musket-shot of each other, like the opposite sides of a parallelogram. This clearing sloped down from the northern side towards the southern, on which the Americans were posted. A deep wood sheltered them, while the British were drawn up in an open pine forest. The scene now became one of thrilling interest. As the Americans looked out from their leafy covering, they saw amid the dark pine trees on the farther side, long rows of brass cannon shining through the green foliage, and beside them the gunners, with lighted matches, while still farther on gleamed the solid lines of steel bayonets. Nought broke the silence that wrapped the heights, save the hurried orders, as regiment after regiment wheeled into its place; while the sun shone sweetly down on the springing grass, gently waving in the mild September breeze. Thus slept that quiet clearing on the top of the hills, with the long shadows of the trees stretching across its bosom-and all around it lay that slumbering volcano, soon to move into its midst, and make it tremble as if in the grasp of an earthquake. The Americans could hear distinctly the orders given in the English army, and waited, with beating hearts, the shock that was preparing for them. At length the word "fire" rang through the woods-the lighted matches de scended like a flash on the guns, and the next moment the balls came crashing through the trees, followed by an explosion that shook the hills, and the battle commenced. The Americans stood firm before that iron storm, watching the shattered boughs that were hurled about their heads, but not a shot replied. Finding that the cannonade produced no impression, the English commander ordered the woods to be cleared with the bayonet.

"In perfect order and close array that veteran infantry emerged from the pine trees into the clearing, reddening the whole extent with their scarlet uniforms. In double-quick time, with their standards streaming in the wind, and the drums beating their wildest notes, they swept over the open ground, and steadily moved up to the farther margin. All there was still and motionless, though thousands of flashing eyes were on the advancing battalions, and thousands of sinewy hands were clutching convulsively their trusty muskets. At length those steady troops approached the American lines; when suddenly halting, they poured in one deep volley-the next moment their levelled bayonets gleamed through the smoke, and, with deafening shouts, they rushed to the charge. A single order echoed along the concealed ranks, and in an instant that silent wood was a mass of flame rolling on the foe. The firm set ranks staggered back before it, like a strong ship smitten by a wave, then with a noble effort closed up the huge gaps in their line, and again rushed shouting to the charge. But that same astonishing fire mowed them down, till torn and rent into fragments, they turned and fled. Then like a tiger springing from his covert, the Americans leaped from their concealment, and poured in one wild torrent upon them. Over their dead and dying enemies, across the clearing, up to the very British lines, and over the guns, they go in one black resistless wave. The artil Tery was captured, and the exulting victors

seizing the drag-ropes, attempted to carry it away, but the pieces were too heavy, and the wood too dense. They cannot turn them on the enemy, for the artillerists have carried off the matches. One only is seized, and Colone! Cilley has mounted it, and with his sword administered the oath of allegiance, and thus in triumph is borne over the field.

"The British, rallying in the woods, made a desperate charge to recover their guns, and finally drove the brave militia-men back, down the slope to their covert. But here again they were met by those destructive volleys-whole companies sunk at once on the field, and the solid formation which is necessary to give terror to the shock of the bayonet, was utterly broken. Falling back, they attempted to re-form in the clearing, but the Americans were upon them with such fury, that they broke, and fled to the protection of their guns. But up to the very muzzles the maddened patriots rush, and bayonet the gunners at their pieces, and hurl the whole British line back into the woods. Here Burgoyne again rallied his men, and with levelled bayonets they advanced to the shock. Forced slowly back, the Americans again retreat, while those cannon pour a perfect storm of round and grape-shot into their ranks, and all over the field are seen wounded men crawling away to the wood. But rallying behind their covert, they present the same wall of fire on which the bravest grenadiers dash in vain.

