-side on which he stood, and beyond on a hill some hundred yards distant, was Pulaski with his men of iron, scattering a parting blessing among the British troops.

THE CHARGE OF PULASKI.

Suddenly the Polander turned-his eye caught the sight of the iron grey and its rider! He turned to his troopers, and his whiskered lip wreathed with a grim smile-he waved his sword-he pointed to the iron-gray and its rider.

There was but one movement! With one impulse the iron band wheeled their war horses, and then a dark body, solid and compact, was speeding over the valley, like an earth-riven thunderbolt-three hundred swords were glistening in a faint glimpse of sunlight-and in front of the avalanche, with his form raised to its full height, a dark frown on his brow, and a grim smile on his lip, in the very van, in the very front, rode Pulaski; like a spirit aroused from the depths of the earth he rode, and his eye was fixed upon the dappled gray and its rider-while the band had but one will, one look, one shout, and all was for-Washington.

The British troopers had encircled the American leader-already they felt secure of their prey-and Washington was a captive, a captive in the heart of the British army!

But that trembling of the earth in the valley yonder -what means it? That terrible beat of hoofs-what does it portend? That ominous silence-and now that shout, not of words or names, but that half yell, half hurrah, which shrieks from the iron men when they scent their prey-what means it?

"Pulaski is on the track-the terror of the British army is in our wake!"

And on he came he and his gallant troopers! A moment, and he had swept over the Britishers-crushed, bleeding, and dying, they strewed the green sod— he had passed over the hill-he had passed the form of Washington.

Another moment, and the iron band wheeled-back they came, in that same career of death-with the shout and the yell they came and, routed, defeated, and driven back, the remaining red coats fled from the hill, while the iron band swept around the person cf George Washington-they encircled him with their forms of oak, and their swords of steel; the shout of his name arose on the air, and away toward the American host they bore him, in all a soldier's triumph and a soldier's joy.

THE RIVULET OF BLOOD.

And now our limits draw to a close. Why need we picture the disasterous retreat of the American army, before the superior numbers of the Britishers, toward Ches-ter? Why describe the onslaught at Chadd's Ford, where Wayne three successive times drove back the Hessians, but at last was forced to fly? And as for the bloodshed, the havoc, and the ruin of battle-the ground strewed with wounded, the grave-yard filled with dying, the Quaker temple piled with dead-suffice it to say, that the British bought their victory with a good round treasure of men and blood-that they showed no disposition for a continued pursuit-that the Americans. crippled their army, although they yielded the field of battle to their overpowering force of numbers.

It was in the full tide of the retreat that a party of Wayne's soldiers, some two miles below Chadd's Ford, sought the stream of the Brandywine, for they were tired and exhausted with thirst. They rushed through the overshadowing brushwood-they stooped to drink of the waters of the stream, but they started back with horror. The stream was red with blood-dyed and crimsoned with blood, and this for miles below the field of battle!

THE BLACKSMITH.

And now I have given you some instances of cour age and heroic daring among those high in station and renowned in fame. One instance more-an example of reckless courage. The hero was a stout blacksmithaye, an humble blacksmith, but his stout frame hardened by toil, throbbed with as generous an impulse of freedom as ever beat in the bosom of a La Fayette, or throbbed around the heart of mad Anthony Wayne.

It was in the full tide of the retreat, that a follower of the American camp, who had at least shouldered a cartwhip in his country's service, was driving a baggagewagon from the battle-field, while some short distance behind a body of Continentals were rushing forward, with a troop of Britishers in close pursuit.

The wagoner had arrived at a narrow point of the bye-road leading to the south where two high banks of rock and crag arising on either side, afforded just space sufficient for the passage of his wagon, and not an inch

more.

His eye was arrested by the sight of a stout, muscular man some forty years of age, extended at the foot of a tree at the very opening of this pass. He was clad in the coarse attire of a mechanic—his coat had been flung aside, and with the shirt sleeves rolled up from his muscular arms, he lay extended on the turf, with his rifle in his grasp, while the blood streamed in a torrent from his right leg, broken at the knee by a cannon ball.

The wagoner's sympathies were arrested by the sight -he would have paused in the very instant of his flight, and placed the wounded blacksmith in his wagon but the stout-hearted mechanic refused.

"I'll not get into your wagon," he exclaimed, in his rough way; "but I'll tell you what I will do. Do you see yonder cherry tree on top o' that rock that hangs over the road? Do you think you could lift a man of my build up that? For you see, neighbor," he continued, while the blood flowed from his wound, "I never