When arrangements were making for the battle of Camden, which proved so disastrous to our arms, in August, 1780, this heroic officer, it was said, cautioned General Gates against a general action under present circumstances. But that unfortunate commander was heard to say, that "Lord Cornwallis would not dare to look him in the face." And in the evening preceding the battle, an officer, in the presence of General Gates, said, "I wonder where we shall dine to-morrow?" "Dine, sir," replied the confident general, "why at Camden to be sure, I would not give a pinch of snuff, sir, to be insured a beef-steak, to-morrow in Camden, and Lord Cornwallis at my table." Baron de Kalb was decidedly opposed to the proceedings of General Gates, and frequently foretold the ruin that would ensue, and expressed a presentiment that it would be his fate to fall in that battle. In a council of war, while the enemy was approaching, the baron advised that the army should fall back and take a good position, and wait to be attacked; but this was rejected by General Gates, who insinuated that it originated from fear.

De Kalb instantly leaping from his horse placed himself at the head of his command on foot, and with some warmth retorted, "Well sir, a few hours, perhaps, will prove who are brave." It was the intention of General Gates to surprise the enemy in their encampment, while at the same time Cornwallis had commenced his march to surprise his antagonist. The contending armies had scarcely engaged in the conflict when our militia broke, and leaving their guns and bayonets behind, fled with the greatest precipitation.

General Gates immediately applied spurs to his horse, and pursued, as he said, "to bring the rascals back," but he actually continued his flight till he reached Charlotte, eighty miles from the field of battle-In this measure he was in some degree jus

tified, as his object was, if possible, to rally and collect the militia with the hope of making a stand

The Baron de Kalb, at the head of a few hundrea of continental troops, was left to cope with the whole British army, and he sustained the dreadful shock for more than an hour; hundreds of the bravest men had fallen around this undaunted hero, he himself in personal conflict was seen to parry the furious blows and plunge his sword into many opposing breasts. But alas! the hero is overpowered, having received eleven bayonet wounds, he faints and falls to the ground.

Several individuals of both armies were killed over him as they furiously strove to destroy or to defend. His Aid de Camp, Chevalier de Buysson, rushed through the clashing bayonets, and stretching his arms over the body of 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 the action but a few hours.

To a British officer, who kindly condoled with him on his misfortune, 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." His last moments were spent in dictating a letter concerning the continental troops which supported him in the action, after the militia had fled, of whom he said, he had no words to express his love and admiration of their valor.

General Washington, many years after, on a visit to Camden, inquired for the grave of De Kalb. After looking on it awhile, with a countenance marked with thought, 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 liberty. Would to God he had lived with us to share its fruits."

But the friend

Congress ordered him a monument. of St. Tammany stills sleeps "without his fane." I have seen the place of his rest. It was the lowest spot on the plain. No sculptured warrior mourned at his low laid head; no cypress decked his heel. But the tall corn stood in darkening ranks around him, and seemed to shake their green leaves with joy over his narrow dwelling.

But the roar of his battle is not yet quite passed away, nor his ghastly wounds forgotten. The citizens of Camden have lately enclosed his grave, and placed on it a handsome marble, with an epitaph greatly descriptive of his virtues and services, that the people of future days may, like Washington, heave the sigh when they read of "the generous stranger who came from a distant land to fight their battles, and to water, with his blood, the tree of their liberties."

Fair Camden's plains his glorious dust inhume,
Where annual Ceres shades her hero's tomb.

LESSON ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-FIFTH,

Men mutually helpful.

Nature expects mankind should share
The duties of the public care.

Who's born to sloth? To some we find
The ploughshare's annual toil assigned.
Some at the sounding anvil glow;
Some the swift sliding shuttle throw:
Some, studious of the wind and tide,
From pole to pole, our commerce guide:
While some, with genius more refined,
With head and tongue assist mankind.
Thus, aiming at one common end,
Each proves to all a needful friend.

LESSON ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-SIXTH.

Field of Waterloo.

It struck my imagination much, while standing on the last field fought by Bonaparte, that the battle of Waterloo should have been fought upon a Sunday. What a different scene for the Scotch Greys and English Infantry, from that, which at that very hour, was exhibited by their relatives; when over England and Scotland each church-bell had drawn together its worshippers! while many a mother's heart was sending upward a prayer for her son's preservation, perhaps that son was gasping in agony.

Yet, even at such a period, the lessons of his ear ly days might give him consolation; and the maternal prayer might prepare the heart to support maternal anguish. It is religion alone, which is of universal application, both as stimulant and lenitive, as it is the varied heritage of man to labor or endure. But we know that many thousands rushed into this fight, even of those who had been instructed in our own religious principles, without leisure for one serious thought; and that some officers were killed in their ball dresses. They made the leap into the gulf, which divides two worlds, the present from the immutable state, without one parting prayer, or one note of preparation!

As I looked over this field, now green with growing corn, I could observe spots, where the most desperate carnage had been marked out by the verdure of the wheat. The bodies had been heaped together, and scarcely more than covered. And so enriched is the soil, that in these spots, the grain never ripens; it grows rank and green to the end of the harvest. This touching memorial, which endures when the thousand groans have expired, and when the stain of human blood has faded from the ground, still seems to cry to heaven that there is awful guilt somewhere,

and a terrific reckoning for those who have caused destruction, which the earth will not conceal. These hillocks of superabundant vegetation, as the wind rustled through the corn, seemed the most affecting monuments which nature could devise, and gave a melancholy animation to this plain of death.

When we attempt to measure the mass of suffering which was here inflicted, and to number the individuals that have fallen, considering that each, who suffered, was our fellow man, we are overwhelmed with the agonizing calculation, and retire from the field, which has been the scene of our reflections, with the simple concentrated feeling;—these armies once lived, breathed, and felt like us, and the time is at hand, when we shall be like them.

LESSON ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-SEVENTH.
The Murdered Traveller.

When Spring to woods and wastes around,
Brought bloom and joy again;

The murdered traveller's bones were found,
Far down a narrow glen.

The fragrant birch, above him, hung
Her tassels in the sky;

And many a vernal blossom sprung,

And nodded careless by.

The red-bird warbled, as he wrought
His hanging nest o'erhead,
And fearless near the fatal spot,
Her voung the partridge led

But there was weeping far away,
And gentle eyes, for him,