"Thus the battle swayed to and fro across this clearing for three fearful hours. It was one continued thunder-clap and driving mass of flame over its bosom, while the cries and shouts of maddened men added still greater terror to the scene. Now closing in with the bayonet, now retiring before the destructive discharges of grape-shot, and now sweeping with loud huzzas over the captured guns, they fought with an energy and desperation that perfectly astonished their adversaries. The oldest officers declared they had never witnessed such destructive work with smallarms, or such terrible firing from infantry. Before their onset, the firmest troops went down, and again and again did they charge those strong batteries home, and wrench them from the grasp of the enemy. Out of forty-eight men who commanded one battery, thirty-six were killed-the dead lay in heaps amid the wheels of the carriages, while the blood stood in pools over the clearing. In the midst of this carnage the sun went down-his farewell beams just gleamed a moment through the sulphurous cloud that curtained in the field, and then twilight slowly settled over the landscape. Through the deepening gloom, bright flashes were seen as the dark columns still rushed to the encounter; but at length deep night came on, and the battle ceased. Here and there detached parties still maintained the fight, lighting up the forest with their vollies, but the great struggle was over, and night and death remained sole masters of the field. On that single clearing were piled nearly a thousand men, covering it with a perfect carpet of corpses, and all around was scattered the wreck of the fight. Here lay a trampled plume, there a neglected sword, further on a rent banner, while the blue frocks of the American militia-men and the scarlet uni

forms of the British soldiers were mingled together in inextricable confusion. Arms raised an hour before in hate and rage, now lay across each other in the repose of death, and over the still scowling brow the dews of night slowly gathered."

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During the interval between the 19th of September and the 7th of October, constant skirmishes took place between detached parties, resulting from the efforts of the Americans to prevent the enemy from foraging. Burgoyne, though taught a sad lesson, by the battle that had been fought, of American valor and steadiness, still clung to his first dream, and looked long and wistfully for aid from New York, and refused to retreat. At length, his provisions becoming nearly exhausted, he resolved to make another desperate effort to cut his way through the American lines, and push on to Albany.

SECOND BATTLE OF BEMIS'S HEIGHTS.

"To understand the general plan of the battle-field, imagine the American camp pitched on a branch of the Hudson, and extending back about half a mile from the shore. Almost directly in front, and within cannon-shot, is the British camp, similarly situated. A little to the north and west of the British encampment, was a large redoubt occupied by the Hessians, and the one which Arnold entered. Between the two armies were two creeks running nearly parallel to each other, along which the American pickets were stationed. These presented serious obstacles to the advance of an army, while towards their sources, and to the left of Gates, the approach was easier. It was on this account Burgoyne resolved to make his attack in that direction. Accordingly, on the 7th of October, moving his troops in three columns, he advanced to the American left, and taking up his position in an open wheat field, displayed his line. The fierce and rapid roll of drums in the American advance guard, beating to arms, announced their approach, and Gates immediately sent out Morgan with his riflemen to open the battle.

Burgoyne, sustained by his best officers, occupied a rising ground, and Morgan took a wide circuit to fall on his right, while General Poor was to march straight up the hill against the left, and if possible separate it from the main army. Burgoyne had with him twenty cannon; and with these, at halfpast two in the afternoon, he opened on the advancing column of Poor. But this gallant officer led his brigade steadily forward up the hill; and with the orders not to fire till the summit was reached, pressed rapidly on through the storm of grape-shot. With the same coolness he entered the deadly volleys of musketry, then as he gained the brow of the height, opened to the right and left, and poured in a close and rapid fire with terrible effect. Moving resolutely forward upon the dense masses of the grenadiers,the Americans mowed them down with volley after volley, and stood within close musket-shot of the artillery, and let it play upon their ranks. But nothing could long withstand those murderous batteries, and the Americans, excited to madness by the galling, devouring fire, rushed with terrific shouts up to the very mouths of the guns, and swept them like a

storm. But met by those resistless grenad:ers, they were rolled sternly back to their position. Again they rallied and charged with such impetuosity, that everything went down in their passage: but that same steady valor reclaimed the victory, and hurled them back to their first position. On one gun they rushed five successive times, and captured it in each onset, and as often were forced to relinquish their prize, until at length they carried it off in triumph. Major Ackland, who commanded the grenadiers, held them to the shock with a firmuess that baffled every effort. Galloping fiercely amid the disordered ranks, he rallied them again and again by his voice and example, until at last he himself was struck to the ground by a ball, when they broke and fled. Morgan, in the mean time, with his deadly riflemen had poured down with resistless strength on the left wing, carrying everything before him. Rallying bravely behind a fence, the shattered troops attempted to stay his progress; but reinforcements coming up under Dearborn, and rushing with shouts and such headlong fury to the attack, they again broke and fled.

The whole English line now began to shake, and Burgoyne was just forming a second line with his right wing, when Arnold, maddened with excitement, and stung with rage, burst in a headlong gallop on the field, and plunged into the thickest of the fight. His practised eye soon saw that General Frazer was the chief support of that tumultuous battle, as on his splendid gray horse he moved amid the chaos, bringing order out of confusion, and courage out of despondency, wherever he passed. Dashing up to Morgan, he told him not to let him see that officer long in the saddle. The latter, selecting a few of his best marksmen, said, pointing to Frazer, "That gallant officer is General Frazer: I admire him, but it is necessary he should die. Do your duty." The first shot cut the crupper of his horse, the second pierced the mane, the third the gal lant rider himself, and he fell back mortally wounded. Arnold had no sooner given this order than he placed himself at the head of three regiments of Larned's brigade, and with a shout those who heard it never forgot to their latest day, led them fiercely on. The Hessian troops threw themselves in his path, and for a moment broke his charge. The next moment, with a mere handful of men, he burst like a falling rock through their midst, and scattered them from his path. Nothing could exceed the terror and fury of his charges: before such onsets the firmest troops in the world must sink. Hẹ shook terribly the whole British line, and Burgoyne, now thoroughly alarmed, put forth a desperate effort to maintain his ground. But in vain did he expose himself to the hottest of the fire to animate his men -in vain did his bravest officers again and again lead his devoted troops to the attacknothing could stop that astonishing infantry. Their rapid tread shook the field-their dreadful volleys swept away the head of every formation, as pressing hard after their intrepid leader, they closed steadily on the shrinking line. No charge of bayonets could break their firm array, no blaze of the close and deadly batteries check their lofty enthusiasm, as moving amid the horrid carnage,

they gathered with brows of wrath closer and closer on their foes. Those shattered veterans labored a moment as if about to bear up in the storm, then swung and rent asunder, and rolled heavily to their camp. Morgan and Dearborn and Ten Broek following up their advantage with the same impetuosity, the whole army took refuge behind the intrenchments. Nothing could now arrest the victorious Americans, as with shouts that were heard above the din of battle, they rushed forward and stormed the camp itself. But behind their intrenchments, and under cover of their heavy guns, which bristled in fearful rows along the ramparts, the British fought with the energy of desperation itself. On the uncovered ranks of the impetuous Americans they opened all their batteries, and hailed a leaden tempest from the small-arms, while bombs, hissing through the atmosphere darkened with dust and smoke, added tenfold horror to the fight. They were no longer struggling for victory but for life, and therefore summoned all their energies to check the progress of the victors. But neither for midable intrenchments with the abatis in front, nor the hotly-worked batteries exploding in their faces, nor the close and destructive volleys of musketry, could stay the excited patriots. Through the tremendous fire, and over the ensanguined field, now covered with a sulphurous cloud, amid which incessant lightnings played, and one continuous thunder-peal rolled, they charged up to the very muzzles of the guns. The camp itself was shaken throughout its entire extent, and trembled like a reed in the blast; while Arnold, enraged at the abatis, which baffled all his efforts in front, called around him a few brave fellows, and taking a short circuit, made that desperate charge into the sally port, where he fell. One hour more of daylight, and that camp would have been swept as with a hurricane; nay, one hour more of safety to Arnold on his steed, and that darkness would have been filled with the flying enemy, and a routed camp ended the day."

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"The British army abandoned their camp during the night, and took post on the hills, and in the morning the American troops marched into it with colors flying and drums beating, and a long shout went up from the abandoned intrenchments. During the day a scattered fire of artillery was kept up, and ever and anon was borne back to the camp the rapid discharge of musketry, as small detachments from either army came in collision. Frazer, who had died early in the morning after the battle, had requested to be buried at sunset in the chief redoubt. The procession was formed, and at six o'clock was seen moving slowly up the hill to the place of interment. General Winslow observed it, and not knowing its object or character, ordered it to be cannonaded; and while they were laying the chieftain in his grave, a solitary cannon kept booming at intervals on the evening air, and the heavy shot tore up the earth in their midst. Through out the solemn burial-service, the voice of the chaplain was ever and anon interrupted by that solitary peal of thunder, and his priestly robes were covered with dust, which

the ball, as it smoked past, threw upon him.* The sun had now gone down, and twilight drew its mantle over the scene. The American officers discovering at length that it was a funeral procession, ceased playing upon it, and in sympathy with the brave who had fallen, fired minute guns till the solemn ceremony was over. It was a burial worthy of the chieftain who had thus fallen on his last battle-field. Amid the thunder of artillery, he was borne from the disastrous fight -the enemy's guns pealed over his grave, and when the mute procession turned away in the gathering shades of evening, their cannon gave his last salute, and the sullen echo, as it rolled over the hills, was his only

requiem.

Burgoyne, now convinced that he could not cut his way through the American army, took the only alternative left him, and began his retreat, hoping to retrace his steps to Lake George, and from thence to Canada. This he should have done sooner-now it was too late-for the American army, extending itself on every side, baffled all his efforts, and soon well-nigh completed a circle about him. In every direction the roar of cannon told that the avenues of safety were cut off. Even the last desperate effort, to abandon all his artillery and baggage, and by a rapid night march reach Lake George, was seen to be useless. Still Burgoyne lingered-his proud heart refused to yield to the stern necessity which bound him. What! that splendid army, on whose success he had staked his reputation, to be surrendered, and all his bright visions sink at once! The thought was too bitter, and he still clung to hope, and dreamed of escaping by some accident from the perils that only thickened as he advanced. For six days he turned and turned, like a scorpion girt with fire, as every moment the devouring element rages nearer-his camp was uncovered, and cannon balls were continually falling into it, while from every height the artillery played upon him, and the sharp crack of the rifle was heard along his lines. He could not enter a house without its becoming in a moment a target for the batteries. Through the hall of council, and through the apartment in which they sat at their scanty dinner, the cannon balls would crash, and it was a constant and steadily increasing storm of iron around him. At length all hope was abandoned, and a council of war was called to deliberate on the terms of capitulation. Their consultations were interrupted by the whistling of bullets and roar of artillery, and the very tent in which they sat was pierced by the American marksmen. Pride and ambition at length yielded to inevitable fate, and that splendid army, the relics of ten thousand men, laid down its arms. Forty-two brass cannon, five thousand stand of arms, and all the camp equipage, fell into the hands of the Americans.

"Gates received the vanquished commander with courtesy, dressed in a plain blue frock, while the soldiers, on marching out to pile their arms, found not an American in the field. The brave fellows were spared the mortification of grounding their arms in the presence of their enemies."

Most assuredly the brilliant triumph at Saratoga could not be more vividly and clearly told. From the author's notice of the scenes and characters which make up his second volume, we have no doubt that it will be even more interesting than the present. And we will add, that we hope the American public, who read Mr. Headley's writings with so great avidity, will not fail to thank him for turning his fine powers to the scenes of his native land. Our liberty and national prosperity are a very great inheritance, which we ought not to delight ourselves with enjoying while we forget its cost. It should doubtless be gratifying to live in an excellent house. It is even proper to admire it ourselves-perhaps not entirely ridiculous-though hardly as safe-to

call upon our neighbors to do the same. But it should be with a solemn thankfulness, that we remember the wear of life with which its foundations were laid, the blood with which its stones were cemented, and the skill and toil and labor of scheming, with which its arches and pillars were raised, and the abiding roof stretched over the fair edifice. To him who best succeeds in making these labors appreciated, much is due. The instructed imagination is the great preserver of historic events; and Mr. Headley, in appealing so powerfully and truthfully to this chief faculty of the mind, for the scenes of our Revolution, has rendered to American History a most important service.

THE degree of reputation to which Shelley's poetical works have attained, is such as at once compels us soberly to consider their merits, and relieves us from the less responsible task of echoing the notes of an established fame. However great in reality this poet may be, many years must yet pass before he can become a subject of reverential criticism; before he can take rank, if it be his destiny to do so, with those great immortals whose claims it is impiety to question. The voice of general reputation has only presented the world with the name of another candidate for this high honor, whom the ages must accept or refuse. It was at the memorable period, when all Europe resounded with the crash of the fallen Bastile, that our poet first breathed the air of mortality. The same lofty and enthusiastic hope, the same restless excitement, which were everywhere kindling with the events of those remarkable days, characterized the youth and the man. He lived, labored, and died, as if a nursling of that turbulent spirit which then sprung forth armed from the fevered brain of France. The whole course of his existence was tu multuous with rebellion, and dark with discontent; and his melancholy end seems but an index of the entire history. Shelley's friends concede him a generous,

amiable, and heroic character; ardent in the pursuit of ideal perfection, reckless of the precepts of custom, and hostile to an order of things necessarily imperfect; but always excellent and sincere in his intentions for himself and for the world. This judgment commends him to our charity, surely-since he has gone to his last sleep-and it hides a "multitude of sins."

The fiery youth had, he confesses, "a passion for reforming the world." In this by no means original character, as he professes to aim solely at the public good, so he must, at all times, submit to be estimated according to the public wisdom. In his practical tendencies, Shelley was merely an agitator, without aim and without wisdom. Certain words rankled in his mind, and kept him in a perpetual restless fever; but to attach a meaning to these words, or an object to the impulses they excited, never came at all within the scope of his intent. There is much reason to suppose that the old law of obedience to father and mother, during the years of minority, is still a very valuable regulation. But even if it happened that the youth of nineteen was really endowed with wisdom so superior -with so clear a vision of justice and of truth-why did he take such pains to render it of no effect? Grant that the

world is wrong, why fall into a frenzy, because the multitude are bent on deceiving themselves and each other? There are those, we know, to whom this raving discontent looks like a sign of millennial days-a spontaneous prophecy of the future greatness of humanity -but to us, we confess, it looks like downright madness. Shelley could not obey his own laws. Raging against the institution of marriage, he is twice married; his declamations on vegetable diet and cold water, are discovered to have had their origin in stronger excitants. Insane agitators forget the vastness of the gulf between the conception and the execution; and the men of universal benevolence and self-sacrifice, seldom stay to test their principles on themselves, until they are too far committed for a public renunciation.

"Poet" and "Reformer" have few features in common. The poet retires upon himself, viewing the world as a scene. A heroic freedom, and a certain superiority to time and custom, must indeed characterize the genuine poet. Without some person who shall be able to erect himself above the forms of the present-not to destroy them but to show them their own more perfect law-a people must inevitably degenerate-their growth cease, and their decay begin. It is the poet's peculiar province, to dwell among those ideal forms, of which all things are imperfect copies; to paint an imaginary perfection, the contemplation of which shall give a newer life, and a better development, to all that man creates and controls. Had Shelley confined himself to this ideal sphere, he might have done better for himself and for humanity.

That Shelley was not a perfect master of his own art, however, is apparent. What the education of maturity and experience might have done for him, it is very useless to conjecture. He must remain, to our sight, like the broken shaft of a monumental column, for whose shapely continuation the necessary conditions are wanting, and beyond the point of whose fracture the sculptor cares not to extend his conception.

His intellect seems to have held in solution all beautiful things in the universe; but wanted the cold addition of experience, which alone could precipitate his visions, in bright and regular forms. His translucent figures float always on

the line of substantiality, but no sooner touch that limit than they dissolve and leave no mark. He would not suffer an intrusion of the actual upon his dream territory. He seems not to have reflected that the suffering, and the sorrow, which, in one form or another, have be fallen every truly great poet, were only the spiritual gravity that kept them in a just relation to the world. Had they ranged unchecked through the heavens, reposing on no spot beneath the clouds, like footless birds of paradise, their songs might have carried an aerial wildness, but no force or feeling of a real life.

Perhaps no one can perfectly enjoy this poet who has not some portion of his sickly delicateness. Poetry which appeals to temperament, and is admired solely by reason of that quality, is, perhaps, not genuine. It leaves out the main circumstance, and founds itself on some one phase of human life. But the sphere of the true poet is among the common elements of humanity. Shelley's poetry-from those elements-is too like the drama of Hamlet, with the character of Hamlet omitted.

It is impossible for a man who finds among his fellows only the duping and the duped, and everything around him bad, to sink his personality in human sympathy; he becomes, by necessity, a desperate egotist. Shelley would, perhaps, have loved his neighbors well enough, could he have made them what he desired they should be. His chief poems are founded on his own personal experience. The hero and heroine of his longest work, (originally entitled "Laon and Cythna,") are recognized from first to last-and they are represented, it would seem, with a literal fidelity even superior to that which distinguishes the Harold of Lord Byron. The subject is none other than the celebration of rebellion against all wholesome restraint from without, and of the most perfect submission to the tyranny of every passionate and hostile impulse within.

The scene of this poem (as usual) changes from Fairy Land to the clouds, from the clouds to the sea, and from the sea to unimaginable depths in the heavens. His muse never treads the earth, except on her favorite stilts, egotism and agitation. On the whole, however, after much patient effort, the reader may find not a little to admire; and, had the first and twelfth cantos been much nearer